The Lady of May Tulip (The Lynchman's Owl Adventures)

by B. Y. Yan

  “What is the meaning of this, Hunry?” cried Cudgmore as he drew up. Behind him, the towering form of his valet threw his long shadow over them both.

  The baron was rightfully ignorant of what he was getting on about. “What do you mean, Cudgel?” he growled in annoyance. “What do you want, hey? It is against the rules for us to speak to one another before the race is finished.”

  “Sock your rules!” cried the diplomat. His face was as red as a beet from rage, and his teeth gnashed and ground noisily with every word snapped from his lips. “It is unsightly! It is ungentlemanly! It is despicable! I cannot fathom how you would stoop to such!”

  The baron laughed in his face. “If you are going to accuse me of something, then at least try to make some sense, hey? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Come then!” Without waiting for a reply the diplomat grabbed Hungary’s arm and began to pull him away. Before they had gone more than two or three steps, however, the baron threw him off. Though, with a profound curiosity for the matter at hand he nonetheless followed his rival as they approached the crowd milling about in front of the Tulip together.

  There they beheld such a puzzling, nonsensical sight that, once he was made to understand, sent the baron into guffaws. For before them a man lay moaning on the tracks directly in front of the locomotive, while around him were puddled here and there no less than a dozen women in their skirts, bawling their eyes out. At the fore, a venerable mob of sun-kissed men had made a circle around a lone figure cowering within, and that figure was none other than Hadley, Cudgmore’s head engineer.

  “They are claiming assault!” cried the diplomat to Hungary, his voice raised into a high, scratching pitch. “They say my man injured one of them, when it is plain as day that he never laid a finger on anyone.”

  That, indeed, was the gist of things. We will add to it that the farmers—for that was who these people were, locals who had turned up at the Garrisons to watch the race as it passed through—stated with perfect clarity that they were minding their own business when Hadley, with his eyes on somebody’s pretty sister, started up a quarrel with one of them. It is said that he dealt a mighty kick to the injured man, who, lying over the tracks, was on his last legs.

  “Lies!” cried the diplomat. “My man was nowhere near them. They surged over the tracks, and little good were your platform guards in holding them off. Then when they seized Hadley they made up this feud on the spot!”

  “Is this true?” asked the baron of them.

  “Oh but we are poor folk, m’lord,” they replied. To a one they fell on their knees before him, and began to pitifully decry their mistreatment. “And our kinsman there got the worst of it. He was only sticking up for his cousin, and once he fell you will understand why we could not let things stand as they are. As the lawmaker in these lands you must stick up for us.”

  The baron, much amused, turned to Cudgmore and shrugged as if to say there was nothing he could do for him.

  “But Hadley is mine!” cried the diplomat. “In fact, I have granted him a full citizenship. You and yours cannot hold him prisoner, or else I shall claim an international injury.”

  “Oh!” piped up the farmers suddenly, “But Hadley is one of ours as well! Though he is many times removed, he hails from these very lands also. The man who was injured was his cousin too, and the young woman as well, now that we think of it. We are all cousins, in fact, for most of the village is related by blood. We must claim the right to judge one of our own.”

  “My lords,” squeaked the engineer pitifully from inside the circle, “I assure you I have never been here before today. I am a northerner, if you will remember. My father was custodian at the Pegging Library. In fact, I have never set foot in the countryside in my life—!” His protests were suddenly stifled by a menacing look from the nearest man, and swiftly they smothered him all at once, fists rising and falling in time to his cries.

  “Well, Cudgel,” said the baron to Hadley’s master over the din, barely able to contain his own amusement. “There you see it. And I’m sorry to say I cannot help you. It is our way, and especially the custom of these particular lands that blood and judgment at the hands of your own kin comes even before laws and courts. You will just have to wait the thing out.” Leaning in close he whispered to his rival, “Look, just go with it. Our farmers have always been harsh folk. They would have to be to work these unforgiving lands. And often they have been known to riot when they do not get their way. Why, I remember once the king had his own carriage overturned, and at least one local magistrate had his ancestral grave defiled over petty matters. They will happily carry you off and eat you if you don’t give them Hadley now.”

  Cudgmore, grinding his teeth, wiped gathering sweat from his brows. “Ha!” he cried hotly. “Don’t think you can bully me so easily, or that I do not know a ruse when I see one! When have you ever heard peasants to speak so eloquently? I would be very surprised if any one of them can even read, let alone understand half the words which they were so obviously trained to recite for your benefit. Ah—! And look at that, won’t you!” They all of them followed his pointing finger, which ended at the tracks where the man who was supposed to be injured and dying was very plainly sitting up and stretching out his arms, while beside him the womenfolk, perhaps growing bored of maintaining their distress, laughed and whispered amongst themselves. On catching sight of the diplomat’s furious gaze, however, he immediately flopped back down onto the tracks and, smearing his face with some dirt and rolling back his eyes, resumed his howling.

  It was as obvious a farce as could possibly be imagined, and the baron could no longer maintain his countenance. He laughed, slapping his hands over his belly, until he was leaning on his rival for support. When that poor fellow threw him off in a rage, he could not help himself from saying, “If you don’t want my help anymore I can hardly blame you, for there is little I can do for you on the matter. The customs of the land must be upheld and obeyed wherever possible, though I am sure your man will find his judges to be fair and lenient. As for me, however, you can stop slapping at me, for I will soon be out of your way. There is a race to see to still, if you will remember, and as I am still behind I must do my best to make up the distance.”

  With a bow of exaggerated courtesy, he swept away, bounding off in the direction of his own train like an excited rabbit. What became of Hadley or the farmers he never learned; the baron was pragmatic when he needed to be, and seizing by the throat the opportunity which has just been granted to him he was already sprinting to the task at hand.

  “Yamcey! Yamcey!” he cried as he reached la Gallant, clearing the steps in a single leap. Whipping his head left and right he searched for his cousin. “You will never guess what has happened! Ah, but on second thought perhaps you will, for you probably arranged the whole thing. In any case it is a marvelous turn of events and we must take full advantage of it. The train is turned around. Go! Go! Go!”

  Without waiting for a reply the baron had again torn off his doublet, throwing it aside as he bent to work with the shovel. Every member of his crew, to the best of his knowledge, was at their respective stations, and with a jolting chug of the wheels they were off again. Swiftly the matching stone towers which were the most distinguishing features of the Twin Garrisons passed out of sight behind them. In one fell swoop the tables had been turned, and the baron, adopting that hopeful, optimistic outlook which came so naturally to him whenever things went his way, redoubled his efforts. La Gallant, his loyal iron steed, repaid him by thundering along the tracks, a whirring, forceful gust of levers, pistons and flying gears. It was a long time later when at last their foe caught up with them once again.

  In the waning hours before sunset they came upon a great round stone sticking out of the grass like an egg sitting inside a nest. It was adorned with a great tabard draped over its surface, showing the colors of the baron and Cudgmore side-by-side.

  “There is the marker,” cried Hungary, shieldi
ng his eyes with his palm against the brilliant late afternoon sun. “Ah!” he added as he whipped his head over his shoulder, “And there is the Tulip, going like a demon! Full speed, Mr. Gains and Gamble! Look how she cuts over the terrain like a slashing knife-stroke. Even with our huge head start she gains. I shall never forgive myself if, even with everything that has happened, we might now be overtaken on the home stretch. Yamcey! Where is Yamcey?”

  Alas, for once there was no answer from the worthy valet. Indeed, nothing of him was to be seen at the window of the car rumbling along behind the head locomotive. The baron thought nothing of it at the time, for he was much too preoccupied. La Gallant was flying down the line, cutting around the bend of a ring of stone monuments sitting in the center of a grassy field.

  Hungary shoveled for all he was worth. The furnace before him roared while beneath his feet the wheels whirred and clanked over the tracks. The engine shuddered, every piston firing recklessly as on both sides of the train the layout of the land flashed by in broad, colorful strokes like a muddy painting. Behind them, still some miles away, was the charging form of his foe pounding after them. Over its head billowed a seething brown thundercloud, trailing a slithering long tail which bespoke of its frantic pace. The markers on either side of the twin tracks became indecipherable blurs rushing by, and the scattered voice of the onlookers cheering and waving their flags were impossible to see or hear. Onwards the baron’s most treasured ride ran while behind it, drawing ever closer and nipping at its heels, was a hateful silvery gleam which soon resolved itself into a menacing black steel head. It whistled with the shrillness of a harpy, blowing smoke from the lines of blackened nostrils on either side of its face, while up ahead quivering and shuddering the iron heart of la Gallant beat on with furious, unrelenting resolve. It would happily run to its death by exhaustion rather than face the indignity of being overtaken. Before Hungary the furnace was strained to its utmost, filled almost to overflowing while its boilers vibrated and groaned. The thick iron skin which had seemed so impervious and impenetrable before positively creaked in protest, even as the fierce energy which was driving the levers and gears was redoubled. There has not been, nor will there ever be such a thrill as this one, with two ironclad bulls charging down the same line towards the finish, bristling from head to tail with heat so that from afar the very air around them shimmered and wavered. Together they whipped past Greenwiles, the ground around their thundering hooves quaking to its very roots as they left the countryside behind. Before long on both sides of the tracks the buildings grew in size and height, while over them the sky was darkened by grime. Soot and smog welcomed them into the outmost premises of the great metropolis that was to be their finish, with Westhaben Platform Station only a half-hour away. La Gallant pushed on like mad, and still behind it the Tulip gained, until the tall form of its owner was clearly visible as a stick-like figure poking out of one of the foremost windows with his fists raised to the sky. To hear what he was yelling about would have been an impossible feat over the double roars of the furnaces and the clockwork thumps of the engines pounding out their paces, but it was obvious that he had not gotten over his distress, nor the admittedly dirty tricks played on him by his opponents. To finish second in a race of only two participants was an unthinkable outcome, and to that end Cudgmore, pushed at last to the very brink of desperation, turned to the only course left to him. He vanished from the window, and only a minute later a great lumbering form fell from the back of the train with a cry of the wounded and the betrayed.

  “He pushed him off!” cried the baron to his own car in amazement. “Did you see, Yamcey? He threw his own man from his train!”

  Again there was no reply. And again the baron had no time to look. Of course it was inconceivable that lessening the weight of one man, however large he was, would in any way affect the outcome of the race, but athletes by and large are a superstitious lot, so it should come as little surprise that Cudgmore would resort to such in the end, or that the baron, his head down, shoveled all the faster in reply. They were each trying to coax every last bit of strength from their respective trains, despite the very real observation that the finish to their contest, whatever it was, was already set.

  Before them the finish line came rapidly into sight. Westhaben Platform Station, all over with colorful streamers, had stretched a long strip of red tape over the tracks during their absence, and against the thunderous roar of an ecstatic home crowd the locomotives appeared around the bend, preceded by twin howling whistles that bespoke of their final monumental charge. Like bullets they were coming down the lines side-by-side. In that time the Tulip had made up much of its lost ground, and by the last stretch was clearly overpowering its rival in terms of how quickly it gained with every passing second. But the lead was, in the very end, insurmountable, and la Gallant was first to cross the finish, the nose of its black iron head severing the tape as quickly as a flashing knife to the deafening ovation of all present crowding the platform.

  Signs waved about in time to the jumping up and down of many feet, crowned by the voices rising and falling in time to the grinds of the wheels over the tracks as the trains were reined in inside the station. The swaying of hands raised high over heads was like a field of corn tossing forwards and backwards in the wind. When at last the machines came to a full stop, still throbbing with the heat of their run, the baron emerged stumbling from the block. Around him erupted yet another cheer, still greater than the rest. It was as close a finish as anyone could have dreaded, but at the same time there was no mistaking the result. La Gallant, by a hair’s breadth, was the undisputed victor. So it came as something of a surprise to the onlookers when Cudgmore, leaping from his Tulip, came running up to his rival and pressed his cocked pistol against the back of the baron’s head.

  Before they were so elated that they forgot to jeer him, but now that this new development was dropped on them so suddenly a hushed silence swept through the crowd. There was no mistaking the crazed light in Cudgmore’s eyes for what it was. Good common sense had fled the man completely, and he was very much at the end of his wits. I’m certain he would not have hesitated to fire, foreign soil and ambassador to his people be damned in the face of what he alleged to be a dishonest victory.

  “Liar!” cried he in a hoarse, desperate voice, spittle flying from his lips as he jabbed the mouth of his gun most rudely against the baron’s head. “Scoundrel! Cheat!”

  To his credit Hungary Mandalin maintained his own emotions in the face of this very real threat on his life. His countenance was unreadable, his voice calm and innocent when he replied.

  “Why, Cudgel, this is unbecoming of you. And whatever do you mean?”

  The diplomat was beside himself with rage. Eyes reddened and webbed by lines, the very veins on his head seemed to pulse and throb. He was barely articulate in presenting his grievance, which probably did little to help him endear himself to such a hostile crowd.

  “You—! Cheat! Charlatan! You and your lot of sorry countrymen! Villains and cretins all!”

  Around him the crowd stirred. But as he whirled about menacing them with his weapon they did not at once advance. Again he turned back to the baron.

  “Where is he, Hunry?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play the coy cow with me. Your man! That slithering, hissing creature you keep at your side! Yamcey Mandalin, you call him!”

  “I have never heard that name before today.”

  It was, of course, the only reply possible, given the circumstances of what had happened before when Hungary had asked after Miss Madeline. But it only served to drive Cudgmore crazier than he already was. Again he thrust the mouth of his pistol against the baron’s temple. Again he repeated the question.

  “Tell me what has become of Madeline Pyre,” Hungary shouted back, “And I will give you Yamcey!”

  That was an impossibility, for you know as well as I that he had no idea where the valet was. All throughout the end of the race he was
nowhere to be seen. In fact, the baron could not properly recall the last time his cousin was by his side. It must have been on the return trip they had their last exchange, or earlier, even, at the Twin Garrisons.

  He had no time to puzzle it out, however, for Cudgmore suddenly threw back his head, laughing his madness to the sky. It was a terrifying sound to hear, for it was the exclamation of a desperate man being pushed beyond all reason.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Hunry?” he replied in a hateful cry to the Lord of the Coal Coast. “Well, now that you have set on ruining my career, it is only right that I reply in the only way I can—by laying to waste your conscience so that you will have to bear the burden until the end of your sorry days.” Leaning in he whispered, very close to the baron’s ear so that they could not possibly be overheard, “You will never see her again, Hunry! I have seen to it myself. Not until you lie on your deathbed, and closing your eyes for the last time! Then it will be her face who leads you down into the pits of despair and regret you so rightfully deserve.”

  He ended by a final gesture, spitting into the face of his rival. Hungary replied in kind, his own eyes blazing with fury. There was the very real possibility that they would have forced the matter, even with everything hanging precariously on a thread, but for a sudden cry of revelation sweeping through the crowd just then. An elated screech from Cudgmore caused the baron to start, whipping his around to search out the source of the noise.

  Over the platform he came then, a tall, lanky figure framed like the narrowed pupil of an eye by the last bursts of smoke over the trains settling down. His crutch rang against the stone tiles with every bounce, and there was no mistaking the direction which he had come from—not la Gallant, as you might have imagined, but out of the Iron Tulip before every pair of eyes on the platform.