The Anvil of the World

By afternoon, when the long shadows were slanting behind the oaks, they saw the Red House. It stood on a bluff above the road, in a meadow cleared and stump-dotted, with high windowless walls of red plaster turreted at the four corners where watchmen in pot-helmets leaned. Burnbright announced the caravan’s approach on her trumpet, but they had already seen it from afar. By the time the keymen slowed for the turnout, the great gates were already opening.

Fortified as it was, an effort had been made to give the Red House a welcoming appearance. There was a quaint slated mansard built above the gate, bearing a sign of red glass that was illuminated after hours by lanterns: JOIN US HAPPY TRAVELER, it said. On either gatepost were carved the massive figures of folk heroes Prashkon the Wrestler and Andib the Axman, scowling down in a way that might be hoped to frighten off demons or any other ill-intentioned lurkers without the gates. As if that were not enough, the Housekeeper himself came running forward as the carts rattled in, screaming “Welcome! Welcome to Red House, customers!”

“Thank you,” said Smith cautiously, climbing from his cart and staring around. They were circled in an open courtyard of herringbone brick. To one side a high-vaulted hall stood, with blue smoke curling from its big central chimney. Built into the opposite wall were other long rooms: they might be storerooms and barracks for the watchmen. There was also a forge with a fire blazing, throwing on the dark wall the darker shadow of the blacksmith, who was clanging away lazily at a bit of glowing iron.

“You’d be out of Troon, Caravan Master, am I correct?” asked the Housekeeper, coming up to slap Smith’s arm heartily. He winced.

“That’s right,” he replied. “And it hasn’t been an easy trip. We’ve been attacked twice. No, three times, and lost a passenger.”

“Ah! Demons, was it?” The Housekeeper shuddered. “Horrible, horrible! But you’ll be all right here. We’re a bright speck of safety in a hostile land. Salves for your wounds and cheer for your heart. Everything for the traveler. Smithy, trading post with unique curios, dining hall with fine cuisine, splendid accommodations! Even baths. No shortage of water. You’ll dine with me, I trust?”

“Yes, thank you.” Smith glanced at the caravan, but the keymen were already wheeling the lead cart to the forge, covering the cargo and locking things down with practiced efficiency. “Hot baths for everybody first, though, I guess. Have you got a doctor here? Some of us are wounded, and there’s a Yendri passenger who’s helped out a little, but—”

“As it happens,” said the Housekeeper, lowering his voice, “Our medic is a Yendri. You won’t mind him, I promise you. Splendid fellow, knows his place, expert in all kinds of secret remedies his people use. Eminently trustworthy. Many of them are, you know. We’ve had him here for years. Never a mishap. I’ll send him to you in the bathhouse, shall I?”

The last thing Smith wanted at that moment was to have to deal with another supercilious green person, but his leg hurt badly, so he just nodded, and said, “Great.”

He was sitting in a long stone trough full of hot water, wishing it was deep enough to submerge himself, when the Yendri doctor entered the narrow stall and edged toward him. Like Flowering Reed, he was tall and regal-looking; but he wore a simple white robe and did not seem quite so superior.

“You are the wounded man?” he inquired, setting down a basket.

“It’s mostly me,” said Smith, sitting upright. “But the key-men are more important. They’ve got some bad gashes. In the name of the Unsullied Daughter, will you patch them up?”

The Yendri raised his eyebrows. “For the sake of the Unwearied Mother,” he said, laying a peculiar emphasis on the title, “they have been tended to. They asked me to see you next. You took a bolt in the leg?”

Smith nodded, raising his leg from the water. The Yendri hissed softly when he saw the bolt wound.

“This is inflamed. Dry yourself and step out to the massage table, please.”

He retreated, and Smith got hastily from the tub and toweled himself off. When he emerged from the stall, he saw that the Yendri had laid out a number of unpleasant-looking tools and bottles.

“You could just slap some salve and a bandage on it,” he suggested uneasily.

“Not if you wish to keep your leg,” the Yendri replied, helping him up on the table. Smith lay back and gritted his teeth, and for the next few minutes thought very hard about a cozy little bar in a seaside town, where from a window table one could watch blue dusk settling on the harbor and the yellow lamps blooming one after another on the ships and along the peaceful quay…

After far too long a time the Yendri was applying a bandage, and telling him, “The cut on your thorax will heal easily, but you’ll have to keep the leg elevated. Can they make a pallet for you on one of the carts?”

“I think so,” said Smith, unclenching his jaw with effort. “It was just a flesh wound. Did you really have to dig like that?”

“It had become—” The Yendri paused in tying off the bandage and looked at him. “Hm. Let me explain it like this: There are tiny demons who feed on wounds. They’re so tiny you can’t see them, but they can get into a cut and make you very, very sick, do you understand?”

Smith thought it sounded like the most idiotic superstition, but he nodded. “Tiny demons. All right. What’s keeping my leg up supposed to do?”

“Well, there are—hm—tiny warriors in your heart, you see? And they’ll do battle with the demons if they can get to them, but if you constrict the—hm—the river of your blood so they can’t row their tiny warships along it—” The Yendri, observing Smith’s expression, threw his hands in the air. “Let’s just say you need to keep off your feet and rest, will that do? And perhaps it won’t scar too badly.”

“I’m too old to care about scars,” said Smith, rubbing his leg.

“You’re fortunate, then,” said the Yendri, eyeing him critically. “Given the number you’ve got. You’re a mercenary, I take it?”

“Have been,” Smith replied warily.

“You’ve survived a great deal. You must be sensible enough to follow a doctor’s advice.” The Yendri bundled up his instruments.

“I’ll do my best,” said Smith. “Thank you. Thanks for being polite, too. Flowering Reed sounded like he hoped I’d die, even when he was putting on the bandage.”

The Yendri looked at him sharply. “Another of my people treated you?”

“He’s one of our passengers.”

“Hm. Would that be where you learned the expression ‘Unsullied Daughter,’ by any chance?”

“Yes. I thought it was something we had to say so you’d treat us.”

“No,” said the Yendri quietly. “Any true follower of the Lady in question must heal the sick and the wounded, whether or not they invoke Her name. And regardless of who they are. Good evening, Caravan Master.”

He took his basket and left. Smith pulled on his clothes and limped out of the bathhouse. It was twilight, with one star in a purple sky above the red walls, and the firelight from the forge threw his tottering shadow out black beside him as he made his way across the courtyard to the high hall.



“Caravan Master!” cried the Housekeeper, descending on him with a drink in either hand. “Come, sit with me. Your bath was enjoyable, yes, and you’ve had your leg seen to? Excellent. You’ll enjoy a complimentary beverage and our unique regional cuisine while relaxing around the blazing warmth of our fire.”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Smith dazedly.

He let himself be led to a seat by the central fire pit, and sank into it with a grateful sigh, as a drink was pressed into his hand. Utter bliss. His state of euphoria lasted until he took a sip of his drink.

“What—what’s this?” he gasped, turning to the Housekeeper in disbelief.

“That’s our special acorn beer,” said the Housekeeper, a little defensively. “It’s made nowhere else. We don’t even brew enough to export.”

“It’s very unusual,” said Smith.

“You’d really like it if you had a chance to get used to it,” the Housekeeper told him. “It has a marvelous subtle complex bouquet.”

Like a burning barn, thought Smith. He swirled the flat sour stuff, and said, “Delicate carbonation, too.”

“Exactly,” the Housekeeper said, and drank heartily. “None of your nasty gassy flatlands ale!” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and leaned toward Smith with a gleam in his eye. “Though I’m always interested in news from the flatlands, you understand. We’ve got almost everything here—fresh air, fine water, radiant health—of course it’s a little dismaying at first, always looking over one’s shoulder at the, er, mountain up there, but one soon grows used to that—still, we’re a little out of touch, I have to admit. Almost miss the flatlands, sometimes.”

“Really,” said Smith, having another mouthful of his beer in the hope that it would improve upon acquaintance. It didn’t.

“Yes,” said the Housekeeper, staring into the fire. “Not so much at this time of year—the forest isn’t so bad, the leaves look like flames now, and soon the branches will be bare so you can see things, good clean honest open spaces. Not like in summer when there’s this smothering blanket of impenetrable green and anything could be hiding out there, anything could steal up behind you and—one gets a little edgy in the summer, yes. Demon-country, after all.”

Smith nodded. “Do you get attacked much?”

“Attacked? No, no, not in here, this is a fine safe outpost. The odd demon over the wall now and again, but I think they’re only after our beer.”

Smith thought that very unlikely indeed.

“One just doesn’t want to venture outside the walls, into all that—green,” said the Housekeeper, and shuddered. “Well! Tell me of your travels, Caravan Master. Tell me the news of Troon.”

Smith obliged, for the next quarter of an hour, and while he talked he surveyed the high hall. Other guests of the Red House, a mixed lot of Children of the Sun, Yendri and unclassifiable half-breeds, sat here and there eating, or drinking, or settling down for the night.

Across the fire pit, the keymen were lined up on a long settle, basking in the warmth in happy mutual silence. In the dining area, Mrs. Smith and Burnbright were sitting at a table, though they were not eating: Mrs. Smith had pushed away her laden trencher and sat smoking furiously, glaring at it. Burnbright was sawing away at a piece of meat with great difficulty. So formidable did it seem to be that it slipped out of the trencher now and then and had to be stabbed and dragged back by main force.

In the quiet area at the back of the hall, the Smiths had made up a couple of beds, and the children sat upright in one, chattering like starlings, while their mother rocked the screaming baby in the other and their father attempted to erect a makeshift curtain to screen them from the firelight. Other guests, having bedded down for the night, were rising now and then on their elbows to look threateningly at the little family.

Ronrishim Flowering Reed sat alone at a table, a carafe of something that looked like rainwater in front of him. Smith gazed at it longingly and rinsed his mouth with more of the beer. As he gave detailed descriptions of all the costumes he’d seen at Troon’s Festival of Masks to the Housekeeper, Smith observed a hooded stranger rise from a seat in the shadows and approach Flowering Reed.

The stranger leaned over him and said something in a low voice. Flowering Reed looked interested, made a reply. The stranger sat down across from him and, taking out a long rolled envelope of supple leather, spread it open on the table to display some kind of small wares packed inside.

“But the ladies,” said the Housekeeper. “Tell me about the ladies in Troon. I dream about sophisticated feminine graces, you know, day in, day out, as the caravans come and go. Ladies and their brocades. Their perfumes. Their tiny little jeweled sandals. Their refined accents!”

“Don’t have the bloody Mixed Grill plate, whatever you do,” muttered Mrs. Smith out of the corner of her mouth, dropping heavily into a chair beside Smith. “It’s unspeakably horrid.” She stuffed more amberleaf into her smoking tube and, leaning forward, lit it from the fire pit.

“I always thought inland men had lots of Yendri mistresses,” said Smith to the Housekeeper. “Or half-demonesses or something. Wild forest girls who won’t keep their clothes on, with breasts like…” Words failed him, as an image of Balnshik’s bosom rose before his eyes.

“Don’t tell me that thing was a kidney,” Mrs. Smith growled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Grilled handball is more like it. And those creamed woodpeas! Inedible.”

The Housekeeper was shaking his head sadly. “Oh, Caravan Master, I can see you’re a stranger to the Greenlands. The Yendri women keep to themselves. As for any wild forest girls, well, first you’ve got to persuade them to bathe on a regular basis, and then you’d better keep a weapon under your pillow. And when you’ve had the bad luck to take up with one who’s got some shapeshifting blood! No, no; one soon learns that a female and a lady are not necessarily one and the same. How I crave the sight of a real lady! The delicate ankles. The gauzy underthings. The cosmetics—” He had to pause to wipe saliva from the corner of his mouth.

“Ladies,” said Smith to the Housekeeper. “Well—We’re carrying cargo for Lady Seven Butterflies.”

“Seven Butterflies!” The Housekeeper was ecstatic. “What a charming name. Is she delicate and fair, as it suggests?”

“I guess so,” said Smith, remembering the mask with its black tongue. “I couldn’t see her very well for her costume. But it was a pretty costume.” He was distracted as Balnshik entered the high hall, evidently fresh from the bath. Her damp shirt clung to her breasts, which stood up proudly, as she carried on her head an elaborate construction of wood and canvas, with both hands up to steady it.

Behind her Lord Ermenwyr strutted, with his wet hair curling over the lace collar of his long nightshirt. He wore embroidered slippers and a matching nightcap, and carried a bedroll. His long smoking tube was still clenched between his teeth.

Balnshik selected a suitably remote section of the hall and set down her burden. In a moment she had it all unfolded and standing: a camp cot of ingenious design, complete with its own attached insect tent of gauzy netting, surmounted by a gilded cherub blowing a tiny trumpet. At least, it looked like a cherub. Was that a tiny tail it sported? Lord Ermenwyr passed her the bedroll and as Balnshik leaned between the curtains to arrange it on the cot, he wandered over to the fire.

“Good evening, all,” he said, puffing out a great rift of purple weedsmoke that mingled a moment with Mrs. Smith’s white amberleaf fumes, turning a sickly lavender before vanishing up the draft of the fire hood. “Splendid baths, Housekeeper. Not quite deep enough to have satisfying sex in, but all the hot water one could ask for.”

“And this young man would be?” inquired the Housekeeper, mildly affronted.

“This is Lord Ermenwyr of the House Kingfisher,” Smith explained, and the Housekeeper leaped to his feet.

“My lord! Honor, honor, all possible honor to your house! Delighted to receive you at Red House. Please, here’s a cushion, sit by the fire. A drink for the lord,” he shouted to the bar.

“Er—he’s very young,” said Smith. “And an invalid besides. I don’t think beer would be a good idea.”

“Oh, if he’s an invalid, he must try our acorn beer,” said the Housekeeper earnestly, settling Lord Ermenwyr in his own chair and arranging pillows around him. “It’s got plenty of health-giving qualities. Very tonic. And, begging your pardon, Caravan Master, but any fellow with a beard is surely old enough for strong waters.”

“Of course I am,” said Ermenwyr complacently. “Pray, Caravan Master, don’t trouble yourself. Is this the famous acorn beer?” He accepted a cup from the slavey who had hastened up to present it to him. “Thank you so much. To your good health, Housekeeper,” he said, and drank.

Smith cringed inwardly, watching as Lord Ermenwyr’s eyes popped wide. He swallowed, bared his teeth, turned the grimace into a fearsome smile and said, “How original. I wonder—could I purchase a barrel of this stuff? It’d make a perfect gift for my older brothers.”

Tears of joy formed in the Housekeeper’s eyes. “Oh! The honor you do us! My lord, it’s in short supply, but for you—”

“Name your price,” said Lord Ermenwyr.

“Please, accept it as a gift! And grant only that I may claim the honor of your patronage,” gushed the Housekeeper. Lord Ermenwyr frowned at that, and some of the glittering nastiness went out of his eyes.

“You have my patronage,” he said seriously. “There. See that a barrel is packed with my trunks before we leave.”

The Housekeeper twittered so that Smith was afraid he was going to flap his arms and fly into the rafters. Mrs. Smith watched the scene in disbelief until Burnbright came wandering up forlornly.

“I can’t find my bedroll,” she said. “I think one of those strangers took it. Come help me look.”

“They won’t rape you, for heaven’s sake,” said Mrs. Smith. “Not with all these people here anyway.”

“But they look like bandits,” whined Burnbright, twisting her hands together. “Please?”

Grumbling and puffing smoke, Mrs. Smith hauled herself out of her chair and stamped off with Burnbright. At that moment the Yendri doctor entered, carrying his basket, making for the dining area where a guest was doubled up with indigestion. Smith nodded at the doctor, who did not notice, because his eyes were tracking across the room as he walked. He spotted Flowering Reed. Smith thought he looked disgusted, and wondered briefly if the Yendri disliked one another as much as they seemed to dislike all other races.

The doctor’s gaze slid off Flowering Reed and he turned to go on, but paused again as he saw Lord Ermenwyr, who was laughing at something the Housekeeper had just said and tilting back his head to blow a smoke ring. The doctor halted, stared a long moment before going on to his patient.

Smith’s attention was drawn away as a slavey came bustling up with a tray.

“Your supper at last, Caravan Master,” said the Housekeeper. “I’m proud to present our local specialty: Huntsman’s Mixed Grill with creamed woodpeas!”

“Oh. Thank you,” said Smith. He sat straight, putting his drink aside gladly, and accepted a trencher and a rolled napkin full of utensils from the slavey. As he looked around for a place to set one of them down, he saw out of the corner of his eye the hooded man staring at him. He turned to meet his gaze. The man jumped to his feet, starting toward him.

“You! You’re the Caravan Master. Those are your people, right? Can’t you tell them to shut their damned baby up?”

“Well—I can try, but—” said Smith, awkwardly juggling utensils and thinking that the stranger was yelling louder than the baby.

“Wait a minute. I know you from somewhere,” announced the stranger, raising his voice even more as he approached. “You’re that thief they were looking for in Karkateen this summer!”

“What?” Smith gaped at the stranger, who had come up on him so rapidly they were now face-to-face. “No. You’re mistaken. I’ve never been in Karkateen—”

“Are you calling me a liar?” shouted the stranger. His arm flashed out, and Smith’s trencher went flying as he tried to fend him off, but there was no weapon in the stranger’s hand. Instead there was a small bag of purple-dyed leather palmed there, and the stranger made a snatching motion at Smith’s belt and held up the bag as though he’d just pulled it loose. “This is mine! Damn you, here’s my mark on it!”

But he played the game a second too long, holding up the bag in righteous indignation for all to behold, because Smith saw him going for his knife with his other hand. That gave Smith time to drive his fork into the stranger’s leg and roll forward out of his chair, under the stranger’s guard. He came up behind him as the stranger was turning, and hip-checked him so he fell forward across Smith’s empty chair with a crash.

“I’m not a thief, I’m not from Karkateen, and I didn’t take that pouch from you because you had it in your hand the whole time,” Smith babbled, drawing both his pistolbows and stepping back. “What the hell’s going on?”

But even as the stranger turned, yanking the fork from his leg with a murderous glare, Smith knew what was going on. Burnbright, over in the sleeping area, screamed as four shadowy figures leaped to their feet and came forward. Surprisingly for men who had retired to their blankets, each was fully clothed and armed with a cocked pistolbow.

Smith gulped and retreated a pace farther, as the foremost stranger drew his knife and hurled it at him. Smith dodged the blade and fired both bolts straight into the stranger’s chest, and couldn’t imagine why the man looked as surprised as he did when he fell.

Then there were bolts whistling through the air toward him. Smith threw himself flat behind a table and chairs, heard the bolts plunking home into wood and into plaster, and heard more screams and inarticulate shouting, the loudest of which was the Housekeeper calling for his watchmen.

Reloading, Smith peered through table and chair legs and saw that Lord Ermenwyr had sensibly thrown a table down and got behind it on his hands and knees. Balnshik was in the act of flying to him, bounding over the scattered furniture. Smith leaned up to see where his assailants were and beheld to his astonishment that one was down, tackled from behind by Mrs. Smith and Burnbright, who were shrieking like mismatched furies and clubbing him on the head with trenchers. The keymen had as one risen to their feet, grabbed a wide settle, and made a shield of it as they blocked two of the other attackers.

The fourth man came on, however, reloading as he ran, evading the keymen and actually vaulting across the fire pit to get to Smith. Smith jumped up, kicking a stool toward the man to foul his legs as he landed, and the stranger managed to avoid the stool but stumbled on his fallen companion. Smith fired at him, one bolt skittering off into the debris and one smacking home into the man’s side.

His assailant cursed, but lurched to his feet anyway and drew a short sword. He stood swaying, waving it at Smith, though his face was ashen. Smith grabbed up the stool and swung it at the man, knocking the sword out of his fingers. Another blow with the stool, and the man collapsed backward, bleeding from his mouth.

Smith backed away, hearing a commotion behind him that was perhaps the arrival of the Red House watchmen. He looked up and was amazed to see that the two remaining strangers had turned from the keymen and were engaging Balnshik, attempting to pinion her. They weren’t succeeding very well; in fact, Smith heard the distinctive sound of snapping bone and a gibbering scream from one of the men; but they had successfully drawn her attention.

Behind her, Flowering Reed was moving quietly along the wall. His face looked odd. Was that something in his mouth? And what a strange look in his eyes, too, fixed as they were on Lord Ermenwyr, who was making himself as small a target behind his table as he could, and whose lips were moving in—prayer? But he could not see Flowering Reed advancing on him.

Smith knew the truth, suddenly, without understanding. Bawling “My lord!” he ran around the table to block Flowering Reed’s advance, pulling his machete.

Something white was flowing toward him from his left with tremendous speed. The Yendri doctor? Something was coming thunderously up behind him. Flowering Reed looked at Smith with purest hatred in his eyes, and grimaced around the tube between his clenched teeth.

Then Smith was down, he was hit and he seemed to have struck his head on something, because it hurt a lot, and there was some other injury but minor, a little stinging in his arm. Smith turned his head and saw three tiny feathered darts sticking out of his wrist. Knowing that he must get the thorns out, he raised his machete to scrape them away; but the room blurred in bloody darkness before he could tell if he’d succeeded. Oh, he thought, I’m dead.