The Veiled Dragon (10 page)

killed him.” “If this is the same dragon, perhaps she did,” Ruha said. “He looked very dead when he attacked us.” This did not seem to calm Vaerana at all. “Then Cypress is the Cult of the Dragon’s idol! No wonder they’re being so bold!” She swept Ruha up and started down the hill at a trot. “We’ve got to hurry!” The witch wrapped her fingers into Vaerana’s cloak, terrified the Lady Constable would trip and fall on top of her. “Wait! I do not understand!” “The Cult of the Dragon worships dead dragons,” Vaerana continued to run. “The reverence keeps the spirits from being drawn into the netherworld, and the dragons just keep growing.” “Please put me down!” Ruha urged. “There is no reason to worry. I have destroyed Cypress.” Vaerana began to slow, but did not return the witch’s feet to the ground. “You what?” “I blasted him apart,” Ruha confirmed. “With lamp oil and magic. From the inside. The detonation ripped him

apart.” Vaerana’s face remained blank and uncomprehending. “You destroyed him?” she gasped. “You’re sure?” “The explosion annihilated his body, along with the stern of Captain Fowler’s ship,” Ruha confirmed. “I saw the sharks eating pieces of his body. The same thing would have happened to us if Minister Hsieh had not come back.” Vaerana’s jaw fell. “Minister who?” “Hsieh,” Ruha said. “It was his ship we saved. He is a Shou mandarin—” “I know who he is!” Vaerana finally stopped and returned Ruha to the ground. They were near the bottom of the hill, less than twenty paces from the horses, but

the Lady Constable did not resume walking. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or gut you!” “I would prefer you do neither,” Ruha replied. “Instead, please explain why you are so upset.” “I think Hsieh is our enemy”: “Of course. The Shou are very fond of dragons.” Vaerana shook her head. “I’m not talking about their emperor—that’s something else altogether.” The Lady Constable lowered her voice. “My sages think someone’s trying to steal Yanseldara’s spirit.” “Ah.” Ruha was beginning to understand why Vaerana thought a witch might help her friend. “Why do they think that?” “Someone has stolen a staff her father gave her—” “It is very dear to her?” Ruha was no master of spirit magic, but she had learned something of the subject from Qoha’dar, an old witch with whom she had been exiled as a child. “Perhaps the staff is even her most treasured possession?” Vaerana nodded, and lowered her voice even further. “And by all accounts, Prince Tang’s mother is a master of the art.” “But why are the Shou doing this terrible thing?” Ruha asked. “What do they want with Yanseldara’s spirit?” Vaerana bit her lip, then looked away. “It’s my doing. They trade in poisons and fixings for dark magic. I’ve threatened to chase them out of Elversult if they don’t stop. I guess stealing Yanseldara’s spirit is their way of calling my bluff.” With that, Vaerana snaked an arm around Ruha and started toward the horses, half-dragging the witch along. “If we don’t want this turning into another of your debacles, we’ll need to ride like the wind!” The reference to Voonlar stung like a slap, but that was not the reason Ruha pulled free of Vaerana and stopped. The witch had only a passing familiarity with spirit magic; it would not be enough to save Yanseldara. Vaerana did not seem to realize that her companion

had stopped until she reached the horses and took her reins from Tombor. “Well?” “I cannot save Yanseldara.” The words came so difficultly that Ruha could barely utter them. “You must send

for someone else.” Vaerana’s face darkened. “Out of the question! I’d do this myself if I could, but the Shou know me.” She grabbed the reins of Ruha’s mount; then led it, along with her own horse, toward the witch. “As pitiful an excuse for a Harper as you are, you’re the only one who can save Yanseldara—which means you’re all that stands between Elversult and the tyranny of the Cult of the Dragon.” Vaerana thrust a set of reins into the witch’s hands. “But, Lady Constable—” “Don’t ‘but’ me, Witch!” Vaerana roared. “You’re supposed to be a Harper, and a Harper goes where she’s called. Besides, all you’ve got to do is sneak into the Ginger Palace and find Yanseldara’s staff. Even you can

handle that!” “You do not want me to lift the curse?” Vaerana rolled her eyes. “Why would I think you can do what Thunderhand Frostbryn could not? All I need is someone the Shou don’t know—but you almost botched that up, didn’t you? Now, I’ll have to do some fast riding if we don’t want that mandarin recognizing you.” The Lady Constable thrust her foot into a stirrup, then turned toward the rest of the riders. “Tombor!” Tombor, who could hardly have missed the last part of Vaerana’s outburst, led his own horse forward. “Yes,

m’lady?” Vaerana flipped her hand in Ruha’s direction. “Take the witch back to Elversult. After you tend to the seriously wounded, I don’t imagine you’ll have any healing magic left, but do what you can for her leg. Then see that she’s given an introduction to the Ginger Palace, like we

planned.” Tombor’s twinkle-eyed gaze darted to Ruha, then back

to Vaerana. “And what will you and the rest of the Maces be doing, Lady Constable?” “Inspecting a caravan,” Vaerana replied. “A Shou caravan.” Six The journey to Elversult took the rest of the day and most of the next, so that they reached the outskirts of town in late afternoon. Suggesting it might be wise not to be seen together in the city, Tombor pointed out a wooded hill where Ruha and Fowler could wait while he saw to the wounded. Grateful for any chance to rest their sore rumps, the pair climbed out of their saddles and led their horses into the copse. The captain fetched some water from a nearby stream so the witch could tend her shark bite; then they settled in to wait, too weary to talk or do anything but listen to the distant creak of passing wagons. Twilight came, and worried that Tombor would not be able to find them in the dusky wood, Ruha asked the captain to collect some sticks while she gathered some dry moss off the forest floor. She was about to strike the fire when the portly cleric emerged from the shadows, appearing so suddenly and silently that he startled Fowler and made him drop an armload of branches he had collected. “For a big man, you move mighty quiet.” Fowler eyed a small wooden coffer that Tombor was carrying in both hands. “Especially considering that your arms are full.” A sour smile flashed across the cleric’s lips and disappeared instantly, then he chuckled merrily. “Sorry;

sometimes I can’t resist. It’s a gift of the gods.” “Which one?” Ruha asked. “Most priests invoke their gods often, but I have yet to hear you utter the name of yours.” Tombor set the coffer on the ground at her feet. “My god is not so vain as the others, but his healing magic is as strong as that of most—as you’ll soon see.” He removed a small bundle of cloth from his pocket, then turned to Fowler and motioned at the dry moss Ruha had gathered. “Would you be good enough to start a small fire?” Ruha passed her tinderbox to the captain, then watched as Tombor unwrapped his bundle. Inside was a dark, sour-smelling balm that seemed to undulate like water. The cleric dipped his fingers into the salve, and the witch pulled her aba up to display her wound. After the long ride from Pros, it had started to open again. The edges were red and inflamed, while a steady flow of clear liquid oozed from the laceration itself. Tombor rubbed his salve over the injury, and Ruha’s leg seemed to disappear beneath a rippling shadow. The ointment felt as light as air; there was no greasy feeling or any burning sensation, only a slight, soothing coolness upon her skin, similar to what it felt like to step out of the hot sun into the shade of a large tree. Once Tombor had smeared the balm over the entire wound, he tossed aside what remained. “It’s my best salve, but I have to mix each batch fresh. It doesn’t keep more than an hour.” Tombor placed the coffer he had brought next to Fowler’s fire, then said, “We’ll let the balm do its work while I explain what I brought.” He opened the lid, revealing what looked to be several hundred pieces of gold stamped with the proud raven of the Kingdom of Sembia. Ruha had lived in the Heartlands long enough to know that the coins were accepted as currency throughout the region, for Sembite merchants controlled much of the area’s trade. “And the Lady Constable said she couldn’t buy me a new cog!” Fowler snorted. “She couldn’t—at least not with this gold.” Tombor reached deep into the chest and removed a coin, then used his knife to scratch it and reveal the dull gray sheen of lead. “The coins on top are real. The rest are fakes Vaerana took from a local thief. Don’t try to buy anything with them, but they should serve to convince the Shou you’re a legitimate spice buyer.” “That’s to be the witch’s disguise?” Fowler asked. “It’s the only way we can get her into the Ginger Palace.” He turned back to Ruha. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll meet a local merchant we’ve hired to present you to the Shou. He’s a useful tool, but an unreliable one, so don’t tell him anything about your mission.” “Our mission,” Fowler said. “I’m going with her.” Ruha lifted her brow. “Thank you, Captain, but—” Fowler raised his hands to silence her. “You don’t have any choice. Witch. I’m not letting you out of my sight until I get my new cog. Besides, if you don’t have a bodyguard, the Shou are liable to think you aren’t very important.” Ruha looked to Tombor, who nodded. “It’s a good idea.” He reached into his pocket to remove a gold coin. It was as large as Ruha’s palm, and embossed with the image of a camel and several strange letters. “Make certain that Princess Wei Dao sees this. She has a love of coins from far lands, and this one comes all the way from Calimshan.” “May I offer it to her as a gift?” Ruha asked, reaching for the gold piece. “Perhaps I can make a friend—” Tombor shook his head, pulling the coin out of her reach. “It’s better to let her find it on her own.” He tossed the coin into the coffer. “Just make certain she sees it, and she’ll think there are more treasures like it deeper in the chest. Her imagination will do more to win you a night in the Ginger Palace than any gift.” “And once we’re inside, what then?” asked Fowler. “You’ll only have a day or so to find Yanseldara’s staff and get out,” Tombor answered. “Vaerana will do her best

to stall Hsieh’s caravan, but she won’t be able to hold it up long without starting a war.” “What does the staff look like?” Ruha asked. “And do you have any suggestions as to where I might find it?” “The staff isn’t much to look at—it’s a plain rod of oak—but there’s a huge topaz on top. None of us has any idea where you should look. The Shou are a secretive people, especially about their homes. All I can tell you is that Tang’s mother, Lady Feng, is reportedly a master of spirit magic.” Tombor glanced down at Ruha’s leg, where the dark balm had stopped rippling and now looked like nothing more than a strange shadow with no source. “The salve’s done its work,” the cleric said. “Turn your leg toward the firelight.” Ruha did as instructed. When the flickering yellow light fell on her thigh, the balm rose off her leg like dark steam. The shark bite had closed completely, leaving only a thin curved line and slight red sheen to mark where the wound had been. “That is a most marvelous balm.” Ruha looked from her wound to Tombor’s heavy, jowled face. “You must tell me which god to thank!” Pretending not to hear Ruha’s request, the cleric closed the coffer lid and stood. “With that chest among your things, you’ll need a safe place to spend the night. I’d recommend the Axe and Hammer. Anyone in the city will tell you how to get there.” “What about our guide?” Fowler asked. “He’ll meet you on the way,” Tombor replied. “Just start down Snake Road.” “How will we recognize him?” Ruha asked. “Don’t worry about that; he’ll find you.” Tombor stepped away from the fire, slipping into the dusky shadows as quietly as he had appeared. “Abazm always knows who’s on the road to the Ginger Palace.”

***<:*

Save for an impression of impregnable reclusion, the Ginger Palace had little in common with those hulking stacks of stone Heartland lords called home. Instead of the squalid green waters of a moat, the Shou citadel was surrounded by the soldierly ranks of a ginkgo forest, and sat not upon some windswept crag, but upon a square mound of pounded earth. The walls of its outer curtain were plastered smooth and painted white as alabaster, and they were capped along the entire length by a peaked roof of scarlet tiles. At every corner stood a tower with five stacked balconies, each one covered by a scar let-tiled roof with upswept eaves. Inside the fortress, several buildings rose high enough above the outer curtain to display the same roof styling, lending an aura of harmony and supreme order to the entire edifice. “I still don’t like this,” hissed Fowler. He was walking beside Ruha as they followed their guide, Abazm, down a white-bricked avenue toward the palace gates. The captain was dressed in a brown aba the witch had made for him the night before, and in his arms he bore the small wooden coffer Tombor had loaned them. “No one’s going to believe we’re spice buyers—not in these outfits!” “If you do not like my plan, Captain, you may withdraw,” Ruha whispered. She stopped and held out her hands. “There is still time.” Fowler clutched the box more tightly to his chest. “And let you out of my sight? When I’ve a new cog, and not a minute before.” Abazm, a greasy-haired dwarf dressed in a striped burnoose, whirled about in midstride. “What is all this whispering, Master and Mistress?” He was surprisingly thin compared to most dwarves, with bushy eyebrows as black as kohl, a hawkish nose, and the stubble of a dark, coarse beard. “It is most unbecoming. The Shou will think you do not trust me.” “We don’t,” growled Fowler. “Keep walking.” Abazm glanced toward the palace and remained where he was. “If the Shou believe you have no trust for me,

they will have no trust for you.” The dwarf’s gaze dropped to the coffer in Fowler’s hands, lingering there just long enough to send a shiver down Ruha’s spine. After joining them on the road, he had insisted on seeing their funds before he risked his own reputation by introducing them to the Shou, Though Ruha had been careful not to let him reach into the chest, Abazm had raised an eyebrow when he saw the Sembite coins. He had offered to check them for purity, remarking that a well-placed friend had told him a local thief was counterfeiting Sembite coins. The witch had curtly ordered Fowler to shut the chest, pretending to be suspicious of both the guide’s story and his motives. “It is not necessary that the Shou trust us,” Ruha said. “It is only necessary that they like the color of our gold.” “Of course, I cannot judge that without a closer inspection.” The dwarfs eyes flicked to the coffer and remained there, as though he expected Ruha to open the chest again. “They’ll like it well enough.” Fowler bared his tusks at the little merchant. “Now walk.” Abazm sighed heavily, then continued down the whitepaved avenue. Fowler let the dwarf get a little way ahead, then turned to Ruha. “I don’t like that little fellow, any more than I like this plan of yours,” the captain commented. “I’m sure Vaerana wanted us to say we’re from Sembia, like most spice merchants. We’d draw less notice than claiming we come from Anauroch.” “I do not care what Vaerana wanted.” Ruha stepped to the captain’s side and kept pace with him. “I am not from Sembia. How can I pretend to be from someplace I have visited only twice?” “I’ve been there plenty of times.” “But you are not the spy,” Ruha whispered. “And I have learned better than to pretend I am someone I am not. That is what caused the trouble at Voonlar. If I claim I am from Anauroch, there is no need to explain my ignorance of Heartlands customs.” “And what about me?” Fowler grumbled. “I know less about deserts than you do about ships. At least you’ve sunk a ship.” Ruha reached over and straightened the checkered keffiyeh covering Fowler’s head and neck. “Just look strong and mean. That’s all that is expected ofBedine men.” They reached the end of the avenue, where their guide stood waiting. Abazm clambered up a broad set of marble stairs to a tile-roofed portico of simple post and beam construction. The lintel had a pair of elaborate, longtailed peacocks engraved along its length, while the beam ends resting atop it had been fashioned into stylized dragon heads. On the far side of the porch hung a pair of glossy, redlacquered gates decorated with the yellow figures of rearing basilisk lizards. Next to each gate stood a Shou sentry armored in a conical brass helmet and a red silk hauberk imprinted with the tessellated pattern of its plate scale lining. Each guard held a long, curve-bladed polearm, the butt resting on the floor between his feet and the shaft rising vertically in front of him. Both men kept their slanted eyes fixed straight ahead, as though they did not even see the three strangers approaching. Abazm strode straight between the two men and tugged on an ornate yellow pull cord. A muffled gong reverberated through the gates, then a small viewing portal swung open above the dwarf’s head. A scowling Shou official peered down his long nose at the merchant. “We do not expect you, Abazm.” Abazm clasped his hands and bowed so low that, had he worn a proper dwarven beard, it would have scraped the floor. “I have brought merchants from the distant sands of Anauroch, Honored One.” Without standing, he waved a hand at the coffer Fowler held. “They wish to have commerce with the Ginger Palace.” The Honored One’s gaze flicked over the coffer, then back to Abazm. The dwarf stepped closer to the viewing