Kage Baker - The Anvil of the World

“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 suggest 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.”