Kage Baker: The Anvil of the World

Blade blocked blade— whipp, a dagger was in the youth’s free hand, and he’d laid open Smith’s coat just over his heart. Smith’s hand moved too fast to be seen and would have taken off the boy’s head, but he was suddenly, magically, four paces back from where he ought to be. He smiled into Smith’s eyes and lunged again, and Smith, jumping back, was unable to free his boot knife before they locked blades once more. The boy had all the advantage of inhuman speed and strength, and Smith began to get the cold certain feeling in his gut that he was going down this time.

All he had on the boy was weight, and he threw it into a forward push. He managed to shove the other one back far enough to grab his knife at last and they circled, the boy dancing, Smith limping. He knew vaguely that the bandits were getting the worst of the fight, but they might have been in another world. His world was that locked circle, tiny and growing smaller, and his opponent’s eyes had become the moon and the sun.

The demon-boy knew he was going to win, too, and in his glee threw a few little eccentric capers into his footwork, strutted heel to toe, swung his dagger point like a metronome to catch Smith’s gaze and fix it while he ran him through—

But he didn’t run him through, because his own gaze was caught and held by a figure advancing from Smith’s right.

“Hello, Eshbysse,” said Mrs. Smith.

The boy’s face went slack with astonishment. Into his eyes came uncertainty, and then dawning horror.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Smith. “Fenallise.”

He drew back. “Fenallise? But—you—”

“It’s been thirty years, Eshbysse,” she said.

“No!” he cried, backing farther away. “Not that long! You’re lying.” Averting his gaze from her, he dropped his weapons and put his hands to his face. It was still smooth, still perfect.

“Every day of thirty years,” she assured him.

“I won’t believe you!” Eshbysse sobbed. He turned to flee, wailing, mounting into the air and running along the treetops, and the red and golden leaves fluttered about his swift ankles as though they had already fallen. His surviving men, seeing the tide had turned, took to their heels along the ground with similar rapidity.

Smith dropped his weapons and sagged forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, gulping for breath.

“What the hell,” he said, “was that all about?”

“We were an item, once,” said Mrs. Smith, looking away into the sea of autumn leaves. “You wouldn’t think I was ever a little girl to be stolen out of a convent by a demon-lover, would you? But we did terrible things together, he and I.”

“What’d he run off for?” asked Smith.

She shook her head.

“He was always afraid of Time,” she said thoughtfully. “It doesn’t get their kind as quickly as it gets us, but it does do for them sooner or later. Seeing me reminded him. One day he won’t be pretty anymore; he can’t bear that, you see.”

Smith stared at her and saw in her face the girl she had been. She turned and looked at the aftermath of battle.

“Bloody hell,” she said. Parradan Smith was staggering toward them, death-pale, supported by Flowering Reed.

“He’s hurt,” Flowering Reed cried.

They made temporary camp by the side of the road and assessed the damage.

Parradan Smith was indeed hurt, had taken a stab wound in the chest, and though it was nowhere near his heart, he was in shock, seemed weakened on his left side. Flowering Reed advised that he shouldn’t be moved for the present, so they made him as comfortable as they could in one of the tents.

Burnbright was bruised and crying hysterically, but had taken no other harm. Smith’s ribs were scratched, and the keymen had taken assorted cuts, none serious. The Smiths and their children were unharmed. Balnshik was unharmed, as was Lord Ermenwyr. There were, however, nine dead bandits to be dragged into a pile and searched, and there was an oak tree to be cleared from the road, to say nothing of 144 giant eggs to be collected and a dozen carts to be righted and put back on track.

“So thanks a lot, Master of the Mountain,” Smith muttered, as he was having his ribs taped up. Mrs. Smith, who was tending to him, shook her head.

“Have you taken a good look at the bodies?” she asked. “Three of ’em are our own people. The others look like half-breeds. Poor Eshbysse had got himself a band of threadbare mercenaries and thieves. When the old man attacks, you’ll know; his people are all demons, and a good deal more professional than these feckless creatures. We’d have had no chance at all against him.”

“That’s encouraging,” growled Smith.

“Would you believe it?” said Lord Ermenwyr brightly, approaching with an armful of violet eggs. “Not one of the damned things broke!”

Mrs. Smith looked scornful. “I suppose all that tripe about the perfect holistic packing shape had some sense in it, then.”

“Are they supposed to be a perfect holistic shape?” Lord Ermenwyr looked intrigued. He tossed his armful into the air and, before Smith had time to yell, began to juggle them adroitly.

“My lord, could I ask you to put those back in the cart?”

Lord Ermenwyr tossed the eggs, one after another as they came out of their spinning circle, into the cart. “Shall I volunteer to search the bodies? Might be a purse or two on them.”

“Do you think they were from the Master of the Mountain?” said Smith.

Lord Ermenwyr gave a short bark of a laugh. “Not likely! His men all wear mail and livery. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Why does everybody know more about this than me?” Smith wondered, as the young lord went off to loot corpses.

“Well, you’re not from around here, are you, dear?” Mrs. Smith tied off his bandage. “If you weren’t from Port Black-rock or wherever it is, you’d have heard these stories all your life.”

Smith was disinclined to tell her whether or not he was from Port Blackrock, so he looked up at Keyman Bellows, who saluted as he approached. “How are we doing?” he inquired.

“Carts are righted, Caravan Master, and no damage to the wheels or gears. Old Smith and New Smith are taking axes to the roadblock now. Parradan Smith’s asking for you.”

“Right,” Smith said, getting to his feet and pulling on his slashed coat. “I’ll go see what he wants. When they’re done with the tree, tell them to dig a grave pit.”

His first thought, when he parted the tent flap and peered inside, was that he was looking at a dead man. But Parradan Smith’s eyes swiveled and met his.

“Talk to you,” he said.

“He shouldn’t talk,” said Flowering Reed, who sat beside him. Parradan Smith bared his teeth at the Yendri.

“Get out,” he said.

“Easy!” Smith ducked his head and stepped in. “You’d better go; I won’t let him wear himself out,” he told Flowering Reed, who looked offended and left without a word.

When they were alone, Parradan Smith gestured awkwardly with one hand at the gang tattoo on his chest. “Know this?” he gasped.

“You’re a Bloodfire,” Smith replied.

He nodded. “Courier. Collected debt in Troon. He tried to get it back.”

“Who did?” Smith leaned closer. Parradan Smith gulped for breath.

“Lord Tinwick. Gambler. His gliders.” He watched Smith’s face closely to see if he understood.

“The gliders were trying to kill you and take back what you’d collected?”

Parradan Smith nodded. He made a groping gesture toward his instrument case. Smith pulled it close for him. He pressed a key into Smith’s hand.

“Open.”

Smith worked the complicated locks and opened it, and caught his breath. Nested in shaped packing was a jeweled cup of exquisite workmanship, clearly very old.