behind the curtains of the palanquin. “Stop that at once.”
“—And if I’m harried to an early grave, or should I say an earlier grave, well then, Caravan Master, you’ll pay for it in ways you can’t even begin to—”
“Nursie warned you,” said the voice, and an arm flashed between the curtains and caught Lord Ermenwyr around the knees. He vanished backward into the depths of the palanquin with a yelp, and there were sounds of a violent struggle as the palanquin rocked on its base. Smith stepped quickly away.
“Er—Smith!” cried his cousin. “I’d like you to meet your subordinates.”
Smith turned to see a crowd of caravaneers who clearly disliked being described as his subordinates. They gave him a unanimous resentful stare as he approached.
“May I present the esteemed keymen? Keyman Crucible, Keyman Smith, Keyman Bellows, Keyman Pinion, Keyman Smith.”
They were, as all keymen, compact fellows with tremendously developed arms and muscle-bulging legs, and so alike they might have been quintuplets.
“Nice meeting you,” said Smith. They grunted at him.
“This is your runner.” His cousin placed his hands on the shoulders of a very young, very skinny girl. She wore the red uniform and carried the brass trumpet of her profession, but she was far from the curvaceous gymnast Smith fantasized about when he fantasized about runners. She glowered up at Smith’s cousin.
“Take your hands off me or you’ll hear from my mother house,” she said. Smith’s cousin withdrew his hands as though she were a live coal.
“Young Burnbright hasn’t earned her full certification, yet, but she’s hoping to do so in our service,” he said delicately. “If all goes well, that is. And here, Smith, is our culinary artist! May I present the two-time winner of the Troon Municipal Bakeoff? Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Smith was large and not particularly young, though she had a certain majesty of bearing. She looked sourly on Smith.
“Do you do fried eel?” Smith asked hopefully.
“Perhaps,” she said. “If I’m properly motivated. If I have the proper pans.” She spat out the last word with bewildering venom, turning her glare on Smith’s cousin.
He wrung his hands. “Now, dear Mrs. Smith—I’m sure you’ll manage without the extra utensils, this one time. It was necessary.”
“Leaving half my kitchen behind for those bloody things?” Mrs. Smith demanded, pointing at the carts laden with giant eggs. “They take up three times the room of an ordinary shipment! What was wrong with regular crates, I’d like to know?”
“In addition to her other talents, Lady Seven Butterflies is a genius at innovative packing and insulation,” said Smith’s cousin earnestly. “She had the inspiration from Nature itself, you see. What, after all, is the perfect protective shape devised by Nature? The egg, of course—”
“Balls,” said Mrs. Smith.
“—with its ovoid shape, elegantly simple yet strong, a holistic solution providing plenty of insulating space for the most fragile creations—”
“How am I going to feed my boys, let alone serve up the gourmet experience for passengers so grandiloquently advertised on your handbills, you imbecile man?” shouted Mrs. Smith.
“We’ll work something out,” said Smith, stepping between them. “Look, I’m traveling pretty light. Maybe we can take some of your pans in the lead cart?”
Mrs. Smith considered him, one eyebrow raised. “An intelligent suggestion,” she said, mollified, as Pinion and Crucible seized up a vast crate marked KITCHEN and hurried with it to Smith’s cart. “We may get on, young Smith.”
“Of course you will,” said Smith’s cousin, and fled.
It was nearly light. Those whose duty it was came yawning and shivering to the West Gate, bending to the spokes of the great windlass. The gate rose slowly in its grooves, and a cold wind swept in off the plain and sent spirals of dust into the pink air. A trumpeter mounted the turret by the gate and announced by his blast that another day of commerce had begun, for better or worse, and Burnbright answered with a fanfare to let the passengers know that it was time to board.
The keymen mounted to their posts and began cranking the mighty assemblage of gears and springs in each lead cart. The passengers took their seats, with the Smiths’ baby still crying dismally, as the last of the luggage was loaded by the porters. There was a moment of dithering with Lord Ermenwyr’s palanquin until it was lifted and lashed in place atop his trunks. Purple fumes escaped between the fluttering curtains, so it was evident he was still alive in there, if preserving a sullen silence.