“You know what you really ought to do first,” said Mrs. Smith, pointing at the disk Smith wore about his neck, “is go over to the baths in Anchor Street and redeem that thing the greenie doctor gave you. You’ll feel much better afterward, fit for the lists of love or whatever you get up to after dark.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Smith, thinking of hot water and clean towels. “I’ve still got Troon dust places I don’t want to think about.”
“It’s awfully hard to get it out of your ears,” said Burnbright seriously.
At this moment Smith glanced over and saw that the clerk had come into the bar with another person, and was staring about. He spotted Smith and the others and pointed, and the other person followed his gesture. Then she started toward Smith, and her attractive countenance was made less appealing by her expression of murderous rage.
“Uh—” said Smith.
“Caravan master! Can you sit and brazenly drink after such perfidy?” she hissed at him. Everyone in the booth drew back from her. She was clearly wealthy, with embroidered robes. Her hair was done up in an elaborate chignon held in place by jeweled pins. One expected to see her palanquin shopping or in a stage box at the theater, but certainly not leaning into a booth in the Stripped Gear, let alone with the veins in her neck standing out like that.
“Lady Katmile of Silver Anvil House?” guessed Smith. “Look, it was only one butterfly. Accidents happen and—”
“If it were only one!” she cried, and the clerk wrung his hands.
“Damage more extensive than reported,” he said. “Contents examined with certified witness present. Every egg opened contained broken merchandise. Estimate fully half shipment in unacceptable condition.”
“What d’you mean, damage?” shouted Mrs. Smith. “None of the damned things had so much as a crack in ’em, except the one we squashed!”
“Outer casings intact,” admitted the clerk. “But inside—”
“What did you do, play handball with them?” demanded Lady Katmile. Smith closed his eyes, remembering Balnshik kicking violet eggs from her path as she ran, remembering Lord Ermenwyr juggling with them, remembering them bouncing down the high embankment. He said something profane.
Lady Katmile reared back like a snake about to strike.
“You wantonly destroy irreplaceable works of art, and you have the insolence to use that kind of language too?” she said. “Well. This matter goes to the Transport Authorities, Caravan Master, do you understand me? I’ll have your certification. I’ll have the certifications of your underlings. I’ll have your owner’s house and lands and movable chattel. No fiend of the desert has thirst great enough to drink dry the sea of your debt!”
She turned and swept out, drawing her furred cape about her. The clerk lingered long enough to shake his finger at them menacingly. He muttered, “Complaint will be filed immediately,” and scurried after Lady Katmile.
Stunned silence at the table for a long moment.
“Did she mean she was going to get us sacked too?” said Bellows at last.
“That’s what she said,” Smith told him.
“But—she can’t do that. We’ve got a union!” he said.
“It won’t do you any good if she has your keyman’s certification canceled,” said Smith. “Or my cousin goes out of business. Both of which seem pretty likely right now.”
“I never even got my certification,” Burnbright squeaked, and began to cry. She fell over against Mrs. Smith, who stared into the palpable gloom.
“Damn them all,” she said at last. “I was planning on retiring soon anyway. May as well do it here. I’ve set aside a little money. Perhaps I’ll open a hotel. Don’t despair, boys. We’ll think of something.”
“Could you use a message runner?” asked Burnbright, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“Perhaps. They’re going to be hardest on you, young Smith.” Mrs. Smith turned to him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Smith, still numb with shock. “It’s not like I’ve got any money anyway. I can just disappear again.”
“Again?” Crucible lifted his head from the table.
“It’s a long story,” Smith said. An idea occurred to him. “Look. Parradan Smith gave me something I was supposed to deliver for him—”
“We have been carrying around gangster loot, haven’t we?” Burnbright looked awed.
“I might get a reward. If I do, you can have it for opening your hotel. Less whatever I need to buy a ticket to—to wherever I’m going next,” said Smith.
“That’s extraordinarily good of you,” said Mrs. Smith quietly, tipping ash.
“Aw, Nine Hells,” said Crucible. “Why is it the best caravan masters either die or leave the business?”
Smith remembered the purse Lord Ermenwyr had given him and pulled it out. “Here. I’ll go make that delivery. You get us rooms with this, get our stuff out of the carts and stowed away before the Transport Authorities seize it all. I’ll be back tonight after I visit his lordship.”
“Maybe he’ll help us too!” said Burnbright.
“Never count on a favor from the great, child,” said Mrs. Smith. She drew the pouch toward her and squinted into it. “Even if they are remarkably generous. Well! We are resolute. I’ll just step over and have a word with dear Mr. Socket. Boys, leap hence to secure what is ours. Burnbright, stay here and blow your nose, for heaven’s sake.”
She stood ponderously in the booth. “And you, young Smith. If you’re able to rejoin us, there’s a back door to the lodgings here on Fish Street, seldom watched after dark. If circumstance dictates otherwise—” She leaned forward and patted his cheek. “I’ll make good on that fried eel dinner sometime or other. Go now, dear.”
Having taken Parradan Smith’s instrument case, Smith asked one of the porters where he might find the villa of Lord Kashban Beatbrass. Upon discovering that it was at the residential end of Anchor Street, he crossed over a block and descended the long hill. He could look down on the roofs of the grand town houses, almost see into their private gardens, though around him was all the windy bustle of the poor end of the street. Fry vendors with their carts shouted their wares, beggars hobbled or rolled along bearing signs listing famous sea battles in which they’d lost various body parts, shabby-looking men went in and out of lodging houses and ship’s chandlers’.
The sea gleamed out beyond all his misery, under a band of middle air clear of fog. White sails moved on the horizon, making for Port Ward’b across the bay. Smith reflected that he’d probably head that way himself in the morning and sign on to a ship, preferably one about to leave on an extended voyage, under a new assumed name. Flint? Stoker? Ironboot?
An icy wind hit him, piercing his worn clothes, making his wounds ache, and fluttering before his eyes a green poppysilk banner. He peered at the writing on it. Yendri characters, advertising something.
Turning, he saw the shop flying the banner bore a large sign with the word BATHS. He groped and found the clay disk on its cord inside his shirt.
“Might as well,” he told himself, and went in.
The warm air hit him like a blast from a furnace, but it felt heavenly, rich with steam and Yendri perfumes that made him think of wild forest girls who wouldn’t keep their clothes on. Smith could hear a fountain tinkling somewhere and the splash of water echoing on tile. He made his way to the counter, which was almost hidden behind hanging pots of ferns and bromeliads. A Yendri in a white robe leaned at the counter, reading a city broadside. He did not look up as he inquired, “You have come for a bath, sir?”
“Actually—” Smith pulled the clay disk off over his head. “I’m supposed to find Levendyloy Alder and ask for, uh, detoxification. The full treatment.” He held out the disk. The Yendri looked up and focused on him intently.