from the caravan depot, breasts jutting arrogantly. They followed her, needless to say.
Smith stared after her until his attention was pulled away by a clerk approaching him.
“Caravan Master”—the clerk peered over his spectacles at the manifest—”Smith? What’s this I hear about damaged goods?”
“It’s only one unit of one consignment,” Smith explained. “The flour and the mineral pigments are fine.”
“Yes, they’re already claimed. But the shipment to Lady Katmile?”
“There was an accident,” said Smith, sweating slightly as he turned and rummaged in his pack for the broken egg. “Minor collision. Not our fault. Just this one, see? But all the others are intact!” He waved at the 143 violet eggs reposing under their cargo net.
“Eggs?” The clerk frowned. “Most irregular. Who on earth authorized packing containers like that?”
“The sender, if you must know,” said Mrs. Smith, bustling up to Smith’s rescue. “All her own design. We hadn’t a thing to do with it. Bloody nuisance the whole trip. She’s lucky it’s only the one!”
“We were attacked a lot, sir,” Smith told the clerk. The clerk’s eyes widened behind his spectacles, which magnified the expression freakishly.
“You’d better fill out an Assault, Damage and Loss form,” he said.
“He’s going to get off his feet and have a drink first,” stated Mrs. Smith, linking her arm through Smith’s. Behind her, the keymen and Burnbright assembled themselves to glare at the clerk. “Aren’t you, Caravan Master? Anybody wants to see us, we’ll be in the Stripped Gear over there.” She pointed to a dark doorway set invitingly at the back of an arcade.
“That’s right,” said Crucible. “This is a wounded man, you know.”
“And if he dies, there’ll be all kinds of trouble, because he’s the owner’s cousin,” said Burnbright, pushing forward assertively. “So there.”
“Come along, boys,” said Mrs. Smith, and, towing Smith after her, she made for the Stripped Gear, with Burnbright and the keymen flanking them. “You’ll like this.
Charming little watering hole for the trade. Doesn’t try to foist one off with plonk, and, moreover, rents rooms quite inexpensively.”
“And we get our own bloody palanquin,” said Burnbright, which made no sense at all to Smith until they got through the dark doorway and he saw the rows of booths built to resemble big palanquins, complete with curtains and thickly padded seats. Apart from that bit of theatrics, the Stripped Gear was just what a bar should be: cozy, dark but not too dark to spot an attacker, crowded but not too loud for conversation. Smith felt his spirits rising as the keymen vaulted into the booth one after another and pulled him in after them. Mrs. Smith and Burnbright followed.
“My treat,” he said.
“No, no; at least, not the first round,” admonished Mrs. Smith. “Pray, allow us. We’re really quite pleased with you, Caravan Master, aren’t we, boys?”
They keymen all chorused agreement.
“Coming on at the last minute like you did after poor old Smelterman took that bolt,” said Pinion.
“Considering it was your first time and all,” agreed one of the other Smiths.
“I had my doubts, but you held up,” said Crucible. “You’re no coward, I’ll say that for you.”
“And a good man in a fight, too,” said Bellows.
“I never saw anybody bleed the way you did and live,” offered Burnbright. At that moment the publican came up.
“Mrs. Smith! Charmed to see you again,” he said, bowing. She extended a regal hand, and he kissed it.
“Delighted to have returned, Mr. Socket. Six of your best Salesh Ambers for the gentlemen, a peach milk for the young lady, and I shall have a dry Storm Force Nine with a twist,” she said. “Later we’ll need to inquire regarding suitable accommodations for the night.”
He hurried away, and after a pleasantly short interval returned with their order. When he had departed, Burnbright held up her peach milk. “Here’s to our caravan master,” she yelled, hammering on the table with her little fist. “Death to our enemies!” They all clinked glasses and drank.
“I have dreamed of this moment,” said Mrs. Smith, lighting her smoking tube and filling the booth with amberleaf fumes at once. “I shall take in a show along the Glittering Mile.”
“I’m off to the Winking Tit,” said Crucible, and the other keymen nodded in emphatic unison.
“Are there any places like that for ladies?” Burnbright asked.
“Not at your age, you silly thing,” said Mrs. Smith. “What you’ll need to do is get yourself over to the local mother house to clock in your mileage. You should be very nearly certified by now. What will you do, Caravan Master?”