to say something reassuring and passed out instead.
There came a thunderous hammering and shouts from the front door. Lord Ermenwyr wailed and ran to stick on a fresh beard. Smith, in the act of pulling on his trousers, stumbled into the hall to face the clerk and several members of the City Guard.
“About time you got here,” he improvised. “We just chased off the thieves. What kind of hotel is this, anyway?”
After profuse apologies had been made, after crime scene reports had been filed, after Lord Ermenwyr’s baggage had been transferred to another suite and a Yendri doctor in Anchor Street sent for to see to Mr. Amook—
Smith, Balnshik, and Lord Ermenwyr sat around a small table in varying degrees of comedown and hangover.
“You promise you won’t tell anybody about the beard?” Lord Ermenwyr asked for the tenth time.
“I swear by all the gods,” repeated Smith wearily.
“It will grow in one of these days, you know, and it’ll be just as impressive as Daddy’s,” Lord Ermenwyr assured him. “You haven’t seen Daddy’s, of course, but—anyway, what’s a mage without a beard? Who’d respect me anymore?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Fortunately, the witnesses aren’t likely to blab. Horrible Flowering Reed is finally dead, and what a consolation that is! And those other two probably didn’t see me, and if they did, they’re dead anyway. You’re certain they’re dead, Nursie?”
“Oh, yes.” She closed her eyes and smiled blissfully. “Quite dead.”
“So that just leaves you, Caravan Master, and of course you won’t tell.”
“Uh-uh.”
“I’ll make it worth your while. Honestly. Anything you’ve always wanted but never had? Any personal problems you’d like some assistance with? You should have explained about your ‘special talents’ sooner! Daddy always needs skilled assassins, he’d give you a job in a second,” chattered Lord Ermenwyr, whose mind was racing like a rat in a trap.
Smith’s mind, however, suddenly woke to calm clarity.
“Actually,” he said, “there is something you can help me with. I need a lot of money and a good lawyer to defend me against the Transport Authorities.”
Lord Ermenwyr whooped and bounced in his chair. “Is that all? Daddy owns the Transport Authorities! There are more ways of making money off caravans than robbing them, you see, even when you’re forced to become law-abiding. Mostly law-abiding anyway. Name the charges, and they’re dropped.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Smith. Settling himself comfortably in his chair, he began to tell the long story of everything that had happened since they bade him good-bye at the caravan depot.
“Terrace dining with a splendid view of the sea,” said Mrs. Smith thoughtfully, waving a hand at a bare expanse of concrete. She had a drag at her smoking tube and exhaled. “We shall deck it over quaintly, and put up latticework with trumpet vines to make it gracious. Tables and striped umbrellas.” She turned and regarded the old brick building behind them. “And, of course, an interior dining room for when the weather’s horrid, with suitably nautical themes in its decor.”
“Are you sure you want this property?” inquired Lord Ermenwyr. Behind him, the keymen were methodically pacing out room dimensions.
Burnbright stuck her head out an upstairs window and screamed, “You should see the view from up here! If we fix the holes in the roof and put in some walls, it’ll be great!” She waved a small dead dragon, mummified flat. “And look what I found in a corner! We could hang it over the street door and call ourselves the Dead Dragon!”
Lord Ermenwyr shuddered.
“No, silly child, it’ll be the Hotel Grandview: Fried Eel Dinners A Specialty,” decided Mrs. Smith.
“The real estate agent said there was a much better location on Windward Avenue,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Surely you’d rather do business somewhere a bit less crumbling?”
“I like this. It’s got potential,” Smith assured him.
“Some people enjoy a challenge, Master,” Balnshik told Lord Ermenwyr, draping a furred cloak about his shoulders.
“But it’s so weather-beaten,” he fretted.
“I should prefer to say it has character,” said Mrs. Smith. “One can go a long way on character. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes,” he said, slipping an arm about her and looking up at the improbable future shining in the clouds. “I’d say so.”
HOW beautiful is Salesh, that white city by the sea, in festival time!
Her broad ways are strung with bright lanterns, and banners of purple and crimson stream from her high towers. Slender Youth runs laughing in gilded sandals through her gardens, pulling fragrant roses down to scatter the petals, and Age lies sated on cushions