The Anvil of the World aotwu-1

by Kage Baker

  “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 l
eaned 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.

  “Drink the tea,” said a disembodied voice. Smith looked up and saw a grate in the wall, high up. He could just discern the Yendri’s face behind it.

  “You’re going to watch me?” he asked.

  “Sometimes your people faint,” the Yendri replied. “The tea, please.”

  “All right.” Smith sipped it grudgingly, but found it surprisingly good, hot and spicy. He drank it all and only when he had emptied the teapot did he notice the aftertaste.

  “This isn’t a purge, is it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the Yendri replied. Smith groaned.

  In the next hour a great deal of nasty stuff went down the drain, including a couple of old tattoos, exuding from his frantic skin like black syrup. Smith saw dirt from every place he’d ever lived coming to the surface, the yellow dust of Troon, the red dust of Mount Flame City, some gray residue he didn’t want to think about. Occasionally jets of hot water shot from the ceiling, flooding the filth down the drain and almost washing Smith away with it. He clung to the stone perch and cursed the Yendri steadily. The Yendri watched him, impassive; and at the end of the hour shut off the water and came to let Smith out.

  Smith had planned to throttle him the minute he could reach him, but collapsed on him instead. He let the Yendri support him back down the hall to a room with a tepid pool. The Yendri toppled him in and told him to swim. Smith decided to drown, but found to his astonishment that his strength was returning, and with it an extraordinary sense of well-being. After he had splashed about a while a pair of hulking bath attendants came to haul him out, slap him with cold towels, and make him drink a lot of plain water.

  They led him at last to a massage chamber, where he was soaped and rinsed and oiled and kneaded. Then they applied fresh bandages to his wounds.

  By that time Smith felt wonderful and no longer wanted to kill anybody. This made the events of the next few moments all the more unfortunate.

  When the attendants had done with him, they indicated he should dress himself again. He floated out to the changing room, seemingly ten years younger than he had been when he left it.

  A bulky man in very fine clothes was removing them in there, and three other men stood attendance on him, taking his garments one by one and folding them with care. Smith nodded as he passed them and went to his shelf. It didn’t occur to him until his hand was on his clothes that he knew one of the men. Apparently it occurred to the other man at the same moment.

  Smith heard the muttered exclamation and grabbed frantically in his right boot. He turned with a knife in his hand in time to see the other man advancing on him, drawing a blade fully ten inches long.

  “This is for my cousins, you pig,” snarled the man, preparing to slash at Smith. Before he could do so, however, Smith acted without thinking and threw his little knife.

  Acting without thinking was something he generally did under circumstances such as the one in which he presently found himself. The details of circumstance might vary, but the result was always the same: a corpse at his feet and a great deal of trouble.

  He looked down now at the body that had his knife hilt protruding from its left eye socket, then looked at the other three men. Was that his heartbeat echoing off the tiled walls? The fight had taken place in almost complete silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

  The bulky man nodded, staring at him with mild amazement. “Nice work, though,” he said. “Striker was one of my best.” He gestured, and his remaining vassals seized Smith, and forced him to his knees. He turned to draw a blade from his clothes. Smith spotted a tattoo on his bare back.

  “You’re a Bloodfire,” he stammered. “You wouldn’t be Lord Kashban Beatbrass, by any chance?”

  “I am,” the lord replied, turning with a curved ceremonial blade.

  “I’ve got something of yours!”

  “And I’ll have something of yours in a minute.” Lord Kashban grabbed him by the hair.

  “No! Listen,” cried Smith, and hurriedly explained what had happened to Parradan Smith.

  “That’s his case on the shelf,” h
e said, tilting his head in its direction with some difficulty. “I promised him I’d deliver it to you. He said you’d pay well. I was on my way to your house, I swear.”

  The lord paused, looking thoughtful. He got the case down from the shelf and opened it. Lord Tinwick’s cup gleamed at him. He lifted it out, examined it, checked the inscription on the base.

  “What did you do with Parradan’s body?” he inquired.

  “It’s in a stone cairn on the north side of the road from Troon, about two days’ journey from the Red House up there,” said Smith.

  “All right,” said Lord Kashban. He looked down at Smith, studying him. “You worked in Port Chadravac for a while, didn’t you? Weren’t you one of the Throatcutters?”

  “Not exactly,” said Smith miserably. “I was sort of a consultant for them. A specialist.”

  “Yes, you were,” the lord agreed, and awe came into his face, though his voice remained level and quiet. “Artist is more like it. Nine Hells! Nobody ever saw you coming. They said you could vanish out of a locked room. What are you doing running from anyone?”

  “I didn’t want to do it anymore,” Smith explained. “Just because a man’s good at something doesn’t mean he enjoys it.”

  Lord Kashban shook his head. “Unbelievable. All right; Parradan said I’d reward you, so I will. You have your life. Let him go,” he told his men, who dropped Smith’s arms at once.

  “Honor on your house,” said Smith, staggering to his feet. He grabbed his clothes and pulled them on.

  “What do we do about Striker, my lord?” one of the men wanted to know.

  “What do we do about Striker?” Lord Kashban pulled at his lip. “Good question. I’ve lost a good man. All right, wrap a towel around his head and carry him out to the palanquin. Tell the greenie he’s sick. We’ll give him a nice funeral in the garden tonight. You.” He looked at Smith. “Had enough of retirement yet? Getting a little tired of looking threadbare? It pains me to see a man of your talents in the gutter. You could come work for me.”