“No, but everybody knows—”
“You can run all the way back,” Smith told her, slipping a coin into her hand and gently ushering her toward the hotel’s front door.
“Why can’t Smith or Bellows or one of them go?” Burnbright persisted.
“Because they’ve gone up to the caravan depot to pick up Lord Ermenwyr’s trunks,” said Smith.
“Eeew,” said Burnbright, and sped out the door.
She did not particularly care for Lord Ermenwyr either, despite the fact that he was the Hotel Grandview’s patron. Burnbright’s immediate disfavor was due to the fact that Lord Ermenwyr consistently made overtures of an improper nature to her during his frequent visits, and she thought he was a creepy little man, patron or no.
Smith ducked into the bar to see if all was going well, took a brief detour through the indoor section of the restaurant (silent as a temple at that hour, with its folded napkins and crystal set out expectantly) and slipped behind his desk to look over the guestbook. The Grandview was full up with reservations, as he’d hoped it would be for the holiday. His eye fell on the name just below Lord Ermenwyr’s: Sharplin Coppercut.
Smith knit his brows, thinking the name was familiar. Some kind of journalist? Maybe the food critic Mrs. Smith was expecting? As he wondered, a thin shadow moved across the doorway and a thin and elegantly dressed man followed after it. Behind him a city porter struggled with a ponderous trunk.
The elegant man came straight to the desk, moving silent as his shadow, and in a quiet voice said; “Sharplin Coppercut.”
Smith blinked at him a moment, “Oh!” he said belatedly, “You have a reservation. Right, here you are: Room 2. It’s just up those stairs, sir, first door on the left. Come to have fun at the Festival, have you?”
“I do hope so,” said Coppercut, stamping the ledger with his house sign. He replaced his seal in its pendant box and swept the lobby with a penetrating gaze. “Have you a runner on the premises?”
“Yes, sir, we’re a fully equipped hotel. We can send your correspondence anywhere in the city. She’s stepped out for a moment, but I’ll be happy to send her up as soon as she gets back, sir,” Smith offered.
“Please do,” said Coppercut, showing his teeth. He went upstairs as quietly as he had done everything else, though the porter thumped and labored after him, cursing under the weight of the trunk.
Then there was a commotion of another kind entirely, for in through the street door came two of the biggest men Smith had ever seen. They were built like a pair of brick towers. That they managed to get through the doorway side by side was extraordinary; it seemed necessary to bend time and space to do it. They had to come in side by side, however, for they bore on their massive shoulders the front traces of a costly looking palanquin. Into the lobby it came, and two more giants bearing the rear traces ducked their heads to follow. They were followed by a tall Yendri, who wore the plain white robe of a physician. Behind them came Porters Crucible, Pinion, Old Smith, Bellows, and New Smith, bearing each no less than three trunks.
“Smith,” hissed a voice from within the palanquin. “Is the lobby empty?”
“At the moment,” Smith replied.
In response, the palanquin’s curtains parted, and Lord Ermenwyr slid forth, nimble as a weasel. He straightened up and stood peering around warily. He wore an inky black ensemble that contrasted sharply with the unnatural pallor of his skin. He wore also a pomaded beard and curled mustaches, and clenched between his teeth a jade smoking tube from which a sickly green fume trailed.
“Safe at last,” he muttered. “Hello, Smith; we’re traveling incognito, you see, I mean even more so than usual, hence all the cloak-and-dagger business, and I don’t suppose you’ve got my suite key ready, have you, Smith?”
“Right here, my lord,” said Smith, handing it over the counter. Lord Ermenwyr took it and bolted for the stairs, with the tails of his coat flying out behind him. His palanquin-bearers gaped after him; then, exchanging glances, they hoisted the palanquin after them and lumbered toward the staircase. They got it up into the hall with inches to spare, tugging awkwardly. The Yendri bowed apologetically to Smith.
“His lordship is somewhat agitated,” he said.
“That’s all right,” Smith assured him. “As soon as you give him his fix, he’ll calm down.”
The Yendri looked shocked. Smith realized that he was quite a young man, slender and smooth-faced, and though his features would undoubtedly one day be as harshly angular as the others of his race, he had at the moment a certain poetic look. His stammered reply was cut short by a shriek from upstairs: “Willowspear! For Hell’s sake, my medication!”
“See?” said Smith. The Yendri hurried upstairs.
“What was all that?” demanded Mrs. Smith, emerging from the kitchen with a frown, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Lord Ermenwyr’s arrived,” Smith explained.
“Oh,” she said. “Who was that he was yelling after?”
“He’s got a doctor with him,” said Smith.
“Instead of Madam Balnshik, this time? I never saw such a hypochondriac in my life,” stated Mrs. Smith. “Do you suppose the doctor knows about…?”
“He’d have to, wouldn’t he?” said Smith. “By the way, I think your food critic’s arrived.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Smith edged sidelong behind the desk to look at the register. She studied it a moment. “Let’s see… Coppercut?” she scowled. “No, no. That man doesn’t write restaurant reviews. Far from it! He’s a—”
“Here we are!” caroled Lord Ermenwyr, sliding gracefully down the banister of the staircase. The four giants hurried after him, taking the stairs, however, and followed at a slight distance by the Yendri doctor.
“My lord—” he gasped.
“All together again!” Lord Ermenwyr landed with a crash and skittered across the lobby. His pupils had gone to pinpoints. “Good old Smith! You’ve had the drains cleaned since I was here last, haven’t you? And Mrs. Smith, how charming to see you! Nursie sends her best, she’d have been here but Mother had another damned baby"—here the giants and the Yendri doctor bowed involuntarily—"and Nursie adores babies, obsessed with the horrible little things in all their lace and woolies and whatnot—I keep warning everyone that they’ll find a cradle full of tiny gnawed bones one of these days, but nobody listens. Smith! Good to see you! Have I checked in yet?”
“No, Master,” one of the giants reminded him, in a terrifyingly deep voice with slightly odd enunciation. Smith looked at him sharply and exchanged a glance with Mrs. Smith.
“How careless of me.” Lord Ermenwyr took out his seal and stamped HOUSE KINGFISHER in five places on the register’s page. “And I haven’t done introductions yet, have I? Smith, Mrs. Smith, these are my bodyguards: Cutt, Crish, Stabb, and Strangel. Aren’t those great names? And this is my personal physician.” He waved a hand at the Yendri. “Agliavv Willowspear. A man who knows his antidepressants!”
Willowspear bowed.
“Yes, yes, I know he’s a greenie, but he’s utterly trustworthy,” said Lord Ermenwyr in a stage whisper. “Known him all my life. Mother’s always succoring defenseless orphans, alas. Anyway, I had to bring him; he’s one of Mother’s disciples and he’s on a vision quest or something, isn’t that right, Willowspear?”
“In a manner of speaking, my lord,” said Willowspear.
“A vision quest to Salesh at festival time?” said Mrs. Smith, regarding him keenly.
“Yes, lady.” Willowspear drew himself up and met her gaze. “My father, Hladderin Willowspear—”
Burnbright entered clutching a small bag presumably containing yellow plums, and, seeing Lord Ermenwyr at the desk, did her best to tiptoe through to the kitchen unobserved. About three paces on, however, her gaze riveted on Willowspear. Her mouth fell open, but she made no sound and kept moving forward, though her gaze remained on the Yendri. The result was that she walked straight into a chair and fell over it with a crash.