The Anvil of the World aotwu-1

by Kage Baker

  Mrs. Smith mounted to a seat beside Crucible, pulled a pair of dust goggles over her eyes, and with unhurried majesty drew out a smoking tube and packed it with a particularly pungent blend of amberleaf. She held a clever little device of flicking flint and steel to its tip, shielding it from the wind as she attempted to ignite the amberleaf.

  Burnbright sprinted to the front of the line, backing out through the gate and calling directions to the porters as they wrestled the wheels of the lead cart into the grooves in the red road, worn deep by time and utility. Smith’s cousin clasped his hands and prayed, as he always did at this point; and Smith, realizing belatedly that he was supposed to be in the lead cart beside Pinion, ran for it and vaulted into his seat, or attempted to, because the crate marked KITCHEN occupied that space.

  Pinion just looked at him, poised over the tight-wound coil. Smith, determined to show he was game, climbed up and perched awkwardly atop the crate. He looked forward at Burnbright and waved.

  She lifted her trumpet and blew the staccato call for departure. Then she turned and ran forward, swift as flight; for behind her the keymen threw the release pins, and the caravan lurched rumbling out through the gate, late as usual, a dozen linked carts impelled by gear-and-spring engines, following the grooved stone, bearing their disparate cargo.

  Mrs. Smith got her tube going at last and leaned back, holding it elegantly between the first two fingers of her left hand, blowing a plume of smoke like a banner. In the cart behind her, the Yendri coughed and waved fumes away, cursing. The rising sun struck flame on the flare of Burnbright’s trumpet.

  They were off.

  “This is pretty easy,” remarked Smith after the first hour of travel. Troon was a distant clutch of towers behind them. Before them and to all sides spread the wide yellow fields, unrelieved but for the occasional bump of a distant harvest village. The red road stretched ahead, two grooved lanes running west to the infinite horizon, two parallels running east, and Burnbright had slowed to an easy mile-devouring lope a few hundred yards in front.

  “You think it’s easy, do you?” said Pinion, giving the key a gentle pump to bring the next spring into play. Once the initial winding had got them going, the keymen maintained forward momentum by steadily cranking.

  “Well, yes,” said Smith. “Look at it! Flat as a board. No place for a bandit to hide as far as the eye can see. Nobody’s at war, so we don’t have to worry about any armies sweeping down on us. Nothing to do but chug along, eh?”

  “Unless a dust storm comes up,” Pinion told him. “Which they tend to do, now the harvest’s in. I’ve seen some cyclones in my day, I can tell you. Even the regular prevailing wind’ll fill the channels in the road with dust, and if the little girl up there doesn’t spot it in time, we might all rattle off the road into a field, or hit a block at top speed and strip all our gears—that’s lovely fun.”

  “Oh,” said Smith. “Does that happen often?”

  “Often enough,” said Pinion, pumping the key again.

  “At least it doesn’t sound like I’ll need these,” said Smith, looking down at his pistolbows.

  “Probably not,” conceded Pinion. “Until we reach the Greenlands.”

  “What’s in the Greenlands?”

  Pinion was silent a moment.

  “You’re a city boy, aren’t you?” he said at last.

  “I have been,” said Smith, shifting on top of the kitchen crate. “Come on, what’s in the Greenlands? Besides a lot of Yendri,” he added, glancing back at their sole Yendri passenger, who had wrapped a scarf about his nose and mouth and sat ignoring the others.

  “To begin with, that’s where you’ve got your real bandits,” Pinion said. “And not your run-along-by-the-side-of-the-road-and-yip-threateningly bandits either, I’m talking about your bury-the-road-in-a-landslide-and-dig-out-the-loot bandits. See? And then there’s greenies like that one,” he went on, jerking a thumb in the direction of the Yendri. “They may say they’re for nonviolence, but they’re liable to pile rocks and branches and all kinds of crap on the road if they’re miffed about us cutting down one of their damn groves to build a way station or something.”

  “Huh.” Smith looked back at the Yendri uneasily.

  “Of course, they’re not the worst,” added Pinion.

  “I guess they wouldn’t be.”

  “There’s beasts, of course.”

  “They’re everywhere, though.”

  “Not like in the Greenlands. And even they’re nothing to the demons.”

  “All right,” said Smith, “you’re trying to scare me, aren’t you? Is this some kind of initiation?”

  “No,” said Pinion in a surly voice, though in fact he had been trying to scare Smith. “Just setting you straight on a few things, Caravan Master. I’d hate to see you so full of self-confidence you get us all killed your first day on the job.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Smith. The caravan went rumbling on, the featureless fields flew by, and after a moment Smith looked down at Pinion again.

  “I did hear a story about the Greenlands, now that I come to think about it,” he said. “In a bar in Chadravac Beach, about six months ago. Something about a demon-lord. He’s supposed to be called the Master of the Mountain?”

  Pinion blanched, but did not change expression. He shook his head, pedaling away stolidly.

  “Don’t know anything about that,” he said firmly, and fell silent.

  All that day they traveled across the yellow land. With no companion but the sun, they came at evening to the way station, marked out by a ring of white stones.

  It was a wide circular area by the side of the road, with grooves for carts running off and grooves for running back on. There was a tiny stone hut surmounted by a windwheel pump, enclosing a basin where a trickle of water flowed, drawn up from deep beneath the plain. The moment they had rolled off the road and into the circle, the Yendri was out of his cart and staggering for the pump house. He monopolized it for the next quarter hour, to the great annoyance of the other passengers, who lined up behind the hut and made ethnically insulting remarks as they waited.

  At least the diversion kept most of them occupied as Smith oversaw making camp for the night. He didn’t really have much to do; the keymen, long practiced in this art, had quickly trundled the carts in a snaked circle and set to erecting tent accommodations inside it. Burnbright and Mrs. Smith were busily setting up the kitchen pavilion, and politely implied that he’d only get in their way if he lent a hand there.

  Smith noticed that Lord Ermenwyr was not among the carpers at the water pump, and he wondered whether he ought not to see if the lordling had died after all. As he approached the palanquin, the curtains parted and a woman slid out with all the grace of a serpent and dropped lightly to the ground.

  Smith caught his breath.

  That she was beautiful was almost beside the point. She had a presence. Her body was lush, tall, perfect, powerful. Her mouth was full and red, and her sloe-black eyes ought to have been sullen but glinted instead with lazy good humor as she saw Smith gaping at her.

  “Good evening, Caravan Master,” she said, and the voice matched the body: sultry, yet with an indefinable accent of education and good breeding.

  Smith just nodded, and collected himself enough to say, “I was coming to inquire after the lord’s health.”

  “How nice. His lordship is still with us, I’m happy to say.” She tilted her head to one side and occupied herself a moment with loosely braiding her hair, which was black and thick as a bolt of silk. Having pulled it up into an elegant chignon, she drew from her bosom what appeared to be a pair of stilettos of needlelike fineness and thrust them through the glossy coils.

  “I… uh … I’m very happy to hear that. We’re just setting up the tents now, if he’d like to rest,” said Smith.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, but my lord has his own pavilion,” the woman replied, opening one of the trunks and drawing out a bundle of black cloth patterned all o
ver with little silver skulls.

  “I’d be happy to help you, miss—”

  “Balnshik,” said the woman, smiling. “Thank you so much, Caravan Master.”

  What an exotic name, Smith thought dizzily, accepting the load of tent material while Balnshik bent over the trunk to rummage for poles. Something about the name suggested flint knives and attar of roses, and perhaps black leather … though she was modestly attired in white linen, and he dragged his attention back to the fact that she was a nurse, after all. She drew out a tent pole now and gave it a quick twist. In her deft hands it shot up and expanded to twice its length, spring-loaded.

  “I’m—Smith,” he said.

  “Of course you are, dear,” she told him. “Just spread that out on the ground, won’t you?”

  He helped her assemble the pavilion, which was quite a large and sumptuous one, and then there was a lot of collapsible furniture to be set up, so it was a while before Smith remembered to inform her, “We’ll be serving gourmet cuisine shortly, as advertised. We can offer his lordship—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him; the little beast can’t keep down anything solid,” said Balnshik serenely, tossing a handful of incense onto a brazier.

  “I can hear every word you’re saying, you know.” Lord Ermenwyr’s voice floated from the palanquin. He sounded peevish.

  “What about some clear broth, darling?”

  “No. I’m still motion sick and, anyway, it’ll probably be poisoned.”

  Balnshik’s eyes flashed, and she turned to Smith with a charming smile in which there were a great many white and gleaming teeth. “Will you excuse us, please? I must attend to my lord.”

  So saying, she vaulted into the palanquin, vanishing behind the curtains, and Smith heard the unmistakable sound of a ringing slap, and the palanquin began to rock and thump in place once more. It seemed like a good idea to leave.

  He wandered over to the kitchen pavilion, where Mrs. Smith had lit a fire and set saucepans bubbling at magical speed, and was now busily dabbing caviar on little crackers.

  “Can you prepare an order of clear broth?” he asked.

  “What, for the greenie?” She glared across at Ronrishim Flowering Reed, who had finally relinquished the hut and was now seated in front of a tent, apparently meditating. “Bloody vegetarians. I hate cooking for those people. ‘Oh, please, I’ll just have a dish of rainwater at precisely air temperature with an ounce of mother’s milk on the side, and if it’s not too much trouble, could you float a couple of violets on it?’ Faugh!”

  “No, actually, it’s for Lord Ermenwyr.” Smith looked over his shoulder at the palanquin, which was motionless now.

  “Oh. The invalid?” Mrs. Smith turned to peer at the pavilion. “Heavens, what a grand tent. He’s a nasty-looking little piece of goods, I must say, but as he’s dying I suppose we must make the effort. A good rich capon stock with wine, I think.”

  “Parradan Smith’s a gangster,” Burnbright informed them, coming close and appropriating a cracker.

  “Get away from those, child. What do you mean?”

  “I peeked when he was washing himself, and he’s got secret society tattoos all over,” said Burnbright, retreating beyond the reach of Mrs. Smith’s carving knife. “And he’s got an instrument case he never lets go of almost. And knives.”

  “How do you know they’re secret society tattoos?” Smith was troubled.

  “Because he’s from Mount Flame City, and I’m from there too, and I know what the Bloodfires’ insignia look like,” said Burnbright matter-of-factly. “Their deadly enemies are the House Copperhammer. When they’ve got a war on, you find body parts in the strangest places. All over town.”

  “Lovely,” grunted Mrs. Smith.

  “He’s listed on the manifest as a courier,” said Smith, looking out at the man in question, who sat just inside the door of a tent, polishing his boots. Burnbright nodded sagely.

  “Couriering somebody’s loot somewhere, see. I’ll bet he’s got a fortune in that instrument case. Unless it’s a disguise, and he’s accepted a contract on one of the other passengers and he’s biding his time before he kills them!” she added, her little face alight.

  “Wretched creatures. He’d better leave me alone; I never travel unarmed,” said Mrs. Smith, handing her the tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Go set that on the buffet and inform the guests that the main course will be served in half an hour. Grilled quail glazed with acacia honey, stuffed with wild plums.”

  It was as good as it sounded. Even the Smith’s infant stopped crying for a while, given a leg bone with sauce to suck on.

  When twilight had fallen Balnshik emerged from the palanquin, carrying Lord Ermenwyr in her arms like a limp rag doll, and settled him in the splendid pavilion before coming out for a plate for herself and a bowl of broth for her lord. She made as profound an impression on the other males in the party as she’d made on Smith. Even the Smiths’ two little boys stopped chewing, and with round eyes watched her progress across the camp.

  She seemed not to notice the attention she drew, was courteous and formal. Smith thought he saw her glance side-long at the Yendri, once, with a glitter of amused contempt in her eyes, before there came a querulous feeble cry from the pavilion, and she turned to hurry back to Lord Ermenwyr.

  “Clearly she doesn’t think much of Mr. Flowering Reed,” pronounced Mrs. Smith, and had a drag at her smoking tube. She was sitting at her ease with a drink beside the fire, as the keymen cleared away the dinner things for her.

  “Except I hear the Yendri are supposed to have really big, urn, you know,” said Burnbright. Mrs. Smith shrugged.

  “It depends upon what you mean by big, dear.”

  “I think we made pretty good time today,” said Smith. “No disasters or anything. Don’t you think it went well?”

  “Tolerably well,” said Mrs. Smith. “At least there weren’t any breakdowns this time. Can’t count the hours I’ve wasted at the side of the road waiting for replacement gears.”

  “Have you been with the caravan long?” Smith asked her.

  “Twenty years, next spring,” she replied.

  “Traveled much through the Greenlands?”

  “Far too often. What about you? Have you a first name, Smith, by the way?”

  Smith glanced over at Pinion, who was scouring out a pot with sand, and lowered his voice when he spoke. “I’ve been here and there. And yes, I have a first name. But…”

  Mrs. Smith arched her eyebrows. “It’s like that, is it? Lovely impersonal name, Smith. Rather fond of it, myself. So, where were all your questions leading?”

  “Have you ever heard of somebody, a demon or something, called the Master of the Mountain?”

  Mrs. Smith gave him a sharp look, and Burnbright cringed and made a gesture to ward off evil. “Clearly,” said Mrs. Smith, “you’re not from the interior. You’re from the islands, I’d bet, or you’d know about him.”

  Smith wasn’t anxious that anyone should know where he’d been born, so he just said, “Is he in the Greenlands? Is he a demon?”

  Mrs. Smith waved her drink at the Yendri, who was just retiring into his tent. “That one could probably tell you more, though I doubt he would, however nicely you asked. You haven’t heard of the Master of the Mountain? Half demon and half something else, or so the story goes. Yendri, possibly, though you wouldn’t know it from the way they hate him. Mind you, he’s given them enough reasons.”

  “What reasons?” Smith drew closer, because she was lowering her voice. She hitched her folding chair a little nearer to him and pointed off into the night, toward the northwest.

  “You’ll be able to see it, in a week or so, poking up out of the horizon: a black mountain like a shark’s tooth, perfectly immense. That’s his stronghold, and he can look down from up there on every inch of the Greenlands, and you can bet he’ll be watching us as we creep past on our tiny road. If we’re very fortunate, he won’t trouble himself to come down to say how d’ye d
o.

  “I don’t know how long he’s been up there; a couple of generations, at least. There’s talk he used to be a mercenary. Certainly he’s some sort of powerful mage. Demon-armies at his beck and call, spies in every city, all that sort of thing. These days he contents himself with swooping down and raiding our caravans now and again. But there was a time when he singled out them for the worst of his plundering.” Mrs. Smith pointed at the Yendri’s tent.

  “No idea why. You wouldn’t think they’d have anything worth stealing, would you, in those funny little brushwood villages of theirs? Something personal, seemingly.

  “In any case—you’re aware they used to be slaves, the Yendri? No, not to us—that’s one thing they can’t blame us for, at least. It was somewhere else, and somebody else enslaved them, until they overthrew their masters and escaped. There was some kind of miracle child whose birth sparked the slave rebellion. One of their greenie prophets carried her before them like a figurehead, and they all emigrated here. When she grew up she became their Saint. Heals the sick, raises the dead, most beautiful woman in the world, et cetera. You haven’t heard of the Green Saint either?

  “Well. So the Yendri settled down as a free people then, with no troubles except the Master of the Mountain raiding their villages with dreadful glee, which I understand he did on very nearly a weekly basis. And then, oh horrors! He captured the Green Saint herself.

  “Though I have heard she went and offered herself to him, if he’d stop being so terribly evil,” Mrs. Smith added parenthetically, and drew on her smoke again. “However it happened—she moved in with him on his mountain, and while she didn’t exactly convert him to a virtuous life, he did stop burning the poor greenies’ wigwams about their ears. Not that they were grateful. They were furious, in fact, especially when he and she proceeded to have a vast brood of very mixed children. Said it was sacrilege.”