The Anvil of the World (11 page)

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 authorized 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.

"My treat," he said.

"No, no; at least, not the first round," admonished Mrs. Smith. "Pray, allow us. We're really quite pleased with you, Caravan Master, aren't we, boys?"

They keymen all chorused agreement.

"Coming on at the last minute like you did after poor old Smelterman took that bolt," said Pinion.

"Considering it was your first time and all," agreed one of the other Smiths.

"I had my doubts, but you held up," said Crucible. "You're no coward, I'll say that for you."

"And a good man in a fight, too," said Bellows.

"I never saw anybody bleed the way you did and live," offered Burnbright. At that moment the publican came up.

"Mrs. Smith! Charmed to see you again," he said, bowing. She extended a regal hand, and he kissed it.

"Delighted to have returned, Mr. Socket. Six of your best Salesh Ambers for the gentlemen, a peach milk for the young lady, and I shall have a dry Storm Force Nine with a twist," she said. "Later we'll need to inquire regarding suitable accommodations for the night."

He hurried away, and after a pleasantly short interval returned with their order. When he had departed, Burnbright held up her peach milk. "Here's to our caravan master," she yelled, hammering on the table with her little fist. "Death to our enemies!" They all clinked glasses and drank.

"I have dreamed of this moment," said Mrs. Smith, lighting her smoking tube and filling the booth with amberleaf fumes at once. "I shall take in a show along the Glittering Mile."

"I'm off to the Winking Tit," said Crucible, and the other keymen nodded in emphatic unison.

"Are there any places like that for ladies?" Burnbright asked.

"Not at your age, you silly thing," said Mrs. Smith. "What you'll need to do is get yourself over to the local mother house to clock in your mileage. You should be very nearly certified by now. What will you do, Caravan Master?"

Smith had been thinking in bemusement about the Winking Tit, but roused himself, and said, "I've got something I have to deliver, so I guess I'll do that first. Tonight I'm supposed to go see Lord Ermenwyr where he's staying."

"And Nurse Balnshik too?" Pinion dug him in the ribs.

"You'd better order up some oysters," chortled Bellows.

"You know what you really ought to do first," said Mrs. Smith, pointing at the disk Smith wore about his neck, "is go over to the baths in Anchor Street and redeem that thing the greenie doctor gave you. You'll feel much better afterward, fit for the lists of love or whatever you get up to after dark."

"That's a good idea," agreed Smith, thinking of hot water and clean towels. "I've still got Troon dust places I don't want to think about."

"It's awfully hard to get it out of your ears," said Burnbright seriously.

At this moment Smith glanced over and saw that the clerk had come into the bar with another person, and was staring about. He spotted Smith and the others and pointed, and the other person followed his gesture. Then she started toward Smith, and her attractive countenance was made less appealing by her expression of murderous rage.

"Uh--" said Smith.

"Caravan master! Can you sit and brazenly drink after such perfidy?" she hissed at him. Everyone in the booth drew back from her. She was clearly wealthy, with embroidered robes. Her hair was done up in an elaborate chignon held in place by jeweled pins. One expected to see her palanquin shopping or in a stage box at the theater, but certainly not leaning into a booth in the Stripped Gear, let alone with the veins in her neck standing out like that.

"Lady Katmile of Silver Anvil House?" guessed Smith. "Look, it was only one butterfly. Accidents happen and--"

"If it were only one!" she cried, and the clerk wrung his hands.

"Damage more extensive than reported," he said. "Contents examined with certified witness present. Every egg opened contained broken merchandise. Estimate fully half shipment in unacceptable condition."

"What d'you mean, damage?" shouted Mrs. Smith. "None of the damned things had so much as a crack in 'em, except the one we squashed!"

"Outer casings intact," admitted the clerk. "But inside--"

"What did you do, play handball with them?" demanded Lady Katmile. Smith closed his eyes, remembering Balnshik kicking violet eggs from her path as she ran, remembering Lord Ermenwyr juggling with them, remembering them bouncing down the high embankment. He said something profane.

Lady Katmile reared back like a snake about to strike.

"You wantonly destroy irreplaceable works of art, and you have the insolence to use that kind of language too?" she said. "Well. This matter goes to the Transport Authorities, Caravan Master, do you understand me? I'll have your certification. I'll have the certifications of your underlings. I'll have your owner's house and lands and movable chattel. No fiend of the desert has thirst great enough to drink dry the sea of your debt!"

She turned and swept out, drawing her furred cape about her. The clerk lingered long enough to shake his finger at them menacingly. He muttered, "Complaint will be filed immediately," and scurried after Lady Katmile.

Stunned silence at the table for a long moment.

"Did she mean she was going to get
us
sacked too?" said Bellows at last.

"That's what she said," Smith told him.

"But--she can't do that. We've got a union!" he said.

"It won't do you any good if she has your keyman's certification canceled," said Smith. "Or my cousin goes out of business. Both of which seem pretty likely right now."

"I never even got my certification," Burnbright squeaked, and began to cry. She fell over against Mrs. Smith, who stared into the palpable gloom.

"Damn them all," she said at last. "I was planning on retiring soon anyway. May as well do it here. I've set aside a little money. Perhaps I'll open a hotel. Don't despair, boys. We'll think of something."

"Could you use a message runner?" asked Burnbright, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"Perhaps. They're going to be hardest on you, young Smith." Mrs. Smith turned to him. "I'm sorry."

"It's not so bad," said Smith, still numb with shock. "It's not like I've got any money anyway. I can just disappear again."

"Again?" Crucible lifted his head from the table.

"It's a long story," Smith said. An idea occurred to him. "Look. Parradan Smith gave me something I was supposed to deliver for him--"

"We have been carrying around gangster loot, haven't we?" Burnbright looked awed.

"I might get a reward. If I do, you can have it for opening your hotel. Less whatever I need to buy a ticket to--to wherever I'm going next," said Smith.

"That's extraordinarily good of you," said Mrs. Smith quietly, tipping ash.

"Aw, Nine Hells," said Crucible. "Why is it the best caravan masters either die or leave the business?"

Smith remembered the purse Lord Ermenwyr had given him and pulled it out. "Here. I'll go make that delivery. You get us rooms with this, get our stuff out of the carts and stowed away before the Transport Authorities seize it all. I'll be back tonight after I visit his lordship."

"Maybe he'll help us too!" said Burnbright.

"Never count on a favor from the great, child," said Mrs. Smith. She drew the pouch toward her and squinted into it. "Even if they are remarkably generous. Well! We are resolute. I'll just step over and have a word with dear Mr. Socket. Boys, leap hence to secure what is ours. Burnbright, stay here and blow your nose, for heaven's sake."

She stood ponderously in the booth. "And you, young Smith. If you're able to rejoin us, there's a back door to the lodgings here on Fish Street, seldom watched after dark. If circumstance dictates otherwise--" She leaned forward and patted his cheek. "I'll make good on that fried eel dinner sometime or other. Go now, dear."

Having taken Parradan Smith's instrument case, Smith asked one of the porters where he might find the villa of Lord Kashban Beatbrass. Upon discovering that it was at the residential end of Anchor Street, he crossed over a block and descended the long hill. He could look down on the roofs of the grand town houses, almost see into their private gardens, though around him was all the windy bustle of the poor end of the street. Fry vendors with their carts shouted their wares, beggars hobbled or rolled along bearing signs listing famous sea battles in which they'd lost various body parts, shabby-looking men went in and out of lodging houses and ship's chandlers'.

The sea gleamed out beyond all his misery, under a band of middle air clear of fog. White sails moved on the horizon, making for Port Ward'b across the bay. Smith reflected that he'd probably head that way himself in the morning and sign on to a ship, preferably one about to leave on an extended voyage, under a new assumed name. Flint? Stoker? Ironboot?

An icy wind hit him, piercing his worn clothes, making his wounds ache, and fluttering before his eyes a green poppysilk banner. He peered at the writing on it. Yendri characters, advertising something.

Turning, he saw the shop flying the banner bore a large sign with the word BATHS. He groped and found the clay disk on its cord inside his shirt.

"Might as well," he told himself, and went in.

The warm air hit him like a blast from a furnace, but it felt heavenly, rich with steam and Yendri perfumes that made him think of wild forest girls who wouldn't keep their clothes on. Smith could hear a fountain tinkling somewhere and the splash of water echoing on tile. He made his way to the counter, which was almost hidden behind hanging pots of ferns and bromeliads. A Yendri in a white robe leaned at the counter, reading a city broadside. He did not look up as he inquired, "You have come for a bath, sir?"

"Actually--" Smith pulled the clay disk off over his head. "I'm supposed to find Levendyloy Alder and ask for, uh, detoxification. The full treatment." He held out the disk. The Yendri looked up and focused on him intently.

"I am Alder," he informed Smith. "You have been ill? You have been, hm, wounded." He leaned over and took the disk. He passed it under his nostrils and scowled. "Poisoned. Hm. Please. Come inside."

He led Smith behind the counter into a changing room with shelves. "Your clothes and belongings in there," he said. He vanished behind a curtain as Smith stripped down and filled a shelf, setting all his knives in his right boot and resting Parradan Smith's case on top of the pile with great care. Peeling off his bandages too, he considered his battered body and sighed.
One of these days,
he told himself,
I
won't be able to run fast enough.

When the Yendri returned, he was carrying a teapot and small cup. "This way," he said, gesturing with the cup, and Smith followed him through the curtain and into a tiled corridor. They passed arched entrances to rooms with hot and cold pools, where other people swam or lounged in the water and talked. The Yendri led him to a room with a heavy door, handed him the teapot and cup, and worked the valve lock that opened the door. Steam billowed out, hot enough to make the hall seem chilly by comparison. Smith peered in and caught a glimpse of boulders and swirling water.

"Go in," said the Yendri, "Sit, and drink the tea. All of it, as quickly as you can. It will cleanse you. In an hour I will bring you out."

"All right," said Smith, and stepped in cautiously. The door closed behind him, and in a moment the air cleared enough for him to see that the room was tank-shaped, with a drain at the bottom. Water gushed from a tap in the ceiling and streamed down the rock walls, which radiated intense heat, and splattered and swirled off the boulders before finally cycling down the drain. There was one curved stone seat, awkward to sit on.