That night at the camp, after the passengers had retired and the fire was beginning to think about settling down to coals, Smith edged over to Mrs. Smith. She sat regarding the autumn stars in silence, sipping a drink. She had been uncharacteristically silent all that evening.
“What did you see today?” Smith inquired in a low voice.
She glanced aside at him. “It had been nagging at me the whole journey, to be perfectly truthful,” she told him. “Something about that big strapping wench. Something about that dreadful young man. Rather amazing sense of déjà vu, though I could not, simply could not place what was so familiar. This afternoon it all came back to me.”
“What came back to you?”
Before she replied she fished out her smoking tube and packed it expertly, one-handed, and lit it. Exhaling smoke, she said, “It must have been fifteen years ago. I was working for the Golden Chain Line then; they ran the Triangle Route, from Salesh to Port Blackrock to Konen Feyy-in-the-Trees and back to Salesh. So just skirting the Greenlands, you see? Close enough to have that mountain glowering down at us half the trip.
“We took on new passengers in Konen Feyy. A family. Just like the Smiths over there, in a way. Father and mother and a handful of little children, one of them a babe in arms. Bound for Salesh-by-the-Sea, too. But they were quite wealthy, these people. A whole retinue of nurses and servants and bodyguards they had with them. Dozens of trunks! And a private pavilion that was quite outrageously grand.
“They called themselves Silverpoint. He was a big bearded blackavised man, didn’t speak much, but you should have seen his servants leap to his least word. And she was—well, she was simply the most beautiful woman anyone in the rest of the caravan had ever seen. She wore a veil, but even so, half the men in the party fell in love with her. Even with a little screaming child on her shoulder the whole way.”
“Their baby cried too?”
“Incessantly,” Mrs. Smith said, with a grim look across the fire. “Half the night, every night. Until he stopped breathing altogether.”
“He died?”
“Nearly. Four or five times, in the course of the journey. I don’t know what was the matter with the poor tiny wretch. Perhaps he simply wasn’t strong. Sickly, whey-faced little thing with limp curls, he was. Big wide eyes that looked at you as though he knew he wasn’t long for this world and was keenly aware of the injustice of it all.
“It was the fifth night out it happened. The child had some sort of fit, turned quite blue, and died. Not a breath in him. Their servants howled like mad things, drew their own knives and started hacking at themselves! The other children woke and started to cry, and their mother reached out a hand to them, but in a distracted sort of way because she was praying, quite calmly you’d think from the look on her face.
“I was awake—half the Camp was, with that tumult, but I’d got up and was coming to see if there was anything to be done. And I tell you I saw the father come running up from wherever he’d been, grab a knife from a servant, shoulder his way into the lady’s pavilion, and cut the throat of his own child.
“Thought I’d pass out where I was standing. But before I could scream, the baby trembled, kicked its legs and drew in a breath, hideous whistling sound. The mother bent over him and I couldn’t see more, but I heard him begin crying in a feeble kind of way. The servants all threw themselves flat on their faces in the dust and began moaning. I backed away, but not before I saw the father come out with that knife in his hand. I shall never forget the look in his black eyes. He didn’t say two words, but one of the servants jumped up at once and ran to fetch a basin of water and a box from their trunks.
“She was a tall girl, the servant. Buxom. Hair black as a raven’s wing. Splendid-looking creature,” said Mrs. Smith, laying emphasis on the word creature. “Well. Nothing more to see, as the City Guard are so fond of saying. I crept off to my bed and had nightmares. Next morning the child’s as peevish as ever, though a good deal more quiet, picking at the bandage about his bitsy windpipe. Not a word about what had happened from his parents, though the lady did apologize for all the noise.
“We took them to their hotel in Salesh, as per contract. Last I saw of the child he was peering over the servant’s shoulder with those big eyes, looking as though he was thinking about throwing another tantrum and winding his little fist in her black hair.
“She hasn’t aged a day. A few other details gave her away, as well. I’d bet a month’s salary she was hurt fighting off that cat-sending. She’s a demoness; and I know of only one man in the world with the power to bind demons reliably.
“The baby’s grown, and he goes by the name Kingfisher now; but he’s still got the scar on his throat,” Mrs. Smith added. “I saw it this afternoon, when he laughed.”
“I ought to have kept my shirt on,” said a smooth voice from out of the shadows.
Smith jumped. Mrs. Smith set her drink down, and with great care and deliberation drew a pistolbow from inside her coat. It was larger than either of Smith’s and, to judge from the size of the gears and the bolt, much more powerful.
“Oh, now, surely there’s no need for unpleasantness,” said Lord Ermenwyr, stepping into the circle of firelight. “Aren’t we all friends here? Aren’t we fellow travelers? Have I done anything evil at all?”
“You’re the son of the Master of the Mountain,” said Mrs. Smith, training the weapon on him. In the dim light of the fire his skin had an unearthly green pallor, for he had dropped the glamour that disguised him. Eyes wide, he held out his open hands.
“Can I help that? Let’s be reasonable about this. You’ve such a remarkable memory, dear Mrs. Smith; can you recall Daddy and Mummy being anything but perfectly law-abiding passengers? I’m sure we even tipped handsomely when we left the caravan.”
There was a black mist flowing along the ground, out of the darkness, and it began to swirl behind him in a familiar outline.
“To be sure you did, on that occasion,” agreed Mrs. Smith. “But your family has quite a reputation amongst the caravans, and not for generous tips.”
“Oh, Daddy hasn’t taken a caravan in years,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Really. Mummy made him give it up. I can’t vouch for my brothers not engaging in some light raids now and then, one of those stupid masculine rite of passage things I suppose, but they’re brutes, and what can one expect?”
Behind him, Balnshik materialized out of the night, regarding Mrs. Smith and Smith with eyes like coals. She too had dropped the glamour. Her skin was like a thundercloud, livid with phantom colors, glorious but hard to look at.
“Put your weapon down,” she said.
Mrs. Smith looked at her thoughtfully.
“Certainly, when his lordship gives me his word we’ll come to no harm,” she replied.
“You have my word, as my father’s son, that neither I nor mine will injure you nor compass your death in any way,” said Lord Ermenwyr at once. Mrs. Smith laid the pistolbow aside.
“That’s the formula,” she told Smith. “We should be safe enough. I’m pleased to see you did contrive to grow up after all, my lord.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “It’s been touch-and-go, as you can see, but I’ve managed.” Throwing out his coattails, he sat down cross-legged by the fire and took out his smoking tube. Balnshik remained on her feet, hovering over him watchfully. He continued:
“Just you try living the life of a normal young man when people are always lurking about trying to kill you. It’s not fair,” he said plaintively.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you a demon?” inquired Smith.