“Really,” said Smith, having another mouthful of his beer in the hope that it would improve upon acquaintance. It didn’t.
“Yes,” said the Housekeeper, staring into the fire. “Not so much at this time of year—the forest isn’t so bad, the leaves look like flames now, and soon the branches will be bare so you can see things, good clean honest open spaces. Not like in summer when there’s this smothering blanket of impenetrable green and anything could be hiding out there, anything could steal up behind you and—one gets a little edgy in the summer, yes. Demon-country, after all.”
Smith nodded. “Do you get attacked much?”
“Attacked? No, no, not in here, this is a fine safe outpost. The odd demon over the wall now and again, but I think they’re only after our beer.”
Smith thought that very unlikely indeed.
“One just doesn’t want to venture outside the walls, into all that—green,” said the Housekeeper, and shuddered. “Well! Tell me of your travels, Caravan Master. Tell me the news of Troon.”
Smith obliged, for the next quarter of an hour, and while he talked he surveyed the high hall. Other guests of the Red House, a mixed lot of Children of the Sun, Yendri and unclassifiable half-breeds, sat here and there eating, or drinking, or settling down for the night.
Across the fire pit, the keymen were lined up on a long settle, basking in the warmth in happy mutual silence. In the dining area, Mrs. Smith and Burnbright were sitting at a table, though they were not eating: Mrs. Smith had pushed away her laden trencher and sat smoking furiously, glaring at it. Burnbright was sawing away at a piece of meat with great difficulty. So formidable did it seem to be that it slipped out of the trencher now and then and had to be stabbed and dragged back by main force.
In the quiet area at the back of the hall, the Smiths had made up a couple of beds, and the children sat upright in one, chattering like starlings, while their mother rocked the screaming baby in the other and their father attempted to erect a makeshift curtain to screen them from the firelight. Other guests, having bedded down for the night, were rising now and then on their elbows to look threateningly at the little family.
Ronrishim Flowering Reed sat alone at a table, a carafe of something that looked like rainwater in front of him. Smith gazed at it longingly and rinsed his mouth with more of the beer. As he gave detailed descriptions of all the costumes he’d seen at Troon’s Festival of Masks to the Housekeeper, Smith observed a hooded stranger rise from a seat in the shadows and approach Flowering Reed.
The stranger leaned over him and said something in a low voice. Flowering Reed looked interested, made a reply. The stranger sat down across from him and, taking out a long rolled envelope of supple leather, spread it open on the table to display some kind of small wares packed inside.
“But the ladies,” said the Housekeeper. “Tell me about the ladies in Troon. I dream about sophisticated feminine graces, you know, day in, day out, as the caravans come and go. Ladies and their brocades. Their perfumes. Their tiny little jeweled sandals. Their refined accents!”
“Don’t have the bloody Mixed Grill plate, whatever you do,” muttered Mrs. Smith out of the corner of her mouth, dropping heavily into a chair beside Smith. “It’s unspeakably horrid.” She stuffed more amberleaf into her smoking tube and, leaning forward, lit it from the fire pit.
“I always thought inland men had lots of Yendri mistresses,” said Smith to the Housekeeper. “Or half-demonesses or something. Wild forest girls who won’t keep their clothes on, with breasts like…” Words failed him, as an image of Balnshik’s bosom rose before his eyes.
“Don’t tell me that thing was a kidney,” Mrs. Smith growled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Grilled handball is more like it. And those creamed woodpeas! Inedible.”
The Housekeeper was shaking his head sadly. “Oh, Caravan Master, I can see you’re a stranger to the Greenlands. The Yendri women keep to themselves. As for any wild forest girls, well, first you’ve got to persuade them to bathe on a regular basis, and then you’d better keep a weapon under your pillow. And when you’ve had the bad luck to take up with one who’s got some shapeshifting blood! No, no; one soon learns that a female and a lady are not necessarily one and the same. How I crave the sight of a real lady! The delicate ankles. The gauzy underthings. The cosmetics—” He had to pause to wipe saliva from the corner of his mouth.
“Ladies,” said Smith to the Housekeeper. “Well—We’re carrying cargo for Lady Seven Butterflies.”
“Seven Butterflies!” The Housekeeper was ecstatic. “What a charming name. Is she delicate and fair, as it suggests?”
“I guess so,” said Smith, remembering the mask with its black tongue. “I couldn’t see her very well for her costume. But it was a pretty costume.” He was distracted as Balnshik entered the high hall, evidently fresh from the bath. Her damp shirt clung to her breasts, which stood up proudly, as she carried on her head an elaborate construction of wood and canvas, with both hands up to steady it.
Behind her Lord Ermenwyr strutted, with his wet hair curling over the lace collar of his long nightshirt. He wore embroidered slippers and a matching nightcap, and carried a bedroll. His long smoking tube was still clenched between his teeth.
Balnshik selected a suitably remote section of the hall and set down her burden. In a moment she had it all unfolded and standing: a camp cot of ingenious design, complete with its own attached insect tent of gauzy netting, surmounted by a gilded cherub blowing a tiny trumpet. At least, it looked like a cherub. Was that a tiny tail it sported? Lord Ermenwyr passed her the bedroll and as Balnshik leaned between the curtains to arrange it on the cot, he wandered over to the fire.
“Good evening, all,” he said, puffing out a great rift of purple weedsmoke that mingled a moment with Mrs. Smith’s white amberleaf fumes, turning a sickly lavender before vanishing up the draft of the fire hood. “Splendid baths, Housekeeper. Not quite deep enough to have satisfying sex in, but all the hot water one could ask for.”
“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.