The Anvil of the World aotwu-1

by Kage Baker

  “I was awake—half the Camp was, with that tumult, but I’d got up and was coming to see if there was anything to be done. And I tell you I saw the father come running up from wherever he’d been, grab a knife from a servant, shoulder his way into the lady’s pavilion, and cut the throat of his own child.

  “Thought I’d pass out where I was standing. But before I could scream, the baby trembled, kicked its legs and drew in a breath, hideous whistling sound. The mother bent over him and I couldn’t see more, but I heard him begin crying in a feeble kind of way. The servants all threw themselves flat on their faces in the dust and began moaning. I backed away, but not before I saw the father come out with that knife in his hand. I shall never forget the look in his black eyes. He didn’t say two words, but one of the servants jumped up at once and ran to fetch a basin of water and a box from their trunks.

  “She was a tall girl, the servant. Buxom. Hair black as a raven’s wing. Splendid-looking creature,” said Mrs. Smith, laying emphasis on the word creature. “Well. Nothing more to see, as the City Guard are so fond of saying. I crept off to my bed and had nightmares. Next morning the child’s as peevish as ever, though a good deal more quiet, picking at the bandage about his bitsy windpipe. Not a word about what had happened from his parents, though the lady did apologize for all the noise.

  “We took them to their hotel in Salesh, as per contract. Last I saw of the child he was peering over the servant’s shoulder with those big eyes, looking as though he was thinking about throwing another tantrum and winding his little fist in her black hair.

  “She hasn’t aged a day. A few other details gave her away, as well. I’d bet a month’s salary she was hurt fighting off that cat-sending. She’s a demoness; and I know of only one man in the world with the power to bind demons reliably.

  “The baby’s grown, and he goes by the name Kingfisher now; but he’s still got the scar on his throat,” Mrs. Smith added. “I saw it this afternoon, when he laughed.”

  “I ought to have kept my shirt on,” said a smooth voice from out of the shadows.

  Smith jumped. Mrs. Smith set her drink down, and with great care and deliberation drew a pistolbow from inside her coat. It was larger than either of Smith’s and, to judge from the size of the gears and the bolt, much more powerful.

  “Oh, now, surely there’s no need for unpleasantness,” said Lord Ermenwyr, stepping into the circle of firelight. “Aren’t we all friends here? Aren’t we fellow travelers? Have I done anything evil at all?”

  “You’re the son of the Master of the Mountain,” said Mrs. Smith, training the weapon on him. In the dim light of the fire his skin had an unearthly green pallor, for he had dropped the glamour that disguised him. Eyes wide, he held out his open hands.

  “Can I help that? Let’s be reasonable about this. You’ve such a remarkable memory, dear Mrs. Smith; can you recall Daddy and Mummy being anything but perfectly law-abiding passengers? I’m sure we even tipped handsomely when we left the caravan.”

  There was a black mist flowing along the ground, out of the darkness, and it began to swirl behind him in a familiar outline.

  “To be sure you did, on that occasion,” agreed Mrs. Smith. “But your family has quite a reputation amongst the caravans, and not for generous tips.”

  “Oh, Daddy hasn’t taken a caravan in years,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Really. Mummy made him give it up. I can’t vouch for my brothers not engaging in some light raids now and then, one of those stupid masculine rite of passage things I suppose, but they’re brutes, and what can one expect?”

  Behind him, Balnshik materialized out of the night, regarding Mrs. Smith and Smith with eyes like coals. She too had dropped the glamour. Her skin was like a thundercloud, livid with phantom colors, glorious but hard to look at.

  “Put your weapon down,” she said.

  Mrs. Smith looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Certainly, when his lordship gives me his word we’ll come to no harm,” she replied.

  “You have my word, as my father’s son, that neither I nor mine will injure you nor compass your death in any way,” said Lord Ermenwyr at once. Mrs. Smith laid the pistolbow aside.

  “That’s the formula,” she told Smith. “We should be safe enough. I’m pleased to see you did contrive to grow up after all, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. “It’s been touch-and-go, as you can see, but I’ve managed.” Throwing out his coattails, he sat down cross-legged by the fire and took out his smoking tube. Balnshik remained on her feet, hovering over him watchfully. He continued:

  “Just you try living the life of a normal young man when people are always lurking about trying to kill you. It’s not fair,” he said plaintively.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you a demon?” inquired Smith.

  “Only one-quarter,” the lordling explained, angling his smoking tube like a pointer. “Half at most. Daddy was a foundling, you see, so we’re not sure. But what does it matter? When all’s said and done, I’m not that different from the rest of you. Do you know why we were all going to Salesh on that memorable occasion, Mrs. Smith? Daddy was trying to give us a holiday by the sea. Buckets, spades, sand castles, all that sort of thing.”

  “Perfectly innocent,” said Mrs. Smith with measured irony.

  “Well, it was! And Mummy felt the sea air would do me good. We were just like any other family, except for a few things like Daddy’s collection of heads and the fact that half the world wants us all dead.”

  “That was why Flowering Reed was after you,” Smith realized. “He knew who you were.”

  Lord Ermenwyr sighed. “It’s not easy being an Abomination. Saints aren’t supposed to get married and have children, you see. It’s sacrilegious. Anyone who can kill a walking blasphemy like me gains great spiritual merit, I understand. Of course, Flowering Reed disdained to do the job himself; wouldn’t get his pure hands dirty. But his hired killers kept failing, thanks to you and the late Parradan Smith being so good at defending us all,” he added, looking at Smith with affection.

  “Was that why Flowering Reed shot him in the back?”

  “Exactly. Nasty little darts. Flowering Reed’s people rationalize any guilt away by saying that it’s the poison on the thorn doing the killing, not them. Charming, isn’t it?”

  “But that greenie doctor was quite respectful to you,” objected Mrs. Smith. “Even reverent.”

  “Well, madam, there are greenies and greenies. Flowering Reed belongs to a particularly vicious fundamentalist sect sworn to avenge my mother’s, er, sullying, by whatever means necessary.” Lord Ermenwyr lit his smoking tube with a small blue fireball and took a deep drag. “Mummy’s disciples, on the other hand, were willing to admit that she knew what she was doing when she married Daddy and brought all of us semidevine semidemonic brats into the world.” He blew smoke from his nostrils.

  “I’m intrigued, young man,” said Mrs. Smith. “Are your parents happily married?”

  “I suppose so,” he replied. “I won’t say they haven’t had their quarrels, but love conquers all. I believe that was Mummy’s point in bedding the old bastard.”

  “You’re being disrespectful, Master,” crooned Balnshik, winding her hand into his hair. “You know that’s not allowed.”

  “Ow! All right. Well, anyway—you can see, can’t you, that there’s no need to be alarmed by my presence in your caravan? All I want is to get to Salesh-by-the-Sea for a nice long stay at the spa, so I can recover what passes for my health,” Lord Ermenwyr assured them.

  “Your father’s supposed to be the most powerful mage who ever lived,” said Smith. “Can’t he just magick you well?”

  “My mother can heal the sick and raise the dead, but nothing she tries works on me either,” retorted Lord Ermenwyr. He yelped in protest as Balnshik got a grip on his collar and hauled him to his feet.

  “My master has the blood of two planes fighting in his heart,” she told them. “It makes him unstable. Unreason
able. Rude. But there are advantages to being under his protection, dear Children of the Sun, and dreadful disadvantages to harming the least hair on his wicked little head. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Don’t mind the death threats,” Lord Ermenwyr told them. “It’s her job to protect me. I’m sure you’d never do anything so stupid as to betray me to my enemies.”

  “No,” said Smith hastily.

  “I won’t, either. But I shall refrain from doing so because I find the idea of your parents’ love match rather sweet (somebody ought to have a happy marriage now and then) and not"—Mrs. Smith looked up severely at Balnshik—"because of your threats, my girl.”

  Balnshik smiled, showing all her gleaming teeth.

  “Lady, I am seven thousand years old,” she said.

  “Well, I feel seven thousand years old,” Mrs. Smith replied. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we, and remain friends all around?”

  “You are as wise as you are skilled in the arts of cuisine,” Lord Ermenwyr assured her. “You won’t regret it. And now, will you excuse me? The night damps are settling in. Terrible for the lungs, you know.”

  “Bid them good night, Master,” said Balnshik, dragging him off.

  “Bye-bye!” he called, waving his smoking tube at them.

  Smith sagged backward, shaking.

  “What the hell do we do now?” he murmured.

  “Oh, we’ll be quite safe,” Mrs. Smith said, picking up her drink. “As long as we keep our mouths shut. I know demons.”

  And after all nothing had changed. Next morning both Lord Ermenwyr and Balnshik had resumed their ordinary appearance and made no reference whatever to the previous night’s conversation. Breakfast was served, camp was broken, the carts got back on the road again as usual. It was so mundane that Smith, resuming his couch on the flour bags, wondered if he hadn’t had a bizarre nightmare.

  That day they came down out of the Greenlands at last, onto the plain. The caravan seemed to skim like a bird, speeding along the flat miles. They began to spot other cities lifting towers above secure walls, other roads crossing the distance and even intersecting their road, and now and then they passed caravans bound for regions unknown or dull merchants’ carts rattling along. The Smith children waved and shrieked happily at them all. Mile after mile fell away, and every mile brought nearer the gray hills of Salesh-by-the-Sea, the only interruption of the expanding steel horizon.

  They spent one last night at a way station, though it was so palatial it scarcely seemed to fit the name. There was a shop there selling sweets and fruit, biscuits and wine; there were all of three stone watering huts (no waiting!); there was even a booth with a scribe who would, for a price, copy out a map of your immediate destination, guaranteed to be accurate for any city precinct. In the dark the wind shifted and brought them the strong rank salt smell of the tides. Smith felt as though he had come home.

  Salesh, like most cities on the sea, had only a half circle of city wall, a high curve of white flints at its back that gleamed in the sun like a shell mound, when the dense fogs now and then parted to let any sun through. There the resemblance to anything so formless as a mound stopped, however, for the wall was neatly laid with mile-castles along its top, patrolled by watchmen whose armor was enameled in a pattern like fish scales. Within the wall the city was laid out in a fan of long streets, each terminating on the seafront.

  The city gate was standing wide when they arrived, and Burnbright trumpeted their arrival with glee, pausing only to flash the license and manifest at the city guard. As soon as they were waved through she leaped into the lead cart next to Pinion and flung both her fists toward the sky.

  “We made it,” she shouted, dancing. “We’re safe! I’m great, I’m the fastest runner in the world, and Mount Flame City rules!”

  “Oh, sit down and watch your mouth,” said Pinion, but he was grinning too. He steered them down the long hill in splendor, riding the brakes, and the iron wheels shot sparks like a fireworks display celebrating their arrival. Expertly he took them around the sharp turn at Capstan Street, and they rocketed into the vast echoing hall of the Salesh-by-the-Sea caravan depot.

  It was crowded and very loud, for another caravan had arrived just before them. Porters were lined up along the arcades, displaying their muscles as they awaited employment. The runners had taken an entire arcade for themselves and sat or leaned there, gossiping together, a blaze of scarlet uniform in the shadows. Clerks worked their way along the line of carts with manifest checklists, recording the arrival of goods and overseeing their unloading. Smith slid hastily from the flour bags and turned to collide with the Smiths and their baby.

  “Well, here we are at last,” he said.

  “At last,” Mr. Smith agreed. “And I must say I—Children! Come back here right now! I must say I’ve never beheld such personal bravery in a caravan master. Both my sons have told me they want to be just like you when they grow up, isn’t that right, boys?”

  “No,” said the smaller of the boys. “He gets hurt all the time.”

  “That man is stealing our trunks!” screamed the little girl.

  “No, no, that’s our porter! Meefa, stop kicking the nice man! I—will you excuse us? Thank you so much,” said Mr. Smith, and hastened away. Just beyond him, Mr. Amook was shouldering his one bag. He slipped off into the crowd and disappeared.

  “Safe haven at last, eh?” said Lord Ermenwyr, emerging from his palanquin and yawning. “Good old Salesh-by-the-Sea. What memories of innocent childhood! Burying one’s brothers in the sand. Watching all the nude bathers. How I used to love toddling up to pat their bottoms! You can get away with it when you’re three,” he added ruefully.

  “Master, the porters are here,” announced Balnshik, swaying up at the head of a line of massive fellows who followed her with stunned expressions.

  “Right. You! Four of you on the palanquin poles, all the same height, please, and if you can get me to the spa without making me motion sick you’ll get a bonus. Mind those trunks! Now, Caravan Master,” Lord Ermenwyr said, turning back to Smith. “Here’s for your efforts in the line of duty.” He took Smith’s hand and set a purse in it, quite a heavy purse for its size. Then he leaned close and spoke in an undertone. “For your efforts beyond the call of duty, will you come be my guest at the spa tonight? Dinner, drinks, and general fun. Eh? Nursie would still like to thank you personally, you know.” He elbowed Smith meaningfully.

  “Honor on your house, my lord,” said Smith. Lord Ermenwyr hooted in derision.

  “Talk about impossibilities! I should tell you about the time—”

  “Master, we don’t want to keep the gentlemen waiting,” said Balnshik. She caught him by his collar and the seat of his trousers and forcibly assisted him up into the palanquin, which had been hoisted onto the shoulders of four stolid porters. Having shoved him inside and closed the curtain on him, she turned to Smith with a dazzling smile. “Do come tonight, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Smith stammered.

  “Until this evening, then,” she said, and, turning to the porters, she ordered them follow her in a voice that lashed like a whip, and strode from the caravan depot, breasts jutting arrogantly. They followed her, needless to say.

  Smith stared after her until his attention was pulled away by a clerk approaching him.

  “Caravan Master"—the clerk peered over his spectacles at the manifest—"Smith? What’s this I hear about damaged goods?”

  “It’s only one unit of one consignment,” Smith explained. “The flour and the mineral pigments are fine.”

  “Yes, they’re already claimed. But the shipment to Lady Katmile?”

  “There was an accident,” said Smith, sweating slightly as he turned and rummaged in his pack for the broken egg. “Minor collision. Not our fault. Just this one, see? But all the others are intact!” He waved at the 143 violet eggs reposing under their cargo net.

  “Eggs?” The clerk frowned. “Most irregular. Who on earth authori
zed packing containers like that?”

  “The sender, if you must know,” said Mrs. Smith, bustling up to Smith’s rescue. “All her own design. We hadn’t a thing to do with it. Bloody nuisance the whole trip. She’s lucky it’s only the one!”

  “We were attacked a lot, sir,” Smith told the clerk. The clerk’s eyes widened behind his spectacles, which magnified the expression freakishly.

  “You’d better fill out an Assault, Damage and Loss form,” he said.

  “He’s going to get off his feet and have a drink first,” stated Mrs. Smith, linking her arm through Smith’s. Behind her, the keymen and Burnbright assembled themselves to glare at the clerk. “Aren’t you, Caravan Master? Anybody wants to see us, we’ll be in the Stripped Gear over there.” She pointed to a dark doorway set invitingly at the back of an arcade.

  “That’s right,” said Crucible. “This is a wounded man, you know.”

  “And if he dies, there’ll be all kinds of trouble, because he’s the owner’s cousin,” said Burnbright, pushing forward assertively. “So there.”

  “Come along, boys,” said Mrs. Smith, and, towing Smith after her, she made for the Stripped Gear, with Burnbright and the keymen flanking them. “You’ll like this.

  Charming little watering hole for the trade. Doesn’t try to foist one off with plonk, and, moreover, rents rooms quite inexpensively.”

  “And we get our own bloody palanquin,” said Burnbright, which made no sense at all to Smith until they got through the dark doorway and he saw the rows of booths built to resemble big palanquins, complete with curtains and thickly padded seats. Apart from that bit of theatrics, the Stripped Gear was just what a bar should be: cozy, dark but not too dark to spot an attacker, crowded but not too loud for conversation. Smith felt his spirits rising as the keymen vaulted into the booth one after another and pulled him in after them. Mrs. Smith and Burnbright followed.