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