Kage Baker - The Anvil of the World

A lot of talk followed, in words that Smith couldn’t understand. Most of the Yendri leader’s lines were badly acted, though, he seemed given to melodrama, and Smith would have jeered and thrown nutshells at him but for the fact that he couldn’t spot a snack vendor in the audience, and no longer had an arm to throw with anyway.

Then there was a thrilling moment when the action came right into his tent, and everyone was staring at him, and Mr. Silverpoint explained gravely that the Yendri had admitted to conspiring to exterminate the Children of the Sun. As the only member of his race present, what was Smith’s judgment? Smith thought about it, while everyone, the Yendri included, watched him.

Finally he said he thought it was a bad idea.

But do you condemn him to death? everyone asked.

Smith knitted his brows and puzzled over the question until he realized that he was free of all that; he’d never kill anybody again. He just lay there laughing, shaking his head No.

Then the drama retreated to the stage again, and a lot of other accusations were made. The word Hlinjerith was spoken several times, and the Yendri stood tall and said something proudly, and there was a gasp of horror from a lot of people watching. Willowspear, beside Smith, groaned aloud and buried his face in his hands. Smith asked him what was wrong and Willowspear said that the Orphans had done something dreadful. Smith asked what they had done. Willowspear, mastering himself with difficulty, said that they had made certain that Hlinjerith would never be desecrated by the Children of the Sun.

So the Yendri was condemned to die after all. The three lords stepped forward, Eyrdway, Demaledon, and Ermenwyr. Each one presented some argument, and Mr. Silver-point listened with his head on one side. Then there was a wonderful bit of sleight of hand where he pulled three rods of blue fire from the air and held them out in his fist, and the three brothers each drew one. Lord Demaledon got the one that was longest.

A circle formed, though people were considerate enough to leave a space so Smith could see. The Yendri’s chains were struck off. He was given a staff. Lord Demaledon stepped into the circle with his staff, too. Smith became terribly excited and struggled to sit up so he could see better, but by the time Willowspear had arranged the pillows behind him it was nearly over. Clack, whack, crash, two stick-insects fighting, and then CRACK and the Yendri was down with his head caved in, and that was all.

Smith was disappointed, until Willowspear injected him with more of the elixir, and he floated away into happiness again… the body was dragged offstage, the crowd dispersed, the curtain flaps fell, and he tried to applaud. But that was another thing he couldn’t do anymore.

One morning they told him he was going to be taken back to the boat, and he watched as they bound him into a litter and four of Mr. Silverpoint’s soldiers hoisted him between them. Their mail and livery was identical, but otherwise they were monstrous in exuberant variety: scales, fangs, fur, unlikely appendages. Still they carried him gently through the rock, out the new waterside entrance and so to the landing.

And there was the Kingfisher’s Nest, anchored as safe as though the siege and battle had taken place in another world. Cutt, Crish, and company were lined up ashore like a row of bollard posts, looking proud of themselves insofar as they had expressions. They greeted their master with howls of joy and abased themselves before Mr. Silverpoint when he came down to see them off.

He loomed over Smith.

“My son will take you back to Salesh now,” he said.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Smith.

Lord Demaledon and Lord Eyrdway loomed too, one on either side of their father.

“I still can’t believe what you did,” said Lord Eyrdway, a little sulkily. “All that power, and you threw it away! Don’t you know what you could have done?”

“He knows, son,” said Mr. Silverpoint.

“I’ve given Willowspear salves for the wound, Smith,” said Demaledon. “Don’t try to seal it with boiling pitch, whatever your physicians tell you. Yours may be a race worthy to live, but your grasp of medicine is … inadequate.”

“All right,” said Smith vaguely, looking around, blinking in the sunlight. There were others of the demon-host loading chests of something heavy on board the Kingfisher’s Nest. The Master of the Mountain followed his gaze.

“Gold specie,” he explained. “Readily convertible anywhere. It ought to get you through the next few years.”

“Oh. You mean … the race war and all that?”

“No,” said Mr. Silverpoint, scowling briefly. “There will be no race war, now. Not over Hlinjerith of the Misty Branches. Nor will your people be destroyed this time, since you have broken the Key of Unmaking. But you’re owed some compensation, after what my children did to you.”

“Oh, well…” Smith racked his brains for something polite to say. “I guess I would have come here sooner or later anyway. If it was the will of the gods.”

Mr. Silverpoint grinned, a flash of white in his black beard.

“Yes, of course, we must respect the will of the gods.” He leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “You be sure to take my son for the most expensive prosthesis on the market, understand? If he wants to buy you one that tells the time and plays “The Virgins of Karkateen,” you let him. The little devil can’t bear feeling guilty.”

The journey back was dreamlike and very pleasant for Smith, who had nothing to do but sit under a canopy on deck and watch the scenery flow by. Everyone else was either preoccupied—like Willowspear, who was now obliged to man the helm—or quietly miserable, like Lord Ermenwyr and Lady Svnae. Even the portage descent to the Pool of Reth went smoothly.

And it was in that place, as Willowspear navigated the clear green water, that they saw the first of the white butterflies.

“Hey, look, there’s your spirits,” observed Smith, pointing to the two tall stones. White wings fluttered in a long shaft of sunlight, like poppy petals in the wind. Lady Svnae, who was arranging cushions and a lap robe for Smith, looked up and caught her breath.

“I’ve never seen butterflies like that,” she said.

“That’s because they’re cabbage moths,” said her brother, pacing. He regarded them sourly, shifting his smoking tube from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“It is a good sign,” said Willowspear, guiding them into the river.

“They’re following us, too,” said Smith, and he was right; for as the Pool of Reth fell astern, the butterflies drifted along after them, or settled on the spars and rigging like birds.

“Get away, you little bastards!” Lord Ermenwyr cried.

“Oh, leave them alone. They’re pretty,” Lady Svnae told him. “What can I bring you, dear Smith? Ortolans braised in white wine? Sugared pepper tarts? Rose comfits? Tea with Grains of Paradise?”

“Tea sounds nice,” said Smith. She raised a silver pitcher cunningly wrought with peacocks and adders chased in gold, and with her own fair hands poured the long stream of tea into a cup of eggshell-fine porcelain, costly and rare. Smith watched as she took Grains of Paradise from a tiny golden box with silver tweezers, unable to find a tactful way to tell her he preferred his tea plain.

Some days later, after a supernaturally quick journey, at the Sign of the Three Hammers…

Mr. Smallbrass sat at his desk, chewing on the end of his pen as he studied his account books. He wasn’t very good at accounts—he was more of an idea man—but he had had to let his accountant go, along with his personal secretary, his chair-bearers, his masseur, and some of his better furniture.