throat,” Mrs. Smith added. “I saw it this afternoon, when he laughed.”
“I ought to have kept my shirt on,” said a smooth voice from out of the shadows.
Smith jumped. Mrs. Smith set her drink down, and with great care and deliberation drew a pistolbow from inside her coat. It was larger than either of Smith’s and, to judge from the size of the gears and the bolt, much more powerful.
“Oh, now, surely there’s no need for unpleasantness,” said Lord Ermenwyr, stepping into the circle of firelight. “Aren’t we all friends here? Aren’t we fellow travelers? Have I done anything evil at all?”
“You’re the son of the Master of the Mountain,” said Mrs. Smith, training the weapon on him. In the dim light of the fire his skin had an unearthly green pallor, for he had dropped the glamour that disguised him. Eyes wide, he held out his open hands.
“Can I help that? Let’s be reasonable about this. You’ve such a remarkable memory, dear Mrs. Smith; can you recall Daddy and Mummy being anything but perfectly law-abiding passengers? I’m sure we even tipped handsomely when we left the caravan.”
There was a black mist flowing along the ground, out of the darkness, and it began to swirl behind him in a familiar outline.
“To be sure you did, on that occasion,” agreed Mrs. Smith. “But your family has quite a reputation amongst the caravans, and not for generous tips.”
“Oh, Daddy hasn’t taken a caravan in years,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Really. Mummy made him give it up. I can’t vouch for my brothers not engaging in some light raids now and then, one of those stupid masculine rite of passage things I suppose, but they’re brutes, and what can one expect?”
Behind him, Balnshik materialized out of the night, regarding Mrs. Smith and Smith with eyes like coals. She too had dropped the glamour. Her skin was like a thundercloud, livid with phantom colors, glorious but hard to look at.
“Put your weapon down,” she said.
Mrs. Smith looked at her thoughtfully.
“Certainly, when his lordship gives me his word we’ll come to no harm,” she replied.
“You have my word, as my father’s son, that neither I nor mine will injure you nor compass your death in any way,” said Lord Ermenwyr at once. Mrs. Smith laid the pistolbow aside.
“That’s the formula,” she told Smith. “We should be safe enough. I’m pleased to see you did contrive to grow up after all, my lord.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “It’s been touch-and-go, as you can see, but I’ve managed.” Throwing out his coattails, he sat down cross-legged by the fire and took out his smoking tube. Balnshik remained on her feet, hovering over him watchfully. He continued:
“Just you try living the life of a normal young man when people are always lurking about trying to kill you. It’s not fair,” he said plaintively.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you a demon?” inquired Smith.
“Only one-quarter,” the lordling explained, angling his smoking tube like a pointer. “Half at most. Daddy was a foundling, you see, so we’re not sure. But what does it matter? When all’s said and done, I’m not that different from the rest of you. Do you know why we were all going to Salesh on that memorable occasion, Mrs. Smith? Daddy was trying to give us a holiday by the sea. Buckets, spades, sand castles, all that sort of thing.”
“Perfectly innocent,” said Mrs. Smith with measured irony.
“Well, it was! And Mummy felt the sea air would do me good. We were just like any other family, except for a few things like Daddy’s collection of heads and the fact that half the world wants us all dead.”
“That was why Flowering Reed was after you,” Smith realized. “He knew who you were.”
Lord Ermenwyr sighed. “It’s not easy being an Abomination. Saints aren’t supposed to get married and have children, you see. It’s sacrilegious. Anyone who can kill a walking blasphemy like me gains great spiritual merit, I understand. Of course, Flowering Reed disdained to do the job himself; wouldn’t get his pure hands dirty. But his hired killers kept failing, thanks to you and the late Parradan Smith being so good at defending us all,” he added, looking at Smith with affection.
“Was that why Flowering Reed shot him in the back?”
“Exactly. Nasty little darts. Flowering Reed’s people rationalize any guilt away by saying that it’s the poison on the thorn doing the killing, not them. Charming, isn’t it?”
“But that greenie doctor was quite respectful to you,” objected Mrs.