“Only one-quarter,” the lordling explained, angling his smoking tube like a pointer. “Half at most. Daddy was a foundling, you see, so we’re not sure. But what does it matter? When all’s said and done, I’m not that different from the rest of you. Do you know why we were all going to Salesh on that memorable occasion, Mrs. Smith? Daddy was trying to give us a holiday by the sea. Buckets, spades, sand castles, all that sort of thing.”
“Perfectly innocent,” said Mrs. Smith with measured irony.
“Well, it was! And Mummy felt the sea air would do me good. We were just like any other family, except for a few things like Daddy’s collection of heads and the fact that half the world wants us all dead.”
“That was why Flowering Reed was after you,” Smith realized. “He knew who you were.”
Lord Ermenwyr sighed. “It’s not easy being an Abomination. Saints aren’t supposed to get married and have children, you see. It’s sacrilegious. Anyone who can kill a walking blasphemy like me gains great spiritual merit, I understand. Of course, Flowering Reed disdained to do the job himself; wouldn’t get his pure hands dirty. But his hired killers kept failing, thanks to you and the late Parradan Smith being so good at defending us all,” he added, looking at Smith with affection.
“Was that why Flowering Reed shot him in the back?”
“Exactly. Nasty little darts. Flowering Reed’s people rationalize any guilt away by saying that it’s the poison on the thorn doing the killing, not them. Charming, isn’t it?”
“But that greenie doctor was quite respectful to you,” objected Mrs. Smith. “Even reverent.”
“Well, madam, there are greenies and greenies. Flowering Reed belongs to a particularly vicious fundamentalist sect sworn to avenge my mother’s, er, sullying, by whatever means necessary.” Lord Ermenwyr lit his smoking tube with a small blue fireball and took a deep drag. “Mummy’s disciples, on the other hand, were willing to admit that she knew what she was doing when she married Daddy and brought all of us semidevine semidemonic brats into the world.” He blew smoke from his nostrils.
“I’m intrigued, young man,” said Mrs. Smith. “Are your parents happily married?”
“I suppose so,” he replied. “I won’t say they haven’t had their quarrels, but love conquers all. I believe that was Mummy’s point in bedding the old bastard.”
“You’re being disrespectful, Master,” crooned Balnshik, winding her hand into his hair. “You know that’s not allowed.”
“Ow! All right. Well, anyway—you can see, can’t you, that there’s no need to be alarmed by my presence in your caravan? All I want is to get to Salesh-by-the-Sea for a nice long stay at the spa, so I can recover what passes for my health,” Lord Ermenwyr assured them.
“Your father’s supposed to be the most powerful mage who ever lived,” said Smith. “Can’t he just magick you well?”
“My mother can heal the sick and raise the dead, but nothing she tries works on me either,” retorted Lord Ermenwyr. He yelped in protest as Balnshik got a grip on his collar and hauled him to his feet.
“My master has the blood of two planes fighting in his heart,” she told them. “It makes him unstable. Unreasonable. Rude. But there are advantages to being under his protection, dear Children of the Sun, and dreadful disadvantages to harming the least hair on his wicked little head. You understand, don’t you?”
“Don’t mind the death threats,” Lord Ermenwyr told them. “It’s her job to protect me. I’m sure you’d never do anything so stupid as to betray me to my enemies.”
“No,” said Smith hastily.
“I won’t, either. But I shall refrain from doing so because I find the idea of your parents’ love match rather sweet (somebody ought to have a happy marriage now and then) and not"—Mrs. Smith looked up severely at Balnshik—"because of your threats, my girl.”
Balnshik smiled, showing all her gleaming teeth.
“Lady, I am seven thousand years old,” she said.
“Well, I feel seven thousand years old,” Mrs. Smith replied. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we, and remain friends all around?”
“You are as wise as you are skilled in the arts of cuisine,” Lord Ermenwyr assured her. “You won’t regret it. And now, will you excuse me? The night damps are settling in. Terrible for the lungs, you know.”
“Bid them good night, Master,” said Balnshik, dragging him off.
“Bye-bye!” he called, waving his smoking tube at them.
Smith sagged backward, shaking.
“What the hell do we do now?” he murmured.
“Oh, we’ll be quite safe,” Mrs. Smith said, picking up her drink. “As long as we keep our mouths shut. I know demons.”
And after all nothing had changed. Next morning both Lord Ermenwyr and Balnshik had resumed their ordinary appearance and made no reference whatever to the previous night’s conversation. Breakfast was served, camp was broken, the carts got back on the road again as usual. It was so mundane that Smith, resuming his couch on the flour bags, wondered if he hadn’t had a bizarre nightmare.
That day they came down out of the Greenlands at last, onto the plain. The caravan seemed to skim like a bird, speeding along the flat miles. They began to spot other cities lifting towers above secure walls, other roads crossing the distance and even intersecting their road, and now and then they passed caravans bound for regions unknown or dull merchants’ carts rattling along. The Smith children waved and shrieked happily at them all. Mile after mile fell away, and every mile brought nearer the gray hills of Salesh-by-the-Sea, the only interruption of the expanding steel horizon.
They spent one last night at a way station, though it was so palatial it scarcely seemed to fit the name. There was a shop there selling sweets and fruit, biscuits and wine; there were all of three stone watering huts (no waiting!); there was even a booth with a scribe who would, for a price, copy out a map of your immediate destination, guaranteed to be accurate for any city precinct. In the dark the wind shifted and brought them the strong rank salt smell of the tides. Smith felt as though he had come home.
Salesh, like most cities on the sea, had only a half circle of city wall, a high curve of white flints at its back that gleamed in the sun like a shell mound, when the dense fogs now and then parted to let any sun through. There the resemblance to anything so formless as a mound stopped, however, for the wall was neatly laid with mile-castles along its top, patrolled by watchmen whose armor was enameled in a pattern like fish scales. Within the wall the city was laid out in a fan of long streets, each terminating on the seafront.
The city gate was standing wide when they arrived, and Burnbright trumpeted their arrival with glee, pausing only to flash the license and manifest at the city guard. As soon as they were waved through she leaped into the lead cart next to Pinion and flung both her fists toward the sky.
“We made it,” she shouted, dancing. “We’re safe! I’m great, I’m the fastest runner in the world, and Mount Flame City rules!”
“Oh, sit down and watch your mouth,” said Pinion, but he was grinning too. He steered them down the long hill in splendor, riding the brakes, and the iron wheels shot sparks like a fireworks display celebrating their arrival. Expertly he took them around the sharp turn at Capstan Street, and they rocketed into the vast echoing hall of the Salesh-by-the-Sea caravan depot.
It was crowded and very loud, for another caravan had arrived just before them. Porters were lined up along the arcades, displaying their muscles as they awaited employment. The runners had taken an entire arcade for themselves and sat or leaned there, gossiping together, a blaze of scarlet uniform in the shadows. Clerks worked their way along the line of carts with manifest checklists, recording the arrival of goods and overseeing their unloading. Smith slid hastily from the flour bags and turned to collide with the Smiths and their baby.