and sumptuous one, and then there was a lot of collapsible furniture to be set up, so it was a while before Smith remembered to inform her, “We’ll be serving gourmet cuisine shortly, as advertised. We can offer his lordship—”
“Oh, don’t worry about him; the little beast can’t keep down anything solid,” said Balnshik serenely, tossing a handful of incense onto a brazier.
“I can hear every word you’re saying, you know.” Lord Ermenwyr’s voice floated from the palanquin. He sounded peevish.
“What about some clear broth, darling?”
“No. I’m still motion sick and, anyway, it’ll probably be poisoned.”
Balnshik’s eyes flashed, and she turned to Smith with a charming smile in which there were a great many white and gleaming teeth. “Will you excuse us, please? I must attend to my lord.”
So saying, she vaulted into the palanquin, vanishing behind the curtains, and Smith heard the unmistakable sound of a ringing slap, and the palanquin began to rock and thump in place once more. It seemed like a good idea to leave.
He wandered over to the kitchen pavilion, where Mrs. Smith had lit a fire and set saucepans bubbling at magical speed, and was now busily dabbing caviar on little crackers.
“Can you prepare an order of clear broth?” he asked.
“What, for the greenie?” She glared across at Ronrishim Flowering Reed, who had finally relinquished the hut and was now seated in front of a tent, apparently meditating. “Bloody vegetarians. I hate cooking for those people. ‘Oh, please, I’ll just have a dish of rainwater at precisely air temperature with an ounce of mother’s milk on the side, and if it’s not too much trouble, could you float a couple of violets on it?’ Faugh!”
“No, actually, it’s for Lord Ermenwyr.” Smith looked over his shoulder at the palanquin, which was motionless now.
“Oh. The invalid?” Mrs. Smith turned to peer at the pavilion. “Heavens, what a grand tent. He’s a nasty-looking little piece of goods, I must say, but as he’s dying I suppose we must make the effort. A good rich capon stock with wine, I think.”
“Parradan Smith’s a gangster,” Burnbright informed them, coming close and appropriating a cracker.
“Get away from those, child. What do you mean?”
“I peeked when he was washing himself, and he’s got secret society tattoos all over,” said Burnbright, retreating beyond the reach of Mrs. Smith’s carving knife. “And he’s got an instrument case he never lets go of almost. And knives.”
“How do you know they’re secret society tattoos?” Smith was troubled.
“Because he’s from Mount Flame City, and I’m from there too, and I know what the Bloodfires’ insignia look like,” said Burnbright matter-of-factly. “Their deadly enemies are the House Copperhammer. When they’ve got a war on, you find body parts in the strangest places. All over town.”
“Lovely,” grunted Mrs. Smith.
“He’s listed on the manifest as a courier,” said Smith, looking out at the man in question, who sat just inside the door of a tent, polishing his boots. Burnbright nodded sagely.
“Couriering somebody’s loot somewhere, see. I’ll bet he’s got a fortune in that instrument case. Unless it’s a disguise, and he’s accepted a contract on one of the other passengers and he’s biding his time before he kills them!” she added, her little face alight.
“Wretched creatures. He’d better leave me alone; I never travel unarmed,” said Mrs. Smith, handing her the tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Go set that on the buffet and inform the guests that the main course will be served in half an hour. Grilled quail glazed with acacia honey, stuffed with wild plums.”
It was as good as it sounded. Even the Smith’s infant stopped crying for a while, given a leg bone with sauce to suck on.
When twilight had fallen Balnshik emerged from the palanquin, carrying Lord Ermenwyr in her arms like a limp rag doll, and settled him in the splendid pavilion before coming out for a plate for herself and a bowl of broth for her lord. She made as profound an impression on the other males in the party as she’d made on Smith. Even the Smiths’ two little boys stopped chewing, and with round eyes watched her progress across the camp.
She seemed not to notice the attention she drew, was courteous and formal. Smith thought he saw her glance side-long at the Yendri, once, with a glitter of amused contempt in her eyes, before there came a querulous feeble cry from the pavilion, and she turned to hurry back to Lord Ermenwyr.
“Clearly she doesn’t think much of Mr. Flowering Reed,” pronounced Mrs.