Kage Baker - The Anvil of the World

He heard a commotion in the courtyard below his office and peered out a window, wondering if he should bolt his door and pretend he wasn’t in. But it wasn’t the collections clerk from Redlead and Sons Contractors, nor was it Mr. Screwbite the architect, also unpaid these six weeks. It was a very large man in very well cut clothing, accompanied by equally large liveried servants who took up posts at the entrance to the courtyard.

Mr. Smallbrass watched until he was certain the large man was ascending the staircase that led to his particular office, then he became a blur of frenzied motion. Unpaid bills were swept into a drawer. Threatening letters were stuffed under the carpet. Other items that might tend to detract from the impression of success went into a closet. When the knock on the door sounded, Mr. Smallbrass straightened his tunic, took a deep breath, and waited until the second knock before opening the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the man who stood without. “My clerk’s just stepped out to make an immense bank deposit. Your name, sir?”

“Silverpoint,” said the man, in an oddly smooth bass. “Aden Silverpoint. I have a proposition for Mr. Smallbrass.”

“Really?” said Mr. Smallbrass. “I am he, sir! Business is brisk at the moment, but I can certainly spare you a moment—or two—” He edged backward into the room, reaching out hastily to shut his accounts book. Mr. Silver-point followed him, and so did two more of the liveried servants, who carried a chest between them.

“I, er, I’d offer you wine, but we had a board meeting this morning—all our investors, you know—temporarily out of refreshments,” chattered Mr. Smallbrass.

“I want to buy Smallbrass Estates,” said Mr. Silverpoint.

“Certainly!” shrieked Mr. Smallbrass. “That is to say—lots are selling rapidly, but I think we can accommodate you—in fact, a prime waterfront parcel became available just this morning, poor arms dealer in Deliantiba had to forfeit his deposit, what with the peace treaty and all—yes, I’m sure we—”

“You have no investors,” said Mr. Silverpoint. He didn’t say it in a particularly threatening manner, but something in his dark eyes caused the hair to stand on the back of Mr. Smallbrass’s neck. “You haven’t sold one lot, in fact, and you’re heavily in debt.”

Mr. Smallbrass looked at the window, wondering if he could make it in one leap, then remembered the servants standing guard below. He looked at the servants in the room with him, who had the stolid faces of men who were capable of doing quite unpleasant things in the line of duty and sleeping soundly afterward.

“Are you from the Bloodfires?” he asked in a little deflated voice.

“I might be,” said Mr. Silverpoint, with just the suggestion of a purr. He snapped his fingers, and the servants opened the chest. How softly the afternoon light fell on the bars and bars and bars of gold specie ranked within! Mr. Smallbrass gaped at it.

“Unmarked. Enough to cover your debt and pay for your passage out of town,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “And you’ll transfer the development claim to me, here and now.”

Mr. Smallbrass rallied slightly.

“Oh, sir, the claim’s worth more than that!” he protested. “All those waterfront lots! Unspoiled paradise!

Mr. Silverpoint just looked at him. His stare was fathomless as a night full of jungle predators.

“I have inside information that the property has recently undergone devaluation,” he stated, quietly, but with a suggestion of reproach.

Mr. Smallbrass winced, thinking of the desperate message he had received from his caretakers the day before. He made his decision.

“Let’s just step across the street to the claim office, shall we?” he said. “They’ve got a notary and bullion scales on the premises. Most convenient.”

The journey continued, in its effortless and silent way, flowing with the current. The Kingfisher’s Nest had no need of its mechanical oarsmen yet, nor even of its striped sails, drifting through the blue-and-gold weather. But there came a morning when Smith saw the fog wall rising in the north, pink with sunrise.

“Hey, look!” He waved his stump at it. “We’ll make Salesh inside of a week. Two weeks at most, if we play it safe and go all the way around the blockade. Do you think you’re a father yet?”

Willowspear, who had been watching the fog bleakly, smiled.

“Surely not yet,” he said. “I would know.”

“Have you settled on a name?”

“If it’s a little girl, Fenallise,” said Willowspear. “Kalyon, if it’s a boy.”

Smith nodded slowly. Willowspear looked out at the fog again.

“I miss her so,” he said.

Lord Ermenwyr came on deck, saw the fogbank, and groaned. He slumped into a chair next to Smith.

“I need brandy for breakfast,” he muttered.

“That had better not be a remark about my cooking,” said Lady Svnae sharply, rising from the companionway with a tray. She set it beside Smith and unfolded a napkin for him with a flourish. “I tried something new this morning, anyway, for our dear Smith. Look!” she whisked the cover off his bowl. “It’s a sort of Potted Seafood Surprise! There’s shrimp relish and fish eggs boiled in straj, and that dark stuff is fish paste swirled through.”

“Sounds delicious,” said Smith gallantly. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Can I have brandy in mine?” asked Lord Ermenwyr.

“Stop it!” She whirled on him. “I told you I was sorry about yesterday, and how was I to know you were allergic to clove honey?”

“Remember when I went into anaphylactic shock when I was ten?”

“Oh. Well—” Lady Svnae spotted the fogbank. She blanched. “We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”

Lord Ermenwyr nodded mournfully. She sank down on the deck beside him. After a moment they clasped hands, staring together into the mist. Willowspear began to sing, quietly.

Smith ate his breakfast. A white butterfly settled on the edge of his bowl. Two more fluttered out of nowhere and landed on the helm, between Willowspear’s hands.

The current drew them on, gently. Within another hour they had entered the gray world.

Smith, watching the bank from where he sat, saw the black twigs bobbing in the reed beds before he noticed the scent. It was harsh, acrid, unforgettable.

“That’s clingfire,” he said, sniffing the air.

“That’s right,” said Willowspear, staring straight ahead as he steered.

Smith looked at the white scum high on the tideline and knew what it was, then, and when the first of the black skeletons emerged from the fog, he clenched his one fist. Gradually the fog lifted farther, and he saw the wilderness of mud and ashes that had been Hlinjerith of the Misty Branches.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he cried.

Lord Ermenwyr shrugged.

“It wasn’t your people, at least,” he said. “It was the Steadfast Orphans. They destroyed it, lest it be profaned.”

Lady Svnae bowed her head and wept.

Smith made out the shape of the landing ahead of them. Its red-and-yellow banners were gone; a scattered mound ashore was all that remained of the caretakers’ hut.

“Please, can we put in?” he asked. “If there’s any chance one of them is still alive, I’d like to get him out.”

Willowspear steered to the bank, and brought them up against the pier like a master. At Smith’s signal Stabb and Strangel dropped the anchor. Smith got unsteadily to his feet and peered through the drizzle.

“Ai-ai-ai!” he called.

A moment later there was an indistinct response, echoing from someone unseen.

Smith looked hard. Gradually through the fog he made out shapes moving, pale upright figures in the landscape. A wind came off the river, sighing in the rigging and the waving reeds, and the mist opened, and the scene before them became clear.