The Anvil of the World

“Is it painful?”

“Yes, it is,” Smith said, gasping. “It hurts a lot.”

The Master of the Mountain regarded Smith’s arm, which was colder and more blue than it had been. Below the elbow it looked as though it was turning to stone. It was in no way stiff or swollen, however. Shaking his head, the other man dug a flask from a camp chest and offered it to Smith.

“Drink. It may help.”

Smith accepted it gratefully. “Thank you, my—er—lord.”

“The name’s Silverpoint,” said the Master of the Mountain. “Most of the time. Though my son calls himself Kingfisher, doesn’t he?”

“Lord Ermenwyr?” Smith nodded. Mr. Silverpoint poured himself a drink and sat down in the chair opposite Smith’s.

“Lord Ermenwyr,” said Mr. Silverpoint, with only the faintest trace of irony. He stared at the hanging lamp and sighed, shaking his head. “He’s a costly boy. Doctors, tailors’ bills, theater tickets. Brothels. Health resorts. And now I understand he’s bought a slaveless galley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I was his age, I’d never seen a boat, let alone a city.” He looked at Smith, raised an eyebrow like a black saber. “And I owned nothing. Not even myself.”

“You were a slave?” Smith asked.

The other man nodded. “Until I killed my masters. I broke my own chains. I owe no miracle man for my salvation.

“But I owe you a debt, Smith. You’ve made a habit of saving my children. They haven’t been as grateful as they should. I’d like to help you.”

“I’m not sure you can,” said Smith. He drank. What was in the flask was white, and it did dull his pain a little.

Mr. Silverpoint did not reply at once. He sipped his own drink, considering Smith. The lord’s pavilion was made of rich stuff, black worked with silver thread, but it was spare and soldierly within. Without, the camp sounds had tapered off; only the creaking of insects now, and the occasional challenge and password from the guard.

“I’ve been following your career with a certain amount of interest, Smith. Tell me: How long were you an assassin?” Mr. Silverpoint inquired.

“Ten years, I guess,” said Smith, a little dazedly. He hadn’t expected to be discussing his personal history. “I tried being a soldier. I tried a lot of jobs. But it always came back to killing. It just—happened.”

“You were good at it,” stated Mr. Silverpoint.

“Yes.”

“You never trained with a master-at-arms. You never studied weapons of any kind.”

“No, sir. My aunt never had the money for that kind of an education,” Smith explained, drinking more of the white stuff.

“But the first time you ever found yourself in danger, you acted without even thinking and—”

“And they were dead,” said Smith wonderingly. “Three of them, in an alley. Two throats cut with a broken bottle and the other killed with a five-crown piece, and I’m damned if I remember how. Something about hitting him with it in exactly the right place to make something rupture. I don’t know where I learned that trick.”

“But you didn’t like the work.”

“No, sir, I didn’t. So I kept trying to quit.”

“You were an orphan, weren’t you?”

“What? Oh. Yes, sir.”

“And Smith is an alias, isn’t it? A name you selected purely by chance?”

“Well, it’s very common, sir.”

“Interesting choice, all the same. What is your real name?”

The question was uttered in a tone of command, not loud but swift as a green dart. And Smith knew perfectly well what folly it was to tell one’s true name to a mage, especially one with Mr. Silverpoint’s reputation, but he felt the reply rising so easily to his lips! He fought it until he sweated, with those quiet eyes regarding him all the while.

“I’ll tell you my first name,” he said. “What about that?”

“You are strong,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “Very well, then.”

“My mother died when she had me,” Smith said. “She looked up at the door as they were wrapping me in a blanket, and she said there was a shadow there. That was the last thing she ever said. So my aunt named me Carathros. That’s how a priest would say, ‘The shadow has come.’”

Smith stared into the past. Mr. Silverpoint watched him. At last, “I’ve heard what Ermenwyr thinks is the truth,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “Insofar as he’s ever capable of telling the truth. Svnae and Demaledon have told me what they know. Now, you tell me: there is no Key of Unmaking hidden in Rethkast, is there?”

“There is, sir,” said Smith. “I saw it. It was in a hole in the rock.”

Mr. Silverpoint shook his head.

“That’s the keyhole,” he said. “My daughter didn’t realize the truth until it was too late. Your Book of Fire says that the Key of Unmaking was hidden, but not in the bones, not in a place full of bones. Not in the charnel house of Kast. There’s an error in the text, you see.

“What it actually says is that the Key was hidden in the bone, in the sense of flesh and bone. Descendants. Heredity. A trait passed on in the blood. Something that would lie dormant, until the Father of your people decided to use it.”

Smith looked at his arm. It was iron, and ice, and it knew exactly how to put an end to the cities of his people. He had dreamed its dreams. It had always killed for him, all his life, gotten him out of every dark alley and tight corner in which he’d ever found himself, earned him a living with what it knew. But now it knew its purpose.

“I’m the Key of Unmaking,” he said.

Mr. Silverpoint was watching him.

“A courtesy to the children of other gods,” he said.

“When there are too many of you, a slaughterer is born on the Anvil of the World. His destiny is to bring on a cataclysm. What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t want this,” said Smith, though he knew that what he wanted no longer mattered.

“It seems a shame,” Mr. Silverpoint agreed. “But you’re stuck with it, aren’t you?”

“Can you help me?”

“I don’t meddle with gods,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “All I can do is witness your decision. Whatever you do, though, you’d better do it soon. That’s my advice, if you want any control over what happens at all. The pain will only get worse; until you obey.”

“I have to go back in that room, don’t I?” said Smith sadly.

Mr. Silverpoint shrugged. Setting his drink down, he rose and selected an axe from a rack of weapons in the corner.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said, holding the tent flap open.

They stepped out into the night, and the guards on duty came to attention and saluted. Mr. Silverpoint nodded to them.

“At ease,” he said. “This way, Smith.”

He walked to the near pavilion that had been set up for Lady Svnae. Taking a torch from its iron socket, he cleared his throat loudly outside the entrance.

“Daddy?”

“Rise and come with us, Svnae,” he said. “You’re being punished.”

She stepped out a moment later, wrapped in a dressing gown. She looked lovely, frightened, young and—next to her father—small. On any other night of the world, Smith would have been profoundly interested in her state of undress.

They stopped at the next pavilion, and Mr. Silverpoint said, “Come out of there, son.”

There was no answer. Mr. Silverpoint exhaled rather forcefully and tore open the tent flap, revealing Lord Ermenwyr. The lordling was still fully dressed, sitting bolt upright on the edge of a folding cot. He looked at his father with wide eyes.

“You’re being punished, too,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “Come along.”

He led them away through the night, across the day’s field where a banked fire still smoldered, the bones of the slain falling into ashes in its heart. Guards fanned out and walked with them at a discreet distance.

They came to the rock, and Mr. Silverpoint nodded at Svnae, who led them in. The chambers and corridors were deserted; the monks had withdrawn to the camp to tend the wounded. They climbed through the darkness, and their passage echoed like an army on the march.

The pain in Smith’s arm grew less with every step. It was still so cold he imagined waves of chill radiating from it, but it felt supple as it ever had. He looked up at the barrel-vault ceiling as they walked along, wondering who among his ancestors had cut these tunnels. The charnel house of Kast...

What had taken place, here, that the Yendri had found it crowded with the dead? It must have been in Lord Salt’s time, so long ago it was nearly fable. What had been the cause of the war? Why had the granaries of Troon been put to the torch? That was never clear in the stories; only the great deeds of the heroes were sung about, how they drove the vanquished before them like wraiths, how they enacted wonders with their swords and war hammers, how they triumphed in the last day of glory before the gods had been sick of them and wiped them out of existence.

And only a handful of people had survived, crouching in fishing-huts at the edge of the land, terrified of something in the interior.

Yet from those wretched ashes they had risen, hadn’t they? And built a fine new civilization on top of the old, better than what they’d had before? What other race could do such a thing?

What other race would need to?

It was true that they multiplied until they must build new cities, and it was true that crime and war and famine followed them inexorably … and now there were others in the world, other races who might be more worthy to inherit.

His arm felt fine now. Better than fine. Superior to dull flesh and blood. It was the part of him that belonged to the gods, after all.

Smith heard the sound of footsteps behind him, running, and Willowspear caught up with them.

“Where are you going?” he gasped. “What is he going to do?”

Mr. Silverpoint’s voice floated back to them along the tunnel. “Nothing, boy. I’m only here to observe.”

They emerged into the chamber. Mr. Silverpoint set the torch in a socket by the door. “Here we are,” he said. “What happens now, Smith?”

Smith blinked at the Keyhole, at the whirling fire before it. He knew that he could raise his cold blue arm and thrust it through that barrier and feel no pain at all. He knew he could grasp the dimly seen objects beyond and draw them out. They were only vials of poisons, and small ingenious devices. Still, once he had them, there would be no stopping him ever again.

He felt History pulling at him, like a tide sucking sand from beneath his feet. All that he had been, all the mundane details of his life, were about to be jettisoned. Once he reached through the fire, he would be purified, perfect, streamlined down to his essential purpose. He would bring a sinful race to its ordained end. It was the will of the gods.

Smith, the old Smith that was about to be cast off like a garment, looked away from the whirling fire.

The others were watching him. Mr. Silverpoint’s gaze was blank, enigmatic. Lady Svnae was biting her nether lip, her dark eyes troubled. Lord Ermenwyr stood with arms folded, doing his best to look nonchalant, but he was trembling. And Willowspear was staring from one to the other, and at the bright fire, and horror was slowly dawning in his face.

Why was the boy so upset? Ah, because he had a wife, and a mother, and a child on the way. Personal reasons. The concerns of mundane people, not heroes.

Clear before his eyes came an image of little Burnbright disconsolate on her perch in the kitchen, and of Mrs. Smith singing in her cloud of smoke. Fenallise.

Smith flexed his hand.

“I need to borrow your axe,” he said to Mr. Silverpoint. That gentleman nodded solemnly and handed it over.

Smith knelt.

He laid his blue arm out along the rock and struck once, severing his hand and arm just below the elbow.

There was one moment of frozen time in which the arm lay twitching in its pool of black blood, and the severed end reared up like a snake and something looked at him accusingly, with glittering black eyes. It told him he had failed the gods. It told him he was a commonplace and mediocre little man.

Then time unfroze, and there was a lot of shouting. Lady Svnae had torn the sash from her dressing gown and knelt beside him, binding it on the stump of his arm, pulling tight while Willowspear broke the axe handle and thrust it through the tourniquet’s knot. There was blood everywhere. Smith was staring full at Lady Svnae’s splendid bare bosom, which was no more than a few inches from his face, and only vaguely listening to Lord Ermenwyr, who was on his other side saying, “I’m sorry, Smith, I’m so sorry, you’ll be all right, I’ll make you a magic hand with jewels on it or something and you’ll be better than new! Really! Oh, Smith, please don’t die!”

Smith was falling backward.

“You see?” he told no one in particular. “It was just a metaphor.”

“I’m impressed,” said Mr. Silverpoint, nodding slowly.

Smith lost consciousness.



He spent the next few days in a pleasant fog. Willowspear never left him, changed the dressings on his arm at hourly intervals and kept him well drugged. Lord Demaledon came often to advise; he and Willowspear had long sonorous conversations full of medical terms Smith didn’t understand. Smith didn’t mind. He felt buoyant, carefree.

Lady Svnae brought him delicacies she had prepared for him herself, though she was not actually much of a cook, and she kept apologizing to him in the most abject manner. When he asked her what she was apologizing for, she burst into tears. When he tried to console her, he made an awkward job of it, having forgotten that he no longer had two arms to put around anybody. So then he apologized, and she cried harder. Altogether it was not a successful social moment.

Lord Ermenwyr came several times to sit beside his bed and talk to him. He chattered nervously for hours, filling the tent with purple fumes as he smoked, and Smith nodded or shook his head in response but couldn’t have got a word in with a shoehorn. Principally the lordling discussed magical prostheses, their care and maintenance, and the advantages of complicated extra features such as corkscrews, paring knives, and concealed flasks.

And there was an afternoon when Smith lay floating free on a tide of some subtle green elixir that banished all care, and watched through the opened tent-flaps as a drama unfolded, seemingly just for his entertainment. Mr. Silverpoint was seated in a black chair, with a naked blade across his knees. The Yendri war-leader was brought before him in chains.

A lot of talk followed, in words that Smith couldn’t understand. Most of the Yendri leader’s lines were badly acted, though, he seemed given to melodrama, and Smith would have jeered and thrown nutshells at him but for the fact that he couldn’t spot a snack vendor in the audience, and no longer had an arm to throw with anyway.

Then there was a thrilling moment when the action came right into his tent, and everyone was staring at him, and Mr. Silverpoint explained gravely that the Yendri had admitted to conspiring to exterminate the Children of the Sun. As the only member of his race present, what was Smith’s judgment? Smith thought about it, while everyone, the Yendri included, watched him.

Finally he said he thought it was a bad idea.

But do you condemn him to death? everyone asked.

Smith knitted his brows and puzzled over the question until he realized that he was free of all that; he’d never kill anybody again. He just lay there laughing, shaking his head No.

Then the drama retreated to the stage again, and a lot of other accusations were made. The word Hlinjerith was spoken several times, and the Yendri stood tall and said something proudly, and there was a gasp of horror from a lot of people watching. Willowspear, beside Smith, groaned aloud and buried his face in his hands. Smith asked him what was wrong and Willowspear said that the Orphans had done something dreadful. Smith asked what they had done. Willowspear, mastering himself with difficulty, said that they had made certain that Hlinjerith would never be desecrated by the Children of the Sun.

So the Yendri was condemned to die after all. The three lords stepped forward, Eyrdway, Demaledon, and Ermenwyr. Each one presented some argument, and Mr. Silver-point listened with his head on one side. Then there was a wonderful bit of sleight of hand where he pulled three rods of blue fire from the air and held them out in his fist, and the three brothers each drew one. Lord Demaledon got the one that was longest.

A circle formed, though people were considerate enough to leave a space so Smith could see. The Yendri’s chains were struck off. He was given a staff. Lord Demaledon stepped into the circle with his staff, too. Smith became terribly excited and struggled to sit up so he could see better, but by the time Willowspear had arranged the pillows behind him it was nearly over. Clack, whack, crash, two stick-insects fighting, and then CRACK and the Yendri was down with his head caved in, and that was all.

Smith was disappointed, until Willowspear injected him with more of the elixir, and he floated away into happiness again… the body was dragged offstage, the crowd dispersed, the curtain flaps fell, and he tried to applaud. But that was another thing he couldn’t do anymore.



One morning they told him he was going to be taken back to the boat, and he watched as they bound him into a litter and four of Mr. Silverpoint’s soldiers hoisted him between them. Their mail and livery was identical, but otherwise they were monstrous in exuberant variety: scales, fangs, fur, unlikely appendages. Still they carried him gently through the rock, out the new waterside entrance and so to the landing.

And there was the Kingfisher’s Nest, anchored as safe as though the siege and battle had taken place in another world. Cutt, Crish, and company were lined up ashore like a row of bollard posts, looking proud of themselves insofar as they had expressions. They greeted their master with howls of joy and abased themselves before Mr. Silverpoint when he came down to see them off.

He loomed over Smith.

“My son will take you back to Salesh now,” he said.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Smith.

Lord Demaledon and Lord Eyrdway loomed too, one on either side of their father.

“I still can’t believe what you did,” said Lord Eyrdway, a little sulkily. “All that power, and you threw it away! Don’t you know what you could have done?”

“He knows, son,” said Mr. Silverpoint.

“I’ve given Willowspear salves for the wound, Smith,” said Demaledon. “Don’t try to seal it with boiling pitch, whatever your physicians tell you. Yours may be a race worthy to live, but your grasp of medicine is … inadequate.”

“All right,” said Smith vaguely, looking around, blinking in the sunlight. There were others of the demon-host loading chests of something heavy on board the Kingfisher’s Nest. The Master of the Mountain followed his gaze.

“Gold specie,” he explained. “Readily convertible anywhere. It ought to get you through the next few years.”

“Oh. You mean … the race war and all that?”

“No,” said Mr. Silverpoint, scowling briefly. “There will be no race war, now. Not over Hlinjerith of the Misty Branches. Nor will your people be destroyed this time, since you have broken the Key of Unmaking. But you’re owed some compensation, after what my children did to you.”

“Oh, well…” Smith racked his brains for something polite to say. “I guess I would have come here sooner or later anyway. If it was the will of the gods.”

Mr. Silverpoint grinned, a flash of white in his black beard.

“Yes, of course, we must respect the will of the gods.” He leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “You be sure to take my son for the most expensive prosthesis on the market, understand? If he wants to buy you one that tells the time and plays “The Virgins of Karkateen,” you let him. The little devil can’t bear feeling guilty.”



The journey back was dreamlike and very pleasant for Smith, who had nothing to do but sit under a canopy on deck and watch the scenery flow by. Everyone else was either preoccupied—like Willowspear, who was now obliged to man the helm—or quietly miserable, like Lord Ermenwyr and Lady Svnae. Even the portage descent to the Pool of Reth went smoothly.

And it was in that place, as Willowspear navigated the clear green water, that they saw the first of the white butterflies.

“Hey, look, there’s your spirits,” observed Smith, pointing to the two tall stones. White wings fluttered in a long shaft of sunlight, like poppy petals in the wind. Lady Svnae, who was arranging cushions and a lap robe for Smith, looked up and caught her breath.

“I’ve never seen butterflies like that,” she said.

“That’s because they’re cabbage moths,” said her brother, pacing. He regarded them sourly, shifting his smoking tube from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“It is a good sign,” said Willowspear, guiding them into the river.

“They’re following us, too,” said Smith, and he was right; for as the Pool of Reth fell astern, the butterflies drifted along after them, or settled on the spars and rigging like birds.

“Get away, you little bastards!” Lord Ermenwyr cried.

“Oh, leave them alone. They’re pretty,” Lady Svnae told him. “What can I bring you, dear Smith? Ortolans braised in white wine? Sugared pepper tarts? Rose comfits? Tea with Grains of Paradise?”

“Tea sounds nice,” said Smith. She raised a silver pitcher cunningly wrought with peacocks and adders chased in gold, and with her own fair hands poured the long stream of tea into a cup of eggshell-fine porcelain, costly and rare. Smith watched as she took Grains of Paradise from a tiny golden box with silver tweezers, unable to find a tactful way to tell her he preferred his tea plain.



Some days later, after a supernaturally quick journey, at the Sign of the Three Hammers…

Mr. Smallbrass sat at his desk, chewing on the end of his pen as he studied his account books. He wasn’t very good at accounts—he was more of an idea man—but he had had to let his accountant go, along with his personal secretary, his chair-bearers, his masseur, and some of his better furniture.

He heard a commotion in the courtyard below his office and peered out a window, wondering if he should bolt his door and pretend he wasn’t in. But it wasn’t the collections clerk from Redlead and Sons Contractors, nor was it Mr. Screwbite the architect, also unpaid these six weeks. It was a very large man in very well cut clothing, accompanied by equally large liveried servants who took up posts at the entrance to the courtyard.

Mr. Smallbrass watched until he was certain the large man was ascending the staircase that led to his particular office, then he became a blur of frenzied motion. Unpaid bills were swept into a drawer. Threatening letters were stuffed under the carpet. Other items that might tend to detract from the impression of success went into a closet. When the knock on the door sounded, Mr. Smallbrass straightened his tunic, took a deep breath, and waited until the second knock before opening the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the man who stood without. “My clerk’s just stepped out to make an immense bank deposit. Your name, sir?”

“Silverpoint,” said the man, in an oddly smooth bass. “Aden Silverpoint. I have a proposition for Mr. Smallbrass.”

“Really?” said Mr. Smallbrass. “I am he, sir! Business is brisk at the moment, but I can certainly spare you a moment—or two—” He edged backward into the room, reaching out hastily to shut his accounts book. Mr. Silver-point followed him, and so did two more of the liveried servants, who carried a chest between them.

“I, er, I’d offer you wine, but we had a board meeting this morning—all our investors, you know—temporarily out of refreshments,” chattered Mr. Smallbrass.

“I want to buy Smallbrass Estates,” said Mr. Silverpoint.

“Certainly!” shrieked Mr. Smallbrass. “That is to say— lots are selling rapidly, but I think we can accommodate you—in fact, a prime waterfront parcel became available just this morning, poor arms dealer in Deliantiba had to forfeit his deposit, what with the peace treaty and all—yes, I’m sure we—”

“You have no investors,” said Mr. Silverpoint. He didn’t say it in a particularly threatening manner, but something in his dark eyes caused the hair to stand on the back of Mr. Smallbrass’s neck. “You haven’t sold one lot, in fact, and you’re heavily in debt.”

Mr. Smallbrass looked at the window, wondering if he could make it in one leap, then remembered the servants standing guard below. He looked at the servants in the room with him, who had the stolid faces of men who were capable of doing quite unpleasant things in the line of duty and sleeping soundly afterward.

“Are you from the Bloodfires?” he asked in a little deflated voice.

“I might be,” said Mr. Silverpoint, with just the suggestion of a purr. He snapped his fingers, and the servants opened the chest. How softly the afternoon light fell on the bars and bars and bars of gold specie ranked within! Mr. Smallbrass gaped at it.

“Unmarked. Enough to cover your debt and pay for your passage out of town,” said Mr. Silverpoint. “And you’ll transfer the development claim to me, here and now.”

Mr. Smallbrass rallied slightly.

“Oh, sir, the claim’s worth more than that!” he protested. “All those waterfront lots! Unspoiled paradise!

Mr. Silverpoint just looked at him. His stare was fathomless as a night full of jungle predators.

“I have inside information that the property has recently undergone devaluation,” he stated, quietly, but with a suggestion of reproach.

Mr. Smallbrass winced, thinking of the desperate message he had received from his caretakers the day before. He made his decision.

“Let’s just step across the street to the claim office, shall we?” he said. “They’ve got a notary and bullion scales on the premises. Most convenient.”



The journey continued, in its effortless and silent way, flowing with the current. The Kingfisher’s Nest had no need of its mechanical oarsmen yet, nor even of its striped sails, drifting through the blue-and-gold weather. But there came a morning when Smith saw the fog wall rising in the north, pink with sunrise.

“Hey, look!” He waved his stump at it. “We’ll make Salesh inside of a week. Two weeks at most, if we play it safe and go all the way around the blockade. Do you think you’re a father yet?”

Willowspear, who had been watching the fog bleakly, smiled.

“Surely not yet,” he said. “I would know.”

“Have you settled on a name?”

“If it’s a little girl, Fenallise,” said Willowspear. “Kalyon, if it’s a boy.”

Smith nodded slowly. Willowspear looked out at the fog again.

“I miss her so,” he said.

Lord Ermenwyr came on deck, saw the fogbank, and groaned. He slumped into a chair next to Smith.

“I need brandy for breakfast,” he muttered.

“That had better not be a remark about my cooking,” said Lady Svnae sharply, rising from the companionway with a tray. She set it beside Smith and unfolded a napkin for him with a flourish. “I tried something new this morning, anyway, for our dear Smith. Look!” she whisked the cover off his bowl. “It’s a sort of Potted Seafood Surprise! There’s shrimp relish and fish eggs boiled in straj, and that dark stuff is fish paste swirled through.”

“Sounds delicious,” said Smith gallantly. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Can I have brandy in mine?” asked Lord Ermenwyr.

“Stop it!” She whirled on him. “I told you I was sorry about yesterday, and how was I to know you were allergic to clove honey?”

“Remember when I went into anaphylactic shock when I was ten?”

“Oh. Well—” Lady Svnae spotted the fogbank. She blanched. “We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”

Lord Ermenwyr nodded mournfully. She sank down on the deck beside him. After a moment they clasped hands, staring together into the mist. Willowspear began to sing, quietly.

Smith ate his breakfast. A white butterfly settled on the edge of his bowl. Two more fluttered out of nowhere and landed on the helm, between Willowspear’s hands.



The current drew them on, gently. Within another hour they had entered the gray world.

Smith, watching the bank from where he sat, saw the black twigs bobbing in the reed beds before he noticed the scent. It was harsh, acrid, unforgettable.

“That’s clingfire,” he said, sniffing the air.

“That’s right,” said Willowspear, staring straight ahead as he steered.

Smith looked at the white scum high on the tideline and knew what it was, then, and when the first of the black skeletons emerged from the fog, he clenched his one fist. Gradually the fog lifted farther, and he saw the wilderness of mud and ashes that had been Hlinjerith of the Misty Branches.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he cried.

Lord Ermenwyr shrugged.

“It wasn’t your people, at least,” he said. “It was the Steadfast Orphans. They destroyed it, lest it be profaned.”

Lady Svnae bowed her head and wept.

Smith made out the shape of the landing ahead of them. Its red-and-yellow banners were gone; a scattered mound ashore was all that remained of the caretakers’ hut.

“Please, can we put in?” he asked. “If there’s any chance one of them is still alive, I’d like to get him out.”

Willowspear steered to the bank, and brought them up against the pier like a master. At Smith’s signal Stabb and Strangel dropped the anchor. Smith got unsteadily to his feet and peered through the drizzle.

“Ai-ai-ai!” he called.

A moment later there was an indistinct response, echoing from someone unseen.

Smith looked hard. Gradually through the fog he made out shapes moving, pale upright figures in the landscape. A wind came off the river, sighing in the rigging and the waving reeds, and the mist opened, and the scene before them became clear.

There were people struggling in the wet churned ashes, turning the earth with spades, raking it level, bringing muddy armfuls of roots or even small trees to be planted. One man stalked from west to east, moving with a smooth and endless rhythm as he drew a fistful from the seed bag he carried, swung his arm wide, scattered seed on the earth like rain, dipped again.

The three standing stones were toppled, lying in a blackened tangle that had been rose briars, but there was a team at work raising one of them with makeshift levers and ropes. And on the bank of the river a woman stood, weaving hurdles from green willow wands.

She was a tall woman robed in white, though her robe was work-stained and muddy, and so were her feet and hands. Rain dripped from the wide brim of her hat. With strong hands she wove the slick palings, effortlessly shaping walls, driving them into the mud with a blow to set them; and where she struck each one it sprouted, gray catkins on the nearer, green leaves already shooting forth on the first she had set. Were the walls flowering, too? No; white butterflies were settling on them here and there.

“It’s Mother,” said Lord Ermenwyr, in a ghost of a voice.

She raised her head and looked at Smith. He caught his breath.

The woman had clear, clear eyes, and their gaze hit him like a beam of light. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, but somehow that fact went unnoticed by his flesh. She was spare and perfect as a steel engraving, and as ageless. She was simple as water, implacable as the white comber rolling, miraculous as rain in the desert.



They went ashore and picked their way through the ruins at the pier’s base, and the lady walked down to meet them.

Lord Ermenwyr cleared his throat. “Why, Mother, whatever are you doing here?” he inquired cautiously.

“Making a garden,” she replied. Her voice was beautiful, too.

Willowspear knelt before her, and she raised him with a hand under his chin, smiling. “Don’t worry,” she told him, and the phrase seemed to resonate with meaning, silence a hundred unspoken questions. “Now, let me see the hero.”

Smith wondered whether he ought to kneel. He had never felt so awkward in his life, obscurely ashamed of his maimed arm and the fact that no one had shaved him in three days.

“G-good morning, ma’am,” he said hoarsely. “There were some men who were stationed in—in the ruins over there. They were just watchmen. Were they killed, when the Orphans burned the place down?”

“No, they weren’t,” she said. “They got into the reeds and hid themselves. Though poor Mr. Bolter was dying of pneumonia when we arrived.” She turned and pointed at the stone, just lurching upright in its cradle of rope. Smith squinted at the figures surrounding it, and realized that three of them were Children of the Sun, covered though they were in mud and ashes like all the others there.

“Mr. Bolter!” the lady called. “Mr. Drill! Mr. Copperclad! The ship has come back. Would you like to go home now?”

The three turned abruptly, staring. They exchanged glances and began to walk across the field, but in a slow and reluctant manner. Three-quarters of the way there they stopped.

“Are you from Smallbrass?” demanded the one called Copperclad. “You can tell him, we quit. We haven’t been paid. No supply ship ever came, and she”—his voice broke—”she saved us. So we’re staying to help her!”

“Please, ma’am?” added Bolter.

“Thank you,” she said. “I would be grateful for your hard work.” They turned and walked rapidly back to the stones.

“Mother, how can you plan a garden here?” cried Lord Ermenwyr. “They’re going to build a city on it!”

The lady turned and regarded her son with a look of mild severity. He flinched, and Smith had to admire his composure; he himself would have been on his knees pleading for forgiveness.

“No,” she said. “Hlinjerith belongs to me, now. Your father made the necessary arrangements in their claim offices. When the Beloved comes again, he will find his sacred grove and his garden waiting for him.”

“Ah. How nice,” said Lord Ermenwyr, groping in his pocket for his smoking tube. “Well, I think I’ll just go on to Salesh—”

“The city will rise across the river,” his mother went on calmly. “You will build it for me, my son.”

Lord Ermenwyr froze in the act of lifting the tube to his lips. “What did you say?”

“You will build a city on that bank,” said the lady. “Bowers to shelter the pilgrims who will come. Gardens and greens, where classes will be taught. And a great library, and a guesthouse for the Children of the Sun, who are unaccustomed to living out of doors.”

“But—but—Mummy, I can’t!” Lord Ermenwyr wrung his hands in panic. “I don’t know anything about building! And I can’t live here, it’s so bloody damp and cold I’ll start growing toadstools! Why don’t you make Demaledon do it?”

“Because you would be better at it,” said his mother. “He doesn’t go among the Children of the Sun, as you do. You understand their culture, and their money, and their business practices. You will draw up plans, and order shipments of cut stone. You will hire workmen.”

“I think I’m starting to run a fever—”

“No, you’re not. I won’t see your talents wasted, my child. You’ve been running about the world on your father’s business long enough; it’s time you started tending to mine.”

“But the Children of the Sun wouldn’t come here,” Lord Ermenwyr protested.

“Yes, they would!” cried Willowspear. “I taught them meditation. I can teach them farming, and medicine.”

“Wait. Let’s consider this objectively, shall we?” Lord Ermenwyr said, widening his eyes in an attempt to look calm and reasonable. “They’re already overrunning the world. The only advantage we have over them is our knowledge of medicine, of agriculture, of, er, birth control and so forth. Now, do we really want to give them that knowledge?”

The lady looked at him sadly. “My child, that is a base and cynical thing to say. Especially in front of this man, who has suffered through your fault.”

Lord Ermenwyr winced so profoundly, he nearly lost his balance and fell over.

“Smith, I didn’t mean it like that! You almost wiped them out yourself, after all. Didn’t it seem the right thing to do, for a moment, back in that cave? Wouldn’t mass annihilation have solved a lot of problems? What I’m saying is, if the gods themselves thought that was a good idea, who are we to argue?”

“Maybe they’re not very nice gods,” said Smith. “If they kill their children. Maybe we should argue,”

“Perhaps,” the lady agreed. “And perhaps the gods were waiting to see if you’d give in to the temptation to destroy your world in a blaze of glory. It’s always so much easier to smash mistakes than to correct them. But if it wasn’t a test, then what can one assume but that the gods are foolish and not very powerful after all?”

She reached out and touched his shoulder. Where her hand passed, warmth flowed into him.

“I think that if your race could produce a man willing to make such a sacrifice, it’s a sign that they ought to be given another chance,” she said. “I intend to see that they have it.”

Lord Ermenwyr, who had been trying unsuccessfully to light his smoking tube in the damp air, said sullenly, “I’ll build your city for you, then. But if you’re expecting the kind of twits who sign up for meditation classes, I warn you now: They’re not interested in learning anything useful. All they want is a new religion.”

“They want it because they know there must be something better than violence and stupidity,” she told him sternly. “Their hearts are in the right places. We will make certain their minds follow. And one is coming who will lead them here, in the morning of the new world.”

Without warning she turned and looked directly at Lady Svnae, who had been edging gradually back in the direction of the landing.

“Are you so eager to go, daughter?”

Lady Svnae flushed and strode forward, muttering. She towered over her mother, but somehow looked like a gauche adolescent standing before her.

“Well, you didn’t have anything to say to me,” she said.

“I have a great deal to say to you,” the lady replied. “But you must take poor Smith home to his family first. You owe him that; if you hadn’t pried into matters that didn’t concern you, he might still have both his hands.”

“No, that was fated to happen, whatever I did,” said Lady Svnae stubbornly. “And the death of a whole people did concern me. And I’ve said I was sorry. What more can I do to atone?”

The lady smiled at her. “You can use the strength of your great heart, child. You can help your brother build the city. The library, especially.”

Lady Svnae brightened at that. Her mother surveyed her scarlet-and-purple silks, her serpent jewelry, her bare arms, and she sighed.

“But please buy yourself some sensible clothing in Salesh, before you return.”

Lord Ermenwyr sidled over to his sister.

“Cheer up!” he said. “Think of the fun we’ll have shopping.” He looked sidelong at his mother. “I’m going to spend an awful lot of your money on this. I ought to have some compensation for being a good boy.”

“You have always been a good boy,” his mother said serenely, “whatever you pretend to yourself.”

Lord Ermenwyr gnashed his teeth.



One day’s journey out upon the sea, they spied bright-striped sails on the horizon, traveling steadily though they hung slack in the motionless air.

“That’s another slaveless galley,” said Smith, waving away the butterflies that danced before him. “Maybe we should hail them for news.”

Within an hour they were close enough to distinguish the clanking oars of the other vessel, louder even than their own, and in yet another hour they saw the revelers dancing and waving to them from the other vessel’s deck.

“Ai—aiiiii!” shouted a fat man, pushing back the wreath of roses that had slipped over one eye. “What ship is that? Where d’you hail from?”

“The Kingfisher’s Nest out of Salesh, from the Rethestlin!” bawled Smith. “What ship’s that?”

“The Lazy Days out of Port Blackrock! Have you heard the news, my friend?”

“What news? Is the war over?”

“Duke Skalkin choked on a fish bone!” the man cried gleefully. “His son signed the peace treaty the next day!”

“A little death can be useful now and then,” muttered Lord Ermenwyr.

“The blockade’s gone?”

“All sailed home!” the man assured them, accepting a cup of wine from a nubile girl. He tilted his head back to drink, then pointed at the Kingfisher’s Nest, shouting with laughter. “You’ve got butterflies too!”

“They flew down the river with us,” Smith said, turning his head to look up at the ranks of white wings perched all along the yards. He looked back at the Lazy Days. “You’ve got a couple, yourself. Where’d they come from?”

“Nobody knows! They’ve been floating along in swarms!” The man peered closer. “Say, what the hell kind of crew have you got?”

“We’ve just come from a costume party,” Lord Ermenwyr told him.

“So, we can go straight home along the coast, then?” Smith asked hurriedly.

“It’s clear sailing all the way!” The man made an expansive gesture, slopping his wine.

And so it proved to be, over a sea smooth as a mirror, under a sky of pearly cloud. If not for the unbroken line of the coast that paced them, they might have been sailing in the heart of an infinite opal. Warm rain fell now and then, big scattered drops, and the sea steamed. They passed through clouds of white butterflies making their way along over open water, seemingly bound on the same journey.

Many settled on the spars and rigging, despite Lord Ermenwyr’s best efforts to bid them begone.

“Oh, what’ve you got against the poor little things?” said Lady Svnae crossly, as she spooned poppy-petal jam on a cracker for Smith.

“They stink of the miraculous,” growled her brother, pacing up the deck with his fists locked together under his coattails.



They rounded Cape Gore without incident, and by dawn of the next day spotted the high mile-castles of Salesh, with its streets sloping down to the sea and the white domes of the Glittering Mile bright along the seafront. So calm the water was, so glassy, that they were obliged to keep the boiler full the whole way, and never ran up a stitch of canvas.

But as they rounded the breakwater and came into the harbor, Smith gave the order to cut power and come in on the tide alone. Willowspear threw open the stopcock, and steam escaped with a shriek that echoed off the waterfront. The thrashing oars shuddered to a halt; but when the echoes died an unearthly silence fell, and they might have been a ghost ship gliding in.

“Oh, my,” said Lady Svnae, shading her eyes with her hand.

White butterflies, everywhere, dancing in clouds through the sky, flickering on the branches of trees like unseasonable snow. They were thick on the rigging of every ship in the harbor. They lighted on the heads and arms of the citizens of Salesh, who were standing about like people in a dream, watching them. Nobody paid much attention to the Kingfisher’s Nest or her outlandish crew as they moored and came ashore.

“This is a portent of something tremendous,” said Willowspear, striding up Front Street.

“It’s the heat wave this summer,” said Lord Ermenwyr, glaring about him at the fluttering wings clouding the sky above the marketplace. “Unusual numbers of the nasty things hatched, that’s all. Wait up, damn you!”

“He does have a wife to get back to, you know,” Lady Svnae chided him.

“We will carry you, Master,” Cutt offered.

“Yes, perhaps that’s best,” said Lord Ermenwyr, and when Cutt bent obligingly he vaulted up to his shoulder and perched there, sneering at the butterflies that swirled about his head. “On, Cutt!”

“Do you often get butterfly migrations at this time of the year?” Lady Svnae inquired of Smith.

“Never that I remember,” he replied breathlessly. “How long has this been going on?” he inquired of a shopkeeper, who stood staring at the white wings clustered upon his hanging sign.

“They came in the night,” he replied. “The watchman saw them flying in from the sea. He said it looked like the stars were leaving Heaven and coming here!”

“It’s a sign from the gods!” cried a city runner, swinging her brazen trumpet to dislodge butterflies.

” ‘Sign from the gods’! Poppycock,” said Lord Ermenwyr, and then “Aaargh!” as Cutt bore him through a particularly thick cloud of floating wings.

“At least I don’t see any signs of riots,” said Smith.

“No,” Lord Ermenwyr replied, twisting on Cutt’s shoulder to peer up the hill. “I note Greenietown’s all hung with mourning over Hlinjerith, however.”

“I just hope they know it wasn’t us,” said Smith.

“Oh, they know who did it,” said Lady Svnae grimly. “Mother’s people don’t have runners, but you’d be amazed how fast news travels through the bowers. It’s a good thing you—”

They had turned up the last curve that led to the Grand-view, and there the butterflies were thickest of all, drifting and sailing between the buildings, whitening the gardens. At the Grandview itself they beat against every window, patiently walking up the glass, seeking a way in.

“They’d better not be infesting my suite,” Lord Ermenwyr said.

“Hush,” said his sister. “Something unusual is going on. Look!”

They saw Willowspear, far ahead of them now, reach the street door and throw it open. He ran inside without bothering to close the door, and butterflies streamed in after him.

“Come on!” cried Svnae, and, putting her arm around Smith, she half carried him with her, racing up the street. Lord Ermenwyr shouted an order and Cutt, Crish, Clubb, Stabb, Strangel, and Smosh thundered after them, and the white wings parted like cloud as they ran.

The lobby was empty of guests but full of butterflies, drifting gently up the staircase in an unceasing eddy. A man came out of the bar and stared at them. It was Porter Crucible.

“Nine Hells, Boss, what happened to your arm?” he cried.

“It’s a long story. What’s been going on here?” asked Smith.

“Everything’s gone to bloody rack and ruin,” Crucible replied gloomily. “Hardly any guests at all. We’ve had to cancel the seafood specials in the restaurant on account of the fishermen jacked the price up to five crowns a pound. We’d have gone out of business if it wasn’t for Nurse Balnshik dancing for the gentlemen in the bar.” His gloom rose momentarily. “What an artist! And now our Burnbright’s having her kid upstairs. Was that the greenie we heard go running up there?” He looked out at the lobby. “Where’d all these butterflies come from?”

“Beats me,” said Smith.

Lord Ermenwyr scrambled down from Cutt. “Stay,” he told his bodyguards. Without another word he, Smith, and Lady Svnae mounted the staircase.

They brushed through white clouds as they climbed, and came to the narrow little attic room where Burnbright and Willowspear lived.

There, at last, the air was clear; but only because hundreds of butterflies had settled, opening and shutting their wings, on the bedstead. Burnbright was sitting up in the bed, clutching a bundle to her shoulder as she kissed Willowspear, who was on his knees beside the bed with his arms around her.

There was no other furniture in the room, so Balnshik and Mrs. Smith were seated on the floor, with a bottle of Silverbush between them.

“That kiss has been going on for forty-five seconds now,” observed Mrs. Smith. “They’ll have to come up for air sooner or later. Oh, my poor Smith!” She struggled to her feet. “Your arm!”

“It’s well lost,” he replied, kissing her. “I’m going to have a replacement made of silver and gold with emeralds, and it’ll do tricks.”

“But you told me you’d bring him back safely, you horrid little man!” she said to Lord Ermenwyr. He shrugged and lit up his smoking tube with a fireball. It was immediately seized from his grasp by Lady Svnae, who looked outraged.

“You can’t smoke in a room with a new baby!” she admonished.

“So you’re an expert on the damned things too?” Lord Ermenwyr raged, his eyes beginning to stand out of his head.

“Master, you mustn’t shout,” said Balnshik, uncoiling from the floor gracefully and grabbing him. “Welcome to Salesh, Mistress,” she added to Lady Svnae, before bending Lord Ermenwyr backward in a kiss that silenced him.

Burnbright and Willowspear had broken their embrace at last. They were huddled together, looking at the tiny red infant dozing unconcernedly in her lap.

“He doesn’t look anything like you,” she fretted. “Except I think he has your mouth. And your nose. And maybe your eyes, but he hasn’t opened them yet. You want me to wake him up? I’m sorry he’s not—you know—like you.”

“I’m not sorry,” said Willowspear. “Not at all. Hello, Kalyon!”

“And then again, maybe we won’t have to get him registered as a resident Yendri,” Burnbright added hopefully. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? All the demonstrations and fighting stopped last week. Just stopped, boom. So maybe things will be better now anyway.”

“Hush, child, you’re waking my grandbaby,” Mrs. Smith scolded. Kalyon Willowspear was worming about in his blankets, drawing his fists up to his chin, grimacing extravagantly. He opened his eyes.

They were remarkable eyes. They were a misty green, like Hlinjerith in its glory.

“Oh, look!” screamed Burnbright gleefully. Startled, the baby flung out his little arms, starfish hands opened wide.

Immediately the butterflies rose and descended, hundreds attempting to settle in his two hands. They spilled through his fingers. They circled his head. The adults watched in frozen silence a long moment.

“Oh, gods,” said Mrs. Smith huskily, beginning to cry. “The poor little thing.”

“Aren’t we all supposed to fall to our knees at this point and sing a hymn or something?” Lord Ermenwyr inquired wearily.

“No, no!” said Lady Svnae, tremendously excited. “Don’t you see what all this portentous stuff means? This is obviously what those prophecies were all about! This is the one Mother’s restoring Hlinjerith for! This is the Beloved with his imperfections forgiven!” She peered at him. “Though I’m surprised he came back in that color.”

“I bloody well know what it means,” wept Mrs. Smith. “Better than you do, my girl. He’ll never have a moment’s rest. The same old story’s beginning again.”

“No,” said Smith. “This is a new story beginning.”

He looked down at the stump of his arm, and thought: Well lost. I’d give the other one too, if that’s the price of hope. The shadow has passed from the door.