"And this young man would be?" inquired the Housekeeper, mildly affronted.
"This is Lord Ermenwyr of the House Kingfisher," Smith explained, and the Housekeeper leaped to his feet.
"My lord! Honor, honor, all possible honor to your house! Delighted to receive you at Red House. Please, here's a cushion, sit by the fire. A drink for the lord," he shouted to the bar.
"Er--he's very young," said Smith. "And an invalid besides. I don't think beer would be a good idea."
"Oh, if he's an invalid, he must try our acorn beer," said the Housekeeper earnestly, settling Lord Ermenwyr in his own chair and arranging pillows around him. "It's got plenty of health-giving qualities. Very tonic. And, begging your pardon, Caravan Master, but any fellow with a beard is surely old enough for strong waters."
"Of course I am," said Ermenwyr complacently. "Pray, Caravan Master, don't trouble yourself. Is this the famous acorn beer?" He accepted a cup from the slavey who had hastened up to present it to him. "Thank you so much. To your good health, Housekeeper," he said, and drank.
Smith cringed inwardly, watching as Lord Ermenwyr's eyes popped wide. He swallowed, bared his teeth, turned the grimace into a fearsome smile and said, "How original. I wonder--could I purchase a barrel of this stuff? It'd make a perfect gift for my older brothers."
Tears of joy formed in the Housekeeper's eyes. "Oh! The honor you do us! My lord, it's in short supply, but for you--"
"Name your price," said Lord Ermenwyr.
"Please, accept it as a gift! And grant only that I may claim the honor of your patronage," gushed the Housekeeper. Lord Ermenwyr frowned at that, and some of the glittering nastiness went out of his eyes.
"You have my patronage," he said seriously. "There. See that a barrel is packed with my trunks before we leave."
The Housekeeper twittered so that Smith was afraid he was going to flap his arms and fly into the rafters. Mrs. Smith watched the scene in disbelief until Burnbright came wandering up forlornly.
"I can't find my bedroll," she said. "I think one of those strangers took it. Come help me look."
"They won't rape you, for heaven's sake," said Mrs. Smith. "Not with all these people here anyway."
"But they look like bandits," whined Burnbright, twisting her hands together. "Please?"
Grumbling and puffing smoke, Mrs. Smith hauled herself out of her chair and stamped off with Burnbright. At that moment the Yendri doctor entered, carrying his basket, making for the dining area where a guest was doubled up with indigestion. Smith nodded at the doctor, who did not notice, because his eyes were tracking across the room as he walked. He spotted Flowering Reed. Smith thought he looked disgusted, and wondered briefly if the Yendri disliked one another as much as they seemed to dislike all other races.
The doctor's gaze slid off Flowering Reed and he turned to go on, but paused again as he saw Lord Ermenwyr, who was laughing at something the Housekeeper had just said and tilting back his head to blow a smoke ring. The doctor halted, stared a long moment before going on to his patient.
Smith's attention was drawn away as a slavey came bustling up with a tray.
"Your supper at last, Caravan Master," said the Housekeeper. "I'm proud to present our local specialty: Huntsman's Mixed Grill with creamed woodpeas!"
"Oh. Thank you," said Smith. He sat straight, putting his drink aside gladly, and accepted a trencher and a rolled napkin full of utensils from the slavey. As he looked around for a place to set one of them down, he saw out of the corner of his eye the hooded man staring at him. He turned to meet his gaze. The man jumped to his feet, starting toward him.
"You! You're the Caravan Master. Those are your people, right? Can't you tell them to shut their damned baby up?"
"Well--I can try, but--" said Smith, awkwardly juggling utensils and thinking that the stranger was yelling louder than the baby.
"Wait a minute. I know you from somewhere," announced the stranger, raising his voice even more as he approached. "You're that thief they were looking for in Karkateen this summer!"
"What?" Smith gaped at the stranger, who had come up on him so rapidly they were now face-to-face. "No. You're mistaken. I've never been in Karkateen--"
"Are you calling me a liar?" shouted the stranger. His arm flashed out, and Smith's trencher went flying as he tried to fend him off, but there was no weapon in the stranger's hand. Instead there was a small bag of purple-dyed leather palmed there, and the stranger made a snatching motion at Smith's belt and held up the bag as though he'd just pulled it loose. "This is mine! Damn you, here's my mark on it!"
But he played the game a second too long, holding up the bag in righteous indignation for all to behold, because Smith saw him going for his knife with his other hand. That gave Smith time to drive his fork into the stranger's leg and roll forward out of his chair, under the stranger's guard. He came up behind him as the stranger was turning, and hip-checked him so he fell forward across Smith's empty chair with a crash.
"I'm not a thief, I'm not from Karkateen, and I didn't take that pouch from you because you had it in your hand the whole time," Smith babbled, drawing both his pistolbows and stepping back. "What the hell's going on?"
But even as the stranger turned, yanking the fork from his leg with a murderous glare, Smith knew what was going on. Burnbright, over in the sleeping area, screamed as four shadowy figures leaped to their feet and came forward. Surprisingly for men who had retired to their blankets, each was fully clothed and armed with a cocked pistolbow.
Smith gulped and retreated a pace farther, as the foremost stranger drew his knife and hurled it at him. Smith dodged the blade and fired both bolts straight into the stranger's chest, and couldn't imagine why the man looked as surprised as he did when he fell.
Then there were bolts whistling through the air toward him. Smith threw himself flat behind a table and chairs, heard the bolts plunking home into wood and into plaster, and heard more screams and inarticulate shouting, the loudest of which was the Housekeeper calling for his watchmen.
Reloading, Smith peered through table and chair legs and saw that Lord Ermenwyr had sensibly thrown a table down and got behind it on his hands and knees. Balnshik was in the act of flying to him, bounding over the scattered furniture. Smith leaned up to see where his assailants were and beheld to his astonishment that one was down, tackled from behind by Mrs. Smith and Burnbright, who were shrieking like mismatched furies and clubbing him on the head with trenchers. The keymen had as one risen to their feet, grabbed a wide settle, and made a shield of it as they blocked two of the other attackers.
The fourth man came on, however, reloading as he ran, evading the keymen and actually vaulting across the fire pit to get to Smith. Smith jumped up, kicking a stool toward the man to foul his legs as he landed, and the stranger managed to avoid the stool but stumbled on his fallen companion. Smith fired at him, one bolt skittering off into the debris and one smacking home into the man's side.
His assailant cursed, but lurched to his feet anyway and drew a short sword. He stood swaying, waving it at Smith, though his face was ashen. Smith grabbed up the stool and swung it at the man, knocking the sword out of his fingers. Another blow with the stool, and the man collapsed backward, bleeding from his mouth.
Smith backed away, hearing a commotion behind him that was perhaps the arrival of the Red House watchmen. He looked up and was amazed to see that the two remaining strangers had turned from the keymen and were engaging Balnshik, attempting to pinion her. They weren't succeeding very well; in fact, Smith heard the distinctive sound of snapping bone and a gibbering scream from one of the men; but they had successfully drawn her attention.
Behind her, Flowering Reed was moving quietly along the wall. His face looked odd. Was that something in his mouth? And what a strange look in his eyes, too, fixed as they were on Lord Ermenwyr, who was making himself as small a target behind his table as he could, and whose lips were moving in--prayer? But he could not see Flowering Reed advancing on him.
Smith knew the truth, suddenly, without understanding. Bawling "My lord!" he ran around the table to block Flowering Reed's advance, pulling his machete.
Something white was flowing toward him from his left with tremendous speed. The Yendri doctor? Something was coming thunderously up behind him. Flowering Reed looked at Smith with purest hatred in his eyes, and grimaced around the tube between his clenched teeth.
Then Smith was down, he was hit and he seemed to have struck his head on something, because it hurt a lot, and there was some other injury but minor, a little stinging in his arm. Smith turned his head and saw three tiny feathered darts sticking out of his wrist. Knowing that he must get the thorns out, he raised his machete to scrape them away; but the room blurred in bloody darkness before he could tell if he'd succeeded.
Oh,
he thought,
I'm dead.
He was listening to Lord Ermenwyr talk, smoothly, persuasively, and what a silky manner the lordling could summon when he wanted to!
"...assassins, without a doubt hired by my father's enemies. Professionals, artfully disguised. Why, you hadn't any idea they weren't simple traders, had you?"
The Housekeeper was moaning apologies.
Smith opened his eyes and looked up at the Yendri doctor, who was stitching up Smith's scalp. At least, that was what he looked as though he were doing. Smith could neither feel the jab of the needle nor any other sensation. He tried to speak and discovered that he was limited to fluttering his eyelids. The Yendri noticed his panic.
"You can't move because the darts in your arm were poisoned. We got them out, and I gave you an antidote. The paralysis will go away, in time. You're a fortunate man," he said, and resumed his task.
"A
very
fortunate man," agreed Balnshik, looming at the doctor's elbow. "Do hurry and recover, Caravan Master. I'm going to thank you personally for your act of heroism." She caressed him in a way that suggested something very nice indeed, and Smith's heartbeat quickened.
"What, is he conscious?" Lord Ermenwyr leaned over him from the other side. "Bravo, Caravan Master! Yes, you certainly don't want to die before you've been personally thanked. Nursie's quite talented. Have you ever heard of the Dance of Two Feathers and One Piece of String?"
Balnshik smiled gently and, placing her open palm on the lordling's face, shoved him backward. The doctor looked horrified. She leaned low into Smith's line of sight, and he almost felt the weight of her breasts.
"You have the gratitude of his lord father," she crooned, and kissed Smith.
Of all times to be paralyzed,
he thought. That was all he knew for a while.
"The boys have sworn up and down you've been our caravan master for years and that you've never even been near Karkateen, so all that rubbish about a charge of theft has been dropped," Mrs. Smith told him, exhaling smoke.
"What about Flowering Reed?" Smith asked, speaking with difficulty.
"Not a trace of him," she replied in disgust. "Slithered out into the night like a snake and must have gone over the wall like a shadow. Bloody backstabbing greenie. No way to tell if it was him set those assassins on you, as they're all dead, but it seems likely. You've made some enemies in your day, haven't you, dear?"
"They were all members of the Throatcutters, did you know?" Burnbright said. "I saw their tattoos. They cost an awful lot to hire. That's why I can't think they were after you, see; they must have been after whatever Parradan Smith had in his case!"
"Were the carts broken into?"
Mrs. Smith shook her head. "The boys had a good look. Everything's secure. Nobody else hurt but you, and at least you were spared the Mixed Grill and creamed woodpeas."
"So, you see? Everything turned out all right," Burnbright concluded cheerfully. "The Yendri says you'll be on your feet again in another day or two, and we can push on. And think how much more room there'll be in the carts, now we're down two passengers!"
However, a solitary traveler came forward on the day Smith was well enough to leave and bought a passage to Salesh-by-the-Sea. His name was given as Mr. Amook, his occupation was given as Mercenary, his race was indeterminate, and he gave no address. He was very large and said very little. He took a seat in the cart just forward of Lord Ermenwyr's baggage cart and slouched there with his arms folded, and the screaming of the Smiths' baby didn't seem to bother him in the least.
Smith staggered out to the cart leaning on the Yendri doctor, who helped him up to a sort of couch the keymen had made out of the flour bags from Old Troon Mills.
"You must continue to take the infusion each night until the new moon," the doctor told him. "Your cook has the mixture; she promised me she'd make it up for you. When you reach Salesh, go to the hot baths in Anchor Street and ask for Levendyloy Alder. Tell him you need a detoxification, the full treatment. You should feel much better afterward."
"What'll it cost me?" Smith asked crossly, trying to find a comfortable position. He had just settled accounts with the Housekeeper, and was very glad his cousin had a business expense letter of mark.
"You can pay for it with this," the doctor replied, pressing something into his hand. Smith squinted down at it. It was a pendant of some kind, a clay disk on a woven cord. He slipped it about his neck.
"Thank you," he said.
"Be careful, Smith," said the doctor.
"I will be," Smith assured him. "Flowering Reed's still out there somewhere. You know, for all your people's talk about how much nicer you are than us, I always thought you were probably right. It's a real disappointment to find out you've got hypocrites just the same as we do. Or does your religion permit murder?"
The doctor made a wry face. "Hm. Not
my
religion, Caravan Master."
"How's a man like Flowering Reed become a killer, then?"