of suspense, thank you very much. I've spent too much of my life wondering if I'd live to see my next birthday."
Smith nodded. "And the only reason you left Troon was for your health?"
"Yes."
"You'd made no new enemies there?"
Lord Ermenwyr's eyes glinted. "I didn't say that," he purred. "Though it wasn't my fault, really. I made the most amazing discovery."
"Master," said Balnshik, in the gentlest voice imaginable, but it was still a warning.
"Did you know," said Lord Ermenwyr, with barely suppressed glee, "that if you're very attentive to wealthy widows, they'll practically pay you to sleep with them? They'll give you presents! They'll take you nice places to eat! Good lord, I might have been a kitten on a string, and all I had to do was--"
"I'm sure the Caravan Master isn't interested, my lord," said Balnshik, putting an affectionate arm about his neck and locking it against his windpipe.
"How old is he?" Smith asked her.
"Sixteen."
"Twenty-five!" said Lord Ermenwyr, pushing back her arm. "Really!"
"Sixteen," Balnshik repeated.
"Seventeen," Lord Ermenwyr insisted. "Anyway, the only problem is, the ladies get jealous, and they won't share their toy. There was a Scene. A certain lady tried to do me an injury with her hairbrush. I only got out of it by pretending to have a seizure, and then I told her I was dying, which I am but not right then, and--"
"And his lord father thought it best my master have a change of air," Balnshik finished for him.
Smith rubbed his chin, scratching the stubble.
"So... would any of these ladies have felt strongly enough to hire a band of mercenaries to ambush you out here?" he said, without much hope.
"Well, I don't know--Lady Fristia was rather--"
"No," said Balnshik. "And now, I hope you'll excuse us? It's time his lordship had his drugs." She lifted Lord Ermenwyr bodily, threw him over her shoulder, and carried him off, protesting:
"It could have been Lady Fristia, you know! She was obsessed with me--"
They buried Parradan Smith in a separate grave and piled a cairn of stones to mark it, on Burnbright's advice, she being the nearest expert on Mount Flame City gang customs. They felt badly leaving him there, in the shadow of the black mountain. Still, there is only so much one can do for the dead without joining them.
Two days more they rolled on, fearful at every blind turning, but the fire-colored forest was silent under a mild blue sky. No picturesque villains jumped out from behind the mossy boles nor arose from the green ferns.
On the third day, Crucible told Smith, "We'll come to a Red House today. Might want their blacksmith to have a look at that rear axle."
"Red House, right," said Smith, nodding. "That would be one of the way station chain? I saw one on the map. Well, that'll be a relief."
Crucible laughed like a crow. "You haven't tasted their beer," he said.
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 nodded. "And the only reason you left Troon was for your health?"
"Yes."
"You'd made no new enemies there?"
Lord Ermenwyr's eyes glinted. "I didn't say that," he purred. "Though it wasn't my fault, really. I made the most amazing discovery."
"Master," said Balnshik, in the gentlest voice imaginable, but it was still a warning.
"Did you know," said Lord Ermenwyr, with barely suppressed glee, "that if you're very attentive to wealthy widows, they'll practically pay you to sleep with them? They'll give you presents! They'll take you nice places to eat! Good lord, I might have been a kitten on a string, and all I had to do was--"
"I'm sure the Caravan Master isn't interested, my lord," said Balnshik, putting an affectionate arm about his neck and locking it against his windpipe.
"How old is he?" Smith asked her.
"Sixteen."
"Twenty-five!" said Lord Ermenwyr, pushing back her arm. "Really!"
"Sixteen," Balnshik repeated.
"Seventeen," Lord Ermenwyr insisted. "Anyway, the only problem is, the ladies get jealous, and they won't share their toy. There was a Scene. A certain lady tried to do me an injury with her hairbrush. I only got out of it by pretending to have a seizure, and then I told her I was dying, which I am but not right then, and--"
"And his lord father thought it best my master have a change of air," Balnshik finished for him.
Smith rubbed his chin, scratching the stubble.
"So... would any of these ladies have felt strongly enough to hire a band of mercenaries to ambush you out here?" he said, without much hope.
"Well, I don't know--Lady Fristia was rather--"
"No," said Balnshik. "And now, I hope you'll excuse us? It's time his lordship had his drugs." She lifted Lord Ermenwyr bodily, threw him over her shoulder, and carried him off, protesting:
"It could have been Lady Fristia, you know! She was obsessed with me--"
They buried Parradan Smith in a separate grave and piled a cairn of stones to mark it, on Burnbright's advice, she being the nearest expert on Mount Flame City gang customs. They felt badly leaving him there, in the shadow of the black mountain. Still, there is only so much one can do for the dead without joining them.
Two days more they rolled on, fearful at every blind turning, but the fire-colored forest was silent under a mild blue sky. No picturesque villains jumped out from behind the mossy boles nor arose from the green ferns.
On the third day, Crucible told Smith, "We'll come to a Red House today. Might want their blacksmith to have a look at that rear axle."
"Red House, right," said Smith, nodding. "That would be one of the way station chain? I saw one on the map. Well, that'll be a relief."
Crucible laughed like a crow. "You haven't tasted their beer," he said.
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
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