Kage Baker: The Anvil of the World

“Yes, Wolkin, you see? Perfectly harmless,” said his father.

“Just people with big wings strapped on,” explained Smith. “Sort of. They carry letters sometimes.”

“And they have, er, flying clubs and competitions,” added his father. “Nothing to be afraid of at all.”

“Of course not,” Smith agreed. “Look, here they come. Let’s all wave.”

The children waved doubtfully.

“Look,” said the Smiths’ little girl. “They’ve got pistol-bows just like you have, Caravan Master.”

“What?” said Smith, as a bolt thunked into his left thigh.

The gliders were raking the caravan with boltfire. The result was screaming confusion and an answering barrage of shot from the caravans. Smith, firing both his weapons, glimpsed Parradan Smith standing, snarling, balancing as he sent boltfire from an apparently inexhaustible magazine into the nearest gliders. He saw Balnshik hanging out the side of the palanquin, bracing her feet on an immense old hunting weapon, and firing with deadly accuracy.

It was over in seconds. The closest of the gliders veered off, dropped something beside the road, and went down in a tangle of snapping struts and collapsing green fabric. The others wheeled. They lifted and floated off to the east, rapidly vanishing. The thing that had been dropped coughed, spurted dust, and exploded, throwing liquid flame in all directions. Fortunately the carts were well clear by the time it went off.

“Stop,” gasped Smith, but the keymen were already applying the brakes. The carts shuddered to a stop, their iron wheels grinding in the stone ruts and sending up a flare of sparks the whole length of the caravan. He jumped from his high seat and fell, clutching his wounded leg. Scrambling up painfully he saw Parradan Smith already out and running for the fallen glider, holding a freshly cocked weapon upright over his head as he ran. Burnbright had turned and was racing back toward them, looking terrified.

“Anybody hurt?” Smith shouted, leaning against the cart as he tried to stanch the flow of blood down his leg.

It was some moments before he could get a coherent answer. Luckily, he had been the only one to sustain a wound. One of the Keymen Smiths had been slightly stunned by a bolt striking his steel pot-helmet, deflected by its wide brim; another shot had ricocheted and hit Keyman Crucible sidelong on his upper arm, leaving a welted bruise the size of a handball. Lord Ermenwyr was unharmed, but his luggage was struck through with a dozen bolts at least, and he had leaped from the palanquin and was screaming threats, in surprisingly full voice, at the remaining gliders, now only distant specks on the horizon.

“So much for his being a vampire,” Smith muttered to himself. He was binding up his leg with a rag when Parradan Smith approached him, his face stony.

“You’d better come see this,” he said.

“Is he dead?” Smith inquired, limping forward. The other man just nodded.

The glider was certainly dead. His neck had been snapped when his aircraft crashed, and lay at a distinctly unnatural angle; but it was obvious he’d been dead well before the impact. His quilted flight suit was torn and bloody in a dozen places.

“Damn,” said Smith.

“Those are my bolts,” said Parradan Smith, pointing out a scatter of small black-centered wounds. “Custom-made. Those two would be yours, probably.”

“You’re a lucky, lucky man,” Lord Ermenwyr told the corpse, coming up to stare at it balefully. “If you were still alive, after what you’ve done to my best shirts—well, I wouldn’t want to be you, that’s all.” He prodded the body with his boot. “No weapons. I suppose he was the one designated to drop the incendiary device.”

“Probably.”

“Good job Nursie nailed him before he managed it.” He poked at the man’s left arm, from which a big barbed steel projectile protruded.

“So these are hers too?” Parradan Smith pointed at two others, one in the dead man’s right leg and one between his ribs.

“Yes. They’re designed to take down elk.”

“And these are mine, and these are Caravan Master’s, so—” Parradan Smith stooped and pulled three feathered darts from the body. “Who the hell fired these?”

Lord Ermenwyr’s eyes widened, seemed, in fact, at the point of starting out of his face.

“I’d be careful with those, if I were you,” he said faintly.

They were little tubes of cane, tipped with what appeared to be thorns and fletched with small curling green feathers.

“Poisoned?” inquired Smith.

“Aren’t all darts that mysteriously appear out of nowhere smeared with deadly poison?” said Lord Ermenwyr. Parradan Smith tossed them away.

“Do you know who fired them?”

“No!”

“Well, somebody fired them,” said Smith. “What I’d like to know is, what was this one trying to do? He and his friends?”

“Trying to kill me, obviously,” said Lord Ermenwyr.

“Have you enemies, my lord?”

“Dozens of them,” Lord Ermenwyr replied. “And they’re nothing to Daddy’s enemies. In fact, I wouldn’t put this past Daddy. He’s never been fond of me.” His rage had burned quickly down to ash, and he was pale, beginning to shake.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Master,” said Balnshik, appearing behind them suddenly. She looked over the battered corpse with a cold eye. “You know perfectly well that if your lord father had wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.” She stooped and pulled her steel points from the body. Some of the clothing tore as she retrieved the last one, and Smith leaned forward with an exclamation.

“Look, he’s got a tattoo!”

“So he has.” Balnshik glanced down at it. “One of those nasty little assassins’ gangs, isn’t it? There you are, Master, you see? Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about?” cried Lord Ermenwyr, his eyes bugging out again. “When I might have been riddled with boltfire and burned into the bargain? By the Nine Hells, what do you think’s worth worrying about?” His voice rose to a scream. “You’re going to let me die in this horrible featureless wilderness and I’ll have no tomb, not even a proper funeral—”

He broke off with an oof as Balnshik seized him and threw him over one shoulder.

“You’ll have to excuse his lordship,” she said. “It’s time for his fix. Come along, darling.” She turned and strode back to the caravan.

Smith stared after her; then his attention was drawn back to the corpse, as Parradan Smith bent and methodically dug his bolts from the wounds.

“Is that an assassins’ tattoo?” he asked.

“How should I know?” said Parradan Smith tonelessly, not looking up.

They scraped out a grave in the dry ground and covered the body with a thin layer of earth and stones. The green wings were laid over all.

Speed once they’d started up again was limited because Keyman Crucible’s arm became swollen and painful. It was well after dark by the time they were able to make camp; by then Smith’s leg was throbbing and fairly swollen too. As the fires were lit, as the tents were being set up, he limped slowly to the hut and waited for Ronrishim Flowering Reed to emerge.

“You’re an herbalist, aren’t you?” he said, when the Yendri came out.

Flowering Reed looked him up and down with distaste.

“Are you going to ask me for healing?” he asked.

“Yes, if you can help me.”

“In the name of the Unsullied Daughter, then,” he said, “I will require clean water. Have your minions fetch it.”

The only person available to be a minion was Burnbright, who obligingly fetched a bucket of water from the pump and stayed to watch as Smith reclined before Flowering Reed’s tent and submitted to having his trouser leg sliced open.