The Anvil of the World aotwu-1

by Kage Baker

  “And, in the first earthshaking union of their marital bliss, so violent and so acute was the discord across the planes that a hideous cosmic mistake was made, and forth through the Gates of Life issued a concentrated gob of Chaos, and nine months later it sort of oozed out of Mother and assumed the shape of a baby.”

  “My lord!” Willowspear looked anguished. “You blaspheme!”

  “Stuff it,” Lord Eyrdway told his brother. “It’s all lies, mortal. Smith? Yes. I was a beautiful baby, Mother’s always said so. And I could change shape when I was still in the cradle, unlike you, you miserable little vampire. You know how he came into the world, Smith?”

  “Shut up!” Lord Ermenwyr shouted.

  “Ha, ha—it seems Mother and Daddy were making love in a hammock in a gazebo in the garden, and because they were neither on the earth, nor in the sky, nor under earth or in the sea, nor indoors nor out, but suspended—”

  “Don’t tell that story!”

  “I forget exactly what went wrong, but seven months later, Mother noticed this wretched screaming little thing that had fallen out under her skirt, and she had pity on it, even though I told her she ought to give it away because we didn’t need any more babies, but I guess being the Compassionate One she had to keep it, and unfortunately it grew up, though it never got very big.” Lord Eyrdway smiled serenely at his brother.

  “You pus-bucket,” Lord Ermenwyr growled.

  “Midget.”

  “Imbecile!”

  “Dwarf.”

  “You big walking string of shapeless snot from the nose of a diseased—”

  “I know you are, but what am I?”

  “You—!” Lord Ermenwyr was on the point of launching himself across the table at his brother when Smith rose in his seat, and thundered, “Shut up, both of you!”

  The brothers sat back abruptly and stared at him, shocked.

  “You can’t tell us to shut up,” said Lord Eyrdway in wonderment. “We’re demons.”

  “Quarter demons,” Willowspear corrected him.

  “But I killed three men for you, so you owe me,” said Smith. “Don’t you? No more fighting as long as you’re both here.”

  “Whatever you like,” said Lord Eyrdway amiably enough, taking a sip of his wine. “I always honor a debt of blood.”

  “I still want to know what you’re doing off the mountain,” said Lord Ermenwyr sullenly. “To say nothing of why you chose to bolt into my favorite hotel.”

  “Oh,” said Eyrdway, looking uneasy. “That. Well, I made a little mistake. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Really?” Lord Ermenwyr smiled at him, narrowing his eyes. “Whatever did you do, might one ask?”

  “I just raided a caravan,” said Lord Eyrdway.

  “Hmmm. And?” Lord Ermenwyr’s smile showed a few sharp teeth.

  “Well—you know, when caravans are insured, they really ought to be required to carry signs or something saying who insured them, so everybody will know,” said Lord Eyrdway self-righteously.

  Lord Ermenwyr began to snicker.

  “You raided a caravan that was insured by Daddy’s company,” he stated gleefully. “And Daddy had to pay the claim?”

  “Your father runs an insurance company?” Smith inquired.

  “And makes a lot more money than by being a brigand,” Lord Ermenwyr replied. “There are only so many ways you can keep your self-respect as a Lord of Evil when you can’t break any laws.”

  “And there wasn’t even any nice loot,” complained Lord Eyrdway. “Nothing but a lot of stupid bags of flour. So I cut them all open in case there was anything valuable inside, which there wasn’t, so we just threw the stuff around and danced in it and came home white as ghosts, and then it turned out the flour had been going to a village where the people were starving, so that got Mother mad at me too.”

  “You sublime blockhead!” Lord Ermenwyr rocked to and fro, hugging himself.

  “So Daddy told me I was banished until I could repay him the value of the caravan,” said Lord Eyrdway. “And Mother reproached me.”

  “Ooh.” Lord Ermenwyr winced. “That’s serious. And you haven’t a clue how to get money, have you?”

  “I do so!” snarled Lord Eyrdway. “I stole some from a traveler when I was coming down the mountain. But he didn’t have nearly enough, so I asked the next traveler I robbed where there was a good gambling house, and he said there were a lot of them in Salesh-by-the-Sea.”

  “Oh, gods.”

  “Well, you’re always on about how much fun you have here! So I got over the city wall and found a nice gambling house, and at first I won lots of money,” Lord Eyrdway said. “And they served me a lot of free drinks. So I drank a little more than I should have, maybe. So some of what happened I don’t remember too well. But there was a lot of shouting.”

  “You must have killed somebody,” said Smith.

  “Yes, I think I did,” Lord Eyrdway agreed. “Not only did I not win any more money, they wanted money from me! And so I left, and changed into a few things to throw them off the chase. But they figured out I was changing, somehow, and kept after me. So I ran down to the harbor and turned myself into a seagull. Wasn’t that clever of me?” He turned to his brother, bright-eyed. “Nobody can pick one seagull out of a crowd!”

  “You’re brilliant,” drawled Lord Ermenwyr. “Go on.”

  “So I spent the night like that, and all the lady seagulls fell in love with me. But I was thirsty by this morning, so I turned back into me and went walking along the harbor looking for a place to get a drink. Then I heard a yell, and when I turned around, there were those people again, and they had other people with them, and they were all coming after me with weapons drawn.”

  “You booby, they’d had time to circulate your description,” Lord Ermenwyr told him.

  “Really?” Lord Eyrdway looked dismayed. “What are they so upset about? I thought nothing was forbidden in Salesh in Festival time.”

  “They’re talking about sins of the flesh, not manslaughter,” Smith pointed out.

  “Oh. Well, it ought to say so on those brochures, then! Anyway I remembered you had a safe house somewhere hereabouts, so I went looking for it, but—”

  “You were coming to me for protection?” Lord Ermenwyr smiled, showing all his teeth.

  “No, I wasn’t!” said Lord Eyrdway at once. “I don’t need your protection! I just thought, you know…” He opened and shut his mouth a few times, seeking words.

  “Well, that’s done it; his brain’s seized up with the effort,” Lord Ermenwyr said to Smith. “While we’re waiting, let me apologize for this unsightly complication. As for you, brother dearest, I shall be happy to offer you refuge. It’s what Mother would want me to do, I’m sure.”

  “Go explode yourself,” said Lord Eyrdway pettishly. “I just thought I could borrow enough money from you to pay Daddy back.”

  “Ah, but then you’d miss the instructive discipline Daddy was meting out by your temporary banishment, wouldn’t you?” said Lord Ermenwyr. “And I’m certain Mother was hoping you’d learn some sort of moral lesson from the experience, as well.”

  “Does that mean you won’t lend me the money?”

  “You fool, it’s ridiculously easy to get money from mortals without stealing it from them,” Lord Ermenwyr said.

  “It is?” Large brass wheels and gears appeared in the air above Lord Eyrdway’s head, turning slowly. “People do that, don’t they?”

  “Quite. For example, Smith, here, used to kill people for money,” said Lord Ermenwyr.

  “Used to,” Smith said. “I keep a hotel now. I don’t recommend the assassin game, lord. It’s a lot harder than it sounds.”

  “Well, I don’t want to do anything hard,” said Lord Eyrdway, frowning. The gears above his head metamorphosed into a glowing lamp, and he turned to his brother. “I know! Haven’t you been peddling your ass to the mortals?”

  “I’m a junior gigolo,” Lord Ermenwyr corrected him. “And it�
��s much more subtle than mere peddling. You have to romance them. You have to wheedle presents. You have to know the best places to unload presents for cash. But, yes, you can get mortals to pay you ever so much for having sex with them, if you’re young and beautiful.”

  “How’d you manage it, then?” Lord Eyrdway chortled.

  “Smith, shall I tell you about the time Eyrdway here was beaten up by our sister?”

  “Don’t tell him that story!”

  “Then watch your mouth, you oaf. A male prostitute has to be charming.” Lord Ermenwyr stroked his beard and considered his brother through half-closed eyes. “There are certain streets where one goes to linger. You make yourself look young and vulnerable, and I always found it helped to let a little of my glamour down, so mortals could just get the tiniest glimpse of my true form.”

  “I can do that,” Lord Eyrdway decided.

  “Then you wait for someone to notice you. You want somebody older, somebody well dressed. Usually they offer to buy you a drink.”

  “Got it.”

  “And then you go to bed with them and make them as happy as you possibly can. The customer is always right, remember.”

  “Are you sure this is what you used to do?” Lord Eyrdway looked dubious as he ran back over the details.

  “Why, of course,” said Lord Ermenwyr silkily. He had a sip of his wine.

  “And you can really get money this way?”

  “Heaps,” Lord Ermenwyr assured his brother.

  “Well, then, I ought to be a famous success!” said Lord Eyrdway happily. “Because I’m lots more attractive than you. I think I’ll start today.”

  “You won’t get anybody to pay for sex during Festival,” said Smith.

  “That’s true,” Lord Ermenwyr agreed. “You’ll have to start next week. You can stay with me until then. You can’t practice here in Smith’s hotel, because he’s having a bit of trouble already. But there are public orgies scheduled all over town tonight.” He looked his brother up and down. “I’d recommend going in a different shape. You’re still wanted by the City Wardens, remember.”

  “Right,” said Lord Eyrdway. “Thanks.”

  “What are brothers for?” said Lord Ermenwyr.

  “Bail,” said Lord Eyrdway. He looked curiously at Smith. “You’re having trouble? Anything I can help with? You did save my life, after all.”

  Smith explained the circumstances, so far as he knew them, surrounding the murder of Sharplin Coppercut.

  “Well, if things turn nasty, I’ll let little Burnbright hide in my room until she can be smuggled out,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Is she really one of the massacre survivors?”

  “Coppercut thought so,” said Smith. “And he’d gone to a lot of trouble to dig up evidence. But she can’t have been much more than a newborn when it all happened.”

  “Mother took in somebody’s orphan from the Spellmetal thing, didn’t she?” said Lord Eyrdway. He pointed at Willowspear. “In fact, it was you, wasn’t it?”

  Lord Ermenwyr grimaced. Smith looked at Willowspear.

  “Is that true?”

  “You’ve just implicated him, you moron,” Lord Ermenwyr told his brother.

  “Yes, sir, it’s true,” Willowspear replied. “I lost my parents in the massacre.”

  “But he can’t kill anybody, Smith,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “He’s one of Mother’s disciples. They don’t do that kind of thing.”

  “He was on the same floor as Coppercut at the time the murder happened,” Smith explained patiently. “He’s connected to the Spellmetal massacre. He’s a doctor, so he knows herbs and presumably poisons. Wasn’t he in the kitchen at one point? When he fixed up Burnbright’s knee? And he was standing behind your chair on the balcony during the fireworks display; I saw him. He might have slipped away without you noticing.”

  “Smith, I give you my word as my father’s son—” protested Lord Ermenwyr.

  “What about it?” Smith asked Willowspear. “Coppercut was a damned bad man. He was using his knowledge to hurt innocents. A lot of people would have considered it a moral act to take him out. Did you?”

  “No,” said Willowspear. “As a servant of the Compassionate One, I may not judge others, nor may I kill.”

  “Coppercut couldn’t have had anything on him, anyway,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “No records to trace. Yendri adoptions aren’t done through your courts.”

  “Somebody in rags showed up one day at the front battlement, carrying a baby,” Lord Eyrdway affirmed. “Which was you, Willowspear. Mother took the baby in, the beggar went away. End of story.”

  “It’s a coincidence,” stated Lord Ermenwyr. “It could have been anybody here.”

  Smith nodded, not taking his eyes from Willowspear’s face. The young man met his gaze unflinchingly. “I’ll interview the guests, then, as they become conscious.”

  Lord Eyrdway remembered his drink and emptied it in a gulp. “By the way, Ermenwyr, somebody else came round to the front gate asking for you. Just before Daddy threw me out.”

  “What?” Lord Ermenwyr started. “Who?”

  “Said his name was … oh! That funny name you said.” Lord Eyrdway gestured at Smith. “Bitchbliss?”

  “Blichbiss!”

  “Whatever. The gate guards told him you’d gone abroad and weren’t expected back for a while. You’d better get in touch with him.”

  “I’m not about to get in touch with him!” said Lord Ermenwyr, and explained why. Eyrdway listened, puzzled at first, then frowning.

  When his brother had finished, he said, “You mean this man wants to challenge you, and you’re ducking him?”

  “Of course I’m ducking him, you half-wit!”

  “What are you, a coward?” Lord Eyrdway looked outraged.

  “Yes! And if you’d died as often as I have, you’d be a coward too!” said Lord Ermenwyr.

  “But you can’t refuse a challenge,” said Lord Eyrdway. “What about the honor of our house?”

  “Honor? Hello! Eyrdway, are you in there? Remember who Daddy is?” Lord Ermenwyr yelled in exasperation. “And anyway, you ran like a rabbit yourself when those mortals were after you.”

  “Oh, that. Well, they were nobodies, weren’t they? Just some people who wanted to kill me, for some reason. But you have to accept a challenge,” said Lord Eyrdway reasonably.

  “No, I don’t, and I won’t,” announced Lord Ermenwyr, tugging at his beard. Hands trembling with vexation, he drew out his smoking tube and packed it full of weed from a small pouch. “Look at me, look what you’ve done to my nerves!”

  “Poor baby,” jeered Lord Eyrdway, and then his manner changed. “Oo. Is that pinkweed? Can I have a hit?”

  “No.” Lord Ermenwyr lit the tube with a small fireball.

  “Not in here!” Smith cautioned.

  “Sorry.” Lord Ermenwyr ostentatiously pantomimed waving out a nonexistent straw and setting it down, as he puffed out aromatic fumes in a thick cloud. “I’m going to go upstairs now and have my breakfast, which I never got because you arrived right in the middle of it, and if you promise not to bring a certain subject up again, I’ll share some of this.”

  “What subject?” asked Lord Eyrdway.

  “Oh, and Smith?” Lord Ermenwyr stood and edged out of the booth. “The sheep won’t be necessary.”

  The first of the hotel guests to appear, wandering in with a bewildered expression from the shrubbery, was Lady Shanriana of House Goldspur. She had lost several rather necessary sequins and her blue body paint needed strategic touching up.

  Smith hastened forward with a complimentary robe and wrapped it around her, inquiring, “Lady, will you be pleased to take breakfast in the room or in the indoor dining area?”

  “In my room, I suppose,” she said. “I’m not sure I recall checking in here last night. Did I have servants with me?”

  “No, lady, you came alone.” Smith escorted her up the stairs, for she was wobbling slightly as she walked. “You’re in Room 3. May I sugges
t hot tea and a sweet roll?”

  “Three or four of them,” she replied. “And send someone up to draw me a hot bath. Someone handsome.”

  “We’ll send our most attractive porter, madam,” said Smith, mentally noting that New Smith was slightly less weather-beaten than his fellow porters. “Though all our porters are more noted for their strength than their handsomeness, I must warn you.”

  “Hmm.” Lady Shanriana dimpled in several locations. “Strength is nice. I like strength.”

  “I hope you weren’t disturbed at any time last night,” Smith went on. “We had a mild vendetta problem, it appears.”

  “Oh, well, that happens,” said Lady Shanriana, waving a dismissive hand as she wandered past Room 3. Smith, on pretext of leaning close to whisper in her ear, caught her shoulder and steered her gently back around to her door.

  “But it’s rather a scandal, I’m afraid, though of course they do say a scandal is good for business,” Smith murmured, watching Lady Shanriana’s face. A gleam of avid interest came into her eyes.

  “Who got killed?” she inquired.

  “Well—I’ve been asked to keep it quiet, but—” Smith leaned closer still. “It was Sharplin Coppercut, the writer.”

  He watched her face closely. The gleam vanished at once, to be followed by a look of disappointment and chagrin. “Oh, no, really? I never missed his columns! He did that wonderfully steamy unauthorized biography of Lady What’s-her-name, the shipping heiress, didn’t he? The Imaginary Virgin? Oh, how awful!”

  “Was he a personal acquaintance of yours?”

  “Heavens, no. One doesn’t associate with writers,” said Lady Shanriana, looking even more dismayed. She fumbled with the latch on her door. Smith opened it for her and bowed her in.

  “On the other hand, once the news is made public, you’ll be able to tell people you had the room across from the one Sharplin Coppercut was in when he died,” Smith pointed out. She seemed distinctly pleased at that. “I hope you weren’t inconvenienced when it happened?”

  “No; I was out on the terrace all night. At least, I think I was. Yes, I’m sure I must have been, because there was a whole party of officers from somebody’s war galleon, and they all claimed me because they serve the Spirit of the Waters, don’t they, you see? So we had a lovely time all evening. I must have missed the killing. I suppose it was a dreadfully bloody affair? Assassins all in black leather, hooded?” Her eyes glazed with a private fantasy.