have wandered in from the street and done for Coppercut, in all that pullulating frenzy of lust going on last night,” Mrs. Smith remarked, setting scales in a ring around the dragon’s eye. “And it’s not as though there’s any shortage of people with motives. After the way he told all about the scandalous lives of the well-to-do? Especially Lady Quartzhammer, who, as I believe, was depicted in the best-selling The Imaginary Virgin as having a passionate affair with a dwarf.”
“And a bunch of goats,” added Burnbright, stirring pomegranate dye into sugar syrup.
“Something dreadfully unsavory, in any case. To say nothing of the expose he did on House Steelsmoke! I shouldn’t think they particularly cared to have it known that Lord Pankin’s mother was also his sister, and a werewolf into the bargain.” Mrs. Smith turned the sea dragon carefully and started another row of scales.
“Didn’t he say that all the Steelsmoke girls are born with tails, too? That was what I heard!” said Burnbright.
“He interviewed the doctor who did the postnatal amputations,” Mrs. Smith said. “Thoroughly ruthless, Sharplin Coppercut, and ruthlessly thorough. When his demise is made public, I imagine a number of highborn people will drink the health of his murderer in sparkling wine.”
“But he went after lowborn people too,” Burnbright quavered.
“Quite so. It seems unlikely you’ll solve this, Smith.”
Mrs. Smith leaned back and lit her smoking tube. She blew twin jets of smoke from her nostrils and considered him. “Perhaps Crossbrace could be persuaded with a bribe, instead of a likely suspect? Unlimited access to the bar? Or I’d be happy to cater a private supper for him.”
“It all depends on how—” Smith looked up as he heard a cautious knock at the kitchen door.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Smith.
Willowspear entered the kitchen and stopped, seeing Smith. “I beg your pardon,” he said, a little hoarsely. His eyes were watering and inflamed.
“Was the pinkweed getting to you?” Smith inquired.
Willowspear nodded, coughing into his fist. Burnbright, who had spun about the moment she heard his voice, came at once to his side.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asked, in a tone of concern Smith had never heard her use. “Can I get you a cup of water?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Willowspear. Smith and Mrs. Smith exchanged glances.
“Are their lordships getting along?” Smith inquired.
“Reasonably well,” Willowspear replied, sinking onto the stool Burnbright brought for him. “My lord Ermenwyr is reclining on his bed, tossing fireballs into the hearth. My lord Eyrdway is reclining on a couch and has transformed himself into a small fishing boat, complete with oars. They are past speech at the present time, and so are unlikely to quarrel, but are still in fair control of their nervous systems. Thank you, child.” He accepted a cup of water from Burnbright, smiling at her.
“You’re awfully welcome,” said Burnbright, continuing to hover by him.
“It’s very kind of you,” he said.
“Not at all!” she chirped anxiously. “I just—I mean— you’re not like them. I mean, you looked like you needed— er—”
“A drink of water?” prompted Mrs. Smith.
“That’s right,” said Burnbright.
“I did,” said Willowspear. He took a careful sip. “I’m not accustomed to pinkweed smoke in such concentration. I don’t indulge in it, myself.”
“Well, but it’s full of nasty fumes in here!” said Burnbright, pointing at Mrs. Smith’s smoking tube.
“Nothing but harmless amberleaf,” said Mrs. Smith in mild affront. Burnbright ignored her.
“Would you like to step out in our back area until you feel better?” she asked Willowspear. “There’s lovely fresh air, and—and a really nice view!”
“Perhaps I—”
“Would you like me to show you?”
They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment.
“I—yes,” said Willowspear, and Burnbright led him out the back door.
Mrs. Smith blew a smoke ring.
“Well, well,” she remarked.
“I didn’t think she had a sex drive,” said Smith wonderingly.
“It’s Festival, Smith,” Mrs. Smith replied.
“I guess she had to fall in love sooner or later,” said Smith. “I just never thought it’d be with a Yendri.”
Mrs. Smith shrugged.
“They taught her to despise greenies at the mother house, from the time she was old enough to stagger around on her little legs. That would only make the attraction more powerful, once it hit,” she said. “The thrill of the forbidden, and all that.”
She paused a long moment, her gaze unreadable, and took another drag on her smoking tube. “Besides,” she added, exhaling smoke, “it’s in her blood.”
At that moment a small pan on the hearth hissed as its contents foamed up, and Mrs. Smith leaped to her feet. “Hell! She’s gone