The Anvil of the World aotwu-1

by Kage Baker

  “Even better would be persuading one’s friends to join one in safety. So one could watch the smoke rising from the former seaside resorts without getting all upset about one’s friends dying down there. You see?”

  “Do you really think it’ll come to that?” said Smith.

  “It cannot,” said Willowspear. He had another gulp of his drink and looked up from it with the fire of determination in his eyes. “My students listen to me. Perhaps I could form a delegation. If my people would only talk to yours—”

  “What would it take to make anybody listen, though?” Smith looked uneasily at Willowspear. “And should you call attention to yourself? You’ve got a lot to lose if it goes wrong.”

  “I have more to lose if no one makes the effort!” said Willowspear.

  “More than you realize,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “There are other players in this game, my friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The lordling looked shrewd. “The Yendri aren’t the only people with colorful mythology. Burnbright, my sweet, have you ever told your husband the story of the dreadful Key of—”

  His mouth remained open, forming the last syllable of what he had been about to say, his expression did not change in the slightest; but it was as though Time had stopped in a narrow envelope about his body. The others sat blinking at him for a moment, waiting for him to pick up his train of thought or sneeze.

  “Master?” said Balnshik sharply.

  “Is he having a seizure or something?” Mrs. Smith demanded.

  “No, because he’d be jerking his arms and legs and foaming at the mouth and spitting out live scorpions,” said Burnbright. “There was this holy man in Mount Flame who used to—”

  “Should he be glowing?” Smith inquired, leaning close to look at him.

  Whether he should or not, Lord Ermenwyr had certainly begun to glow from within, as though he were a lantern made of opaque glass. It was an ominous green in color, that light, edged with something like purple, though it was steadily brightening to white—

  “Hide your faces!” ordered Balnshik, in a voice none of them considered disobeying even for a second, though Willowspear had already pulled Burnbright down and dropped with her.

  Smith found himself staring bemusedly at a pair of skeletal hands silhouetted before his face, which was odd because his eyes were closed … understanding at last, he gulped and rolled blindly off his seat, burying his face against the garden flagstones. The horrible light was everywhere still, but it had taken on a quality that was more than visual. It had a scent, a painful perfume. It was sound, a hissing, insinuating crackling like … like fire or whispering…

  Voices. Something was talking. He didn’t understand the language. Was it being spoken, or played?

  Abruptly it stopped, and the light went out. Smith heard Lord Ermenwyr say “Oh, damn,” quite distinctly. Then there was a crash, as though he had toppled backward.

  “What the bloody hell was that?” said Mrs. Smith, from somewhere at ground level nearby.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Willowspear sounded agonized.

  “He’s—ow—oh, the baby’s kicking—” said Burnbright, somewhat muffled.

  “Come now, Master, this won’t do,” said Balnshik quite calmly, though with a certain distortion in her voice that suggested she might have altered her appearance just the tiniest bit, and was speaking through, for example, three-inch fangs. “Sit up and collect your wits. You’re not hurt at all. Stop frightening everyone.”

  Smith opened his eyes cautiously. He could see again. No glowing afterimages, no clouds of retinal darkness. It was as though the light had never been. He got to his feet and peered at Lord Ermenwyr, who was sitting up in Balnshik’s arms. There was still a flicker of green light on the surface of his eyes.

  “My lord has simply received a Sending,” Balnshik explained.

  “Oh, is that all,” grumbled Mrs. Smith, struggling to stand.

  “It’s a message conveyed by sorcerous means,” said Willowspear, helping her up. “My lord, are you well?”

  Lord Ermenwyr had, in fact, begun to recover his composure and grope for his smoking tube; instead he sagged backward and closed his eyes.

  “Feel—weak … Must… lie … down…” He moaned.

  Balnshik pursed her lips.

  “Smith…,” Lord Ermenwyr continued, “Willowspear… carry me up to my… my bed…”

  Smith and Willowspear exchanged glances. Balnshik was perfectly capable of throwing her master over one shoulder like a scarf and carrying him anywhere he needed to be, and everyone present knew this, which was perhaps why Lord Ermenwyr opened one eye and groaned, with just an edge to his feebleness:

  “Nursie dearest… you must see to … to … poor little Burnbright… Smith and Willowspear, are you going to let me die here on the damned pavement?”

  “No, my lord,” said Willowspear hurriedly, and he and Smith raised Lord Ermenwyr between them. The lordling got an arm over both of their shoulders and staggered between them. He continued to make pitiful noises all the way up the hotel stairs and down the corridor to his suite, where Cutt and Crish stood like menhirs on either side of the gaping door.

  “Help me … to the bed … not you, I meant Smith and Willowspear,” snapped Lord Ermenwyr. “So … weak…”

  They dutifully carried him across the threshold and were well into the dark room before the ceiling fell in on them. At least, that was what Smith remembered it sounding like afterward.

  Smith opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling.

  Ceiling? It looked like the underside of a bunk. It was the underside of a bunk, and it was pretty close to his face. In fact there didn’t seem to be much room anywhere, and what there was, was pitching in a manner that suggested…

  All right, he was in the forecastle of a ship. That might be a good thing. It might mean that the last twenty years had all been a dream, and he was going to sit up and discover he was youthful, flexible, and a lot less scarred.

  Smith sat up cautiously. No; definitely not flexible. Youthful, either. Scars still there. And the cabin he occupied was a lot smaller than the forecastle of the last ship in which he’d served, though it was also much more luxurious. Expensive paneling. Ornamental brasswork. Fussy-patterned curtains at the portholes. Probably not a lumber freighter, all things considered.

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and stood up, unsteadily, trying to find the rhythm of the ship’s movement and adjust. The immediate past wasn’t a complete void: he remembered confusion, voices, torchlight, lamplight…

  The ship heeled over in a manner that suggested it wasn’t being crewed very well. Smith clung to the edge of the bunk, then lurched to the porthole, just in time to see a shapeless mass of nastiness falling past. On the deck immediately above his head, someone profoundly baritone attempted to make consoling noises, and an irritable little voice replied, “No, I don’t give a damn. Just don’t let go of the seat of my pants.”

  Mumble mumble mumble mumble.

  “Don’t be stupid, we can’t be in danger. The sky is blue, it’s broad daylight, and, anyway, the beach is right over there. See the surf?”

  This remark, together with the realization that it had been spoken over a steady background din of clinking blocks and flapping canvas, sent Smith out of the cabin and up the nearest companionway as though propelled from a cannon’s mouth.

  “Master, the Child of the Sun has awakened,” said Cutt in a solicitous voice, addressing Lord Ermenwyr’s backside. Lord Ermenwyr was too busy vomiting to reply, and Smith was too busy hauling on the helm and praying to all his gods to comment either, so there was a moment of comparative silence. The ship heeled about, throwing Lord Ermenwyr backward onto the deck, and her sails fluttered free.

  “You! Whichever one you are! C’mere and hold this just like this!” Smith shouted, seizing Strangel and fixing his immense hands on the wheel. The demon obeyed, watching in bemusement as Smith ran frantically abo
ut on deck, making sheets fast, dodging a swinging boom, and crying hoarsely all the while, “Lord-Brimo-of-the-Blue-Water save us from a lee shore, Rakkha-of-the-Big-Fish save us from a lee shore, Yaska-of-the-White-Combers save us from a lee shore, two points into the wind, you idiot! No! The other way! Oh, Holy Brimo, to Thee and all Thine I swear a barrel of the best and a silver mirror if You’ll only get us out of this—”

  “Rakkha-of-the-Big Fish?” Lord Ermenwyr mused from the scuppers.

  Smith raced past him and grabbed the helm again.

  “Wasn’t I holding it right?” Strangel inquired reproachfully.

  “—Holy Brimo, hear my prayer, You’ll get a whole bale of pinkweed and, and an offering of incense, and, er, some of those little cakes the priests seem to think You like, anything, just get me off this lee shore please!”

  “I think it’s working, whatever it is you’re doing,” Lord Ermenwyr said. “We’re not going wibble-wobble-whoops anymore. You see, lads? I told you Smith knew how to operate one of these things.”

  The next hour took a lot out of Smith, though the ghastly roar of the surf grew ever fainter astern. He had no time to ask the fairly reasonable questions he wanted to ask with his hands around Lord Ermenwyr’s throat, but he was able to take in more of his surroundings.

  The ship was clearly somebody’s pleasure craft, built not for sailing but for partying, and she was a galley-built composite: broad in the beam and shallow of draft, operating at the moment under sail, but with a pair of strange pannierlike boxes below the stern chains and a complication of domes, tanks, and pipes amidships that meant she had the new steam-power option too. The boilers seemed to be stone-cold, however, so it was up to Smith to get her out of her present predicament.

  Once the ship’s movement had evened out, Lord Ermenwyr crawled from the scuppers and strolled up and down on deck, hands clasped under his coattails, looking on in mild interest as they narrowly avoided reefs, rocks, and Cape Gore before winning sea room. His four great bodyguards lurched after him. There was no one else on deck.

  “Where’s the crew?” Smith demanded at last, panting.

  “I thought you’d be the crew,” said Lord Ermenwyr, holding up his smoking tube for Crish to fill with weed. “I knew you used to be a sailor. Aren’t these new slaveless galleys keen? I can’t wait until we fire this baby up and see what she can do!”

  Out of all possible things he might have said in reply, Smith said only, “What’s going on, my lord?”

  Lord Ermenwyr smiled fondly and lit his smoke. “Good old sensible Smith! You’re the man to count on in a crisis, I said to Nursie.”

  “Is she here?”

  “Er—no. I left her in Salesh to look after the ladies. They’ll be absolutely safe, Smith, believe me, whatever happens. Do you know any other experienced midwife who can also tear apart armored warriors with her bare, er, hands? Lovely and versatile.”

  Smith counted to ten and said, “You know, I’m sure you gave me a thorough explanation of this whole thing and got my consent, too, but I seem to have lost my memory. Why am I here?”

  “Ah.” Lord Ermenwyr puffed smoke. “Well. Partly because you clearly needed a holiday, but mostly because you’re such a damned useful fellow in a fight. We’re on a rescue mission, Smith. Hope you don’t mind, but I had a feeling you might have objected if I’d asked you first. And I knew I could never get Willowspear to listen to reason, so I had to knock him out too—”

  There was a drawn-out appalled cry from below. Willowspear rushed up the companionway, staring around him.

  “Oh, bugger; now I’ll have to start the explanation all over again,” said Lord Ermenwyr.

  Willowspear was much less calm than Smith had been. The few inhabitants of Cape Gore looked up from mending their nets as his shriek of “What?” echoed off the sky.

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you about my sister, Smith,” said Lord Ermenwyr, pouring out a stiff drink. He offered it to Willowspear, who had collapsed into a sitting position against the steam tanks and was clasping his head in his hands. Willowspear ignored him.

  “No, I don’t think you have,” said Smith.

  Lord Ermenwyr tossed back his cocktail and sighed with longing. “The Ruby Incomparable, Lady Svnae. Drop-dead gorgeous, and a gloriously powerful sorceress in her own right to boot. I proposed to her when I was three. She just laughed. I kept asking. By the time I was thirteen, she said it wasn’t funny anymore, and she’d break my arm if I didn’t leave off. I respected that; yet I still adore her, in my own unique way.

  “And I would do anything for her, Smith. Any little gallant act of chivalry or minor heroism she required of me. How I’ve dreamed of spreading out my second-best cloak for her to foot it dryly over the mire! Or even, perchance, riding to her rescue. Suitably armed. With a personal physician standing by in case of accidents. Which is why I need the two of you along on this junket, you see?”

  “So… the Sending was from your sister?” guessed Smith. “She’s in trouble and she needs you to save her?”

  “I believe the word she used was Assist, but… it amounts to the fact that she needs me,” said Lord Ermenwyr.

  “My wife needs me, my lord,” said Willowspear hoarsely.

  “She doesn’t need to see you stoned to death or torn apart by an angry mob,” Lord Ermenwyr replied. “And it was clear you were getting heroic ideas, so I just stepped in and did what was best for you. And look at this lovely boat I was able to get on an hour’s notice, remarkably cheaply! I thought I’d call her the Kingfisher’s Nest. Aren’t those striped sails sporty? The kitchen’s even stocked with delicacies. Cheer up; you’ll be happily reunited once this is all over.”

  “Where is your sister, then?” Smith asked, keeping a wary eye in the coastline.

  “Ah, this is the clever part,” said Lord Ermenwyr, laying a finger alongside his nose. “She’s at the Monastery of Rethkast. Which is on the Rethestlin, you see? So if we’d set out on foot to rescue her, we’d have had to have hired porters and spent weeks trudging across plains and mountains and other dreary things.

  “This way, we just sail along the coast to the place where the Rethestlin flows into the sea, and float up the river until we’re at the monks’ back door. The Ruby Incomparable descends to her little brother’s loving arms, he bears her off in triumph, and we all sail back to Salesh to pick up the supporting cast before going off on a pleasure cruise of indeterminate length.”

  Smith groaned.

  “You don’t have a problem with my beautiful plan, do you, Smith?” Lord Ermenwyr glared at him.

  “No,” said Smith, wishing Balnshik were there to give the lordling the back of her hand. “I have a lot of problems with your plan. See those sails on the horizon? The purple ones? Those are warships, my lord. They belong to Deliantiba. It’s got a blockade on Port Blackrock just now. We can’t sail through, or they’ll board us and confiscate our vessel, if we’re lucky.”

  “Oh. And if we’re not lucky?”

  “We’ll hit a mine, or take a bucketful of clingfire or a broadside of stone shot,” Smith told him.

  Lord Ermenwyr stared at the purple sails a long moment.

  “There’s a ship merchant in Salesh who’s going to find that seven hundred of his gold pieces have suddenly turned into asps,” he said. “The smirking bastard. No wonder he had so many of these recreational vessels up for sale.”

  “And even if the blockade wasn’t there,” Smith continued, “what makes you think that the Rethestlin is navigable?”

  Lord Ermenwyr turned, staring at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He doesn’t know about the falls. He can’t read maps,” said Willowspear with venom. “His lord father had a geographer captured especially to teach him, but he wouldn’t learn. He was a spoiled little blockhead.”

  Now Lord Ermenwyr turned to stare at Willowspear, and Smith stared too. Willowspear looked back at them with smoldering eyes.

  “Why, my old childhood friend an
d family retainer,” said Lord Ermenwyr, “is that Resentment I see in your face at last? Yes! Let it out! Revel in the dark side of your nature! Express your rage!”

  Without a word, and quicker than a striking snake, Willowspear stood up and punched him in the mouth. Lord Ermenwyr tottered backward and fell, and his bodyguards were beside him quicker than Willowspear had been, snarling like avalanches.

  “You have struck our Master,” said Stabb. “You will die.”

  But Lord Ermenwyr held up his hand.

  “It’s all right! I did ask for it. You may pick me up, however. I have to admit I was no good at maps,” he added, as his bodyguards lifted him and dusted him off with solicitous care, “I just wasn’t interested in them.”

  “Really?” said Smith, too struck by the surrealism of the moment to come up with anything better to say.

  “He defaced his tutor’s atlas,” snapped Willowspear. “He crossed out the names of cities and wrote in things like Snottyville and Poopietown. I could not believe Her son would do such things.”

  “Neither could Daddy,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “I thought he was going to toss me off a battlement when he saw what I’d done. He actually apologized to the man and set him free. I had got it through my nasty little head that the blue wriggly lines meant water, though. And where there’s water, you can float on it, can’t you? So how do we have a problem, Smith?” He narrowed his eyes.

  “Do you know what a waterfall is?” Smith watched the purple sails.

  “Of course.”

  “How do you sail up one?”

  Lord Ermenwyr thought about that.

  “So … sailors don’t have some terribly clever way of getting around the problem?” he said at last.

  “No.”

  “Well, we’ll figure something out,” said Lord Ermenwyr, and turned to look at the warships. “Aren’t those things getting closer?”

  “Yes!” said Willowspear, undistracted from his fury.

  “Do you think they’ve seen us?”

  “It’d be a little hard to miss the striped sails,” said Smith.