The Veiled Dragon (24 page)

concern. The witch cursed under her breath and turned her back on him. “Before you leave, you must visit me in my chamber.”

she whispered to Vaerana, “alone!” Vaerana shook her head. “I don’t have time—” Ruha took her arm again. “You must! Promise me.” Vaerana glanced down at the witch’s hand. “Then will

you let me go?” Ruha nodded and removed her hand. “It is important.” “If you say so.” Vaerana looked past Ruha’s shoulder to Tombor, who was already upon them. “Lodge the witch in Pearl Tower.” “Pearl Tower?” Tombor echoed, clearly surprised. “Pearl Tower.” Vaerana turned to leave. “Are you having trouble with your ears?” The cleric took Ruha’s arm, gripping it more tightly than was necessary. “I’ll show you to a chamber as soon as we’ve seen to the blossoms.” “Perhaps we could go to the tower first,” Ruha suggested, worried she would not be there when Vaerana came to see her. “I have not slept in two days.” Tombor shook his head. “You said yourself we can’t let these blossoms fall into the hands of the Cult of the Dragon. Besides, the kitchen is on the way to Pearl Tower. It’ll take only a few minutes to stop and set up the press.” Ruha accompanied the cleric back to the horses. She removed a small satchel of supplies from her saddle, then helped Fowler and Tombor gather up the bulky sacks of ylang blossoms. Leaving the beasts with a guard, they walked down a chain of meandering pathways to a thatch-roofed shed against the back wall of the fortress. The place smelled of animal grease, smoke, and fresh Heartland spices. Tombor stopped at the entrance and banged on the wooden door. “Up with you, Silavia! I’ve business in your kitchen!” “The cook bars the door when she sleeps,” explained Fowler. “Otherwise, the night guards pilfer her breakfast

tarts.” They had to wait several minutes before a sleepy voice sounded on the other side of the door. “Go away, Tombor. I won’t have you calling in the middle of the night. You only want something to eat.” Tombor looked slightly embarrassed. “I’ve—uh—guests with me, Silavia. We need the oil press. It’s for Lady Yanseldara.” Silavia hesitated a moment, then asked, “Truly?” “Truly,” replied Ruha. “The matter is urgent, I assure you.” “Very well.” Silavia sounded more put-upon than curious. “Let me throw on an apron.” From inside the building came several moments of bustling and whispering, which elicited a resentful scowl from Tombor. When a muffled thump finally announced the withdrawal of the bar, the cleric pushed the door open and stepped inside, where a stout, tousle-haired woman stood in a nightshirt and crisp white apron. The flickering taper in her hand illuminated an ashen, moonshaped face with a bottle nose and plump-lipped frown. Tombor dropped his sacks inside the door, then snatched the candle from the cook and went to light several others. A flickering yellow glow soon filled the room, revealing a neatly kept chamber filled with cutting tables, kneading troughs, and spice barrels. The embers of several spent fires glowed in three different fireplaces, one with a roasting spit over the hearth, one with soup cauldrons sitting in the firebox, and one built beneath a brick oven. Silavia’s sleeping pallet lay behind a dough bench, where a burly, black-bearded man stood looking down at a half-eaten honeycake and two empty mead pitchers. Tombor glared at the embarrassed man for a moment, then growled, “You’d better get yourself to the gate, John. There’s a wounded horse there, and Pierstar’s looking for you.” “My thanks for telling me so, Tombor.” The farrier, looking happy for any excuse to leave, started toward the door. Tombor watched the man leave, then turned to Silavia “What was he doing here?” “It’s none of your concern who I give my honeycakes to!” Silavia retorted. “Not that there wouldn’t be some foi you, if you ever came around at a decent hour.” “It’s this trouble with Yanseldara’s catalepsy!” the cleric protested. “I’ve been busy.” “So have I,” Silavia snorted. She led the way to a small storage pantry and unlocked the door with a key from her apron. “The oil press is in here, if you want it. Don’t expect me to help you with it.” Tombor motioned to Fowler, who dropped his ylang blossoms beside the cleric’s and followed him into the little room. Ruha put her own sacks on the floor and tried not to yawn as Silavia glared at her. Tou a friend of Tombor or Tuskface?” the cook asked. “I am closer to Fowler. I do not know Tombor very well Is he an important person in Elversult?” “You could say that,” Silavia replied proudly. Tombor’s the one who saved Vaerana when the assassins first got after her. He’s done the same twice since—at the risk of his own life, I might add.” The witch smiled, anticipating the apology she would be due when she exposed Tombor’s heroism as a cull ploy “I had not realized he is so well thought of.” Fowler emerged from the storage pantry, carrying a small oil press in his arms. The device was a mere fraction the size of the screw press in the spicehouse at the Ginger Palace, being small enough so that a single cook could move it without help. Tombor followed a moment later, holding a small, empty cask beneath one arm. The two men set their burdens on a vacant table, then the cleric motioned Silavia to his side. “How do I work this thing?” Silavia fetched a large bowl from a shelf, then set it

beneath the drainage spout. “It’s simple enough. First you put the raw goods in here.” She pulled the handle, raising the platen and displaying a small wooden box. The bed had a grid of channels cut into the bottom, and it was tilted so that the oil would run into a collection trough at one end. “Then you lower the top plate, and it squeezes the oil out.” Silavia demonstrated, then stepped aside. “And when you’re done, you clean up after yourself.” Tombor cast a wary eye at the eight bags of ylang blossoms, then looked to Ruha. “How much oil do we need?” “Enough to cover Yanseldara from head to foot,” she replied. “I suggest you press all of the blossoms.” Silavia smiled at the cleric. “It looks like you’re going to be here a while. Maybe I can find some honeycakes for

you.” Tombor’s eyes lit up. “That would make our task more

enjoyable.” “If I may be excused, I shall leave it to you to press the oil.” Ruha did not bother to stifle the yawn that came over her. “I am very tired. Perhaps Captain Fowler can show me to Pearl Tower.” Silavia raised her brow. “Pearl Tower? I think not. Jarvis isn’t likely to let a pair of strangers in there.” “No, but you can take her, Silavia.” Tombor tried to remove a gold ring from his chubby finger, but had to moisten the knuckle with saliva before he could tug it off. “Show this to Jarvis, and hell know you speak for me.” Scowling at the imposition, Silavia accepted the ring and threw a cloak over her shoulders. Ruha retrieved the small satchel she had taken from her horse, then waved at Fowler to come along and followed her guide into the gloomy courtyard. They passed several dark sheds similar to the kitchen before turning onto a serpentine path of white crushed rock. The witch paused there and allowed Silavia to march a dozen paces ahead, then whispered to Fowler, “You must return to the kitchens and help Tombor with the blossoms.” The halfore frowned. “You couldn’t tell me that before we left?” “I could not. Tombor is a cult spy.” “What?” “I lack the time to explain, but I am certain. He and Wei Dao were working together.” Ruha pushed the halfore back toward the kitchen. “Now, return to the kitchen. When he opens the last sack of blossoms, come get me.” Fowler did not move. “Why?” “So we can follow him to Yanseldara’s staff, of course.” Ruha whispered. “Go!” “We?” he grumbled, starting back toward the kitchen. “Collecting the gold you owe me’s getting to be as much work as stealing Storm Sprite in the first place.” “You stole your ship?” Ruha gasped. Fowler frowned. “Aye—you don’t think I could’ve bought a ship like her, do you?” “Truthfully, I had not given the matter much thought.” Ruha turned to find Silavia waiting fifteen paces up the path, hands on hips. “Are you coming or not? I thought you were tired.” “I am tired—extremely tired.” Ruha scurried to catch up. “That must be why it did not occur to me to leave Captain Fowler with Tombor. I’m sure his work will go faster with an assistant.” “Not much,” snorted the cook. “You can squeeze oil only so fast.” Ruha followed Silavia down the path, past several intersections to a slender tower faced with gleaming abalone shell. To reach the building’s entrance, they had to climb a detached stairway to the second story, then cross a small drawbridge to an open portcullis. A pair of Maces stood beside the entrance, fully armored in scalemail and equipped with more weapons than they could have used with six hands. As the witch and her guide approached, the guards continued to stare straight ahead. The largest, a swarthy giant of a man with brown eyes

and dark straight hair, spoke in an officious voice. “By the order ofVaerana Hawklyn, household staff is no longer permitted in Pearl Tower.” The two guards crossed their lances before the doorway; then the speaker scowled at the cook. “You know that, Silavia—and especially at this time of

night.” “Don’t get haughty with me, Jarvis!” The cook produced Tombor’s ring and shoved it under Jarvis’s nose. “Take a look at that and do as I say.” Jarvis pulled back so he could inspect the ring, then snapped his lance back to his side and returned to attention. The smaller man followed suit. “You have a command from the Jolly One?” asked Jarvis. Silavia smiled as though she were thinking of telling the huge guard to jump off the drawbridge, but she only stepped back and waved a hand at Ruha. “Tombor wants this woman shown to—” Silavia stopped in midsentence and scowled at the witch. “Not to his chamber?” Ruha shook her head quickly. “No, and it was Vaerana who asked Tombor to see that I was lodged here.” If Jarvis was impressed, he did not show it. He simply waved Ruha into the tower, then picked up a candle and lit it from one burning in a wall sconce. Shielding the flame with his free hand, he led the witch up a spiraling staircase. The passage was so narrow that his mail-clad shoulders rasped against both walls at once. Once they were safely out of Silavia’s earshot, Ruha said, “I am expecting a—” she yawned, “—a visit from Vaerana.” Jarvis missed a step and nearly fell, filling the stairwell with a ringing clamor as he thrust a hand out to catch himself. “Is something wrong?” Ruha found the guard’s consternation puzzling. “Has she been here already?” Jarvis shook his head and smoothed his tabard. “I haven’t seen the Lady Constable, but that doesn’t mean

she hasn’t been here. She might come through the passage from Moon Tower, and I would never know it.” Ruha considered this worrisome possibility, then rejected it as quickly as it entered her mind. Had Vaerana already come and gone, she would certainly have left a message with the guards. Jarvis stopped at a landing and opened a doorway into the main part of the tower, where a short corridor led to a vaulted alcove that served as one of the fortress’s exterior arrow loops. He escorted Ruha past three doors, two with loud rumbling snores reverberating through the wood, then opened a fourth. The chamber inside was as lavishly furnished as it was small, with wool tapestries on the walls, a true wooden bed, a small table with a pitcher and basin, and a stone bench built into the alcove of another arrow loop. Jarvis lit a tallow pot hanging inside the door, then stepped aside to let Ruha enter. “I’ll tell Vaerana which room you’re in.” “That is very kind. And do you know Captain Fowler?” Jarvis’s eyes widened slightly. “The halfore?” “Yes. If he asks for me, please fetch me at ence.” The guard nodded, then backed into the hall and pulled the door shut. Ruha sat on the stone bench and peered out the arrow loop at the side of a wooded hill. She leaned her head back against the wall and felt her heavy eyelids beginning to descend. She did not have the strength to raise them.

*****

Tang lay facedown on the dark mountainside, his toes kicked deep into the slippery mud to keep from sliding through the ferns down into the swamp. Though he had his palms pressed tightly over his ears, he could not shut out the voices of the dead. The spirits of his soldiers kept wailing at him. Their words were incoherent, but he knew what they wanted. He could feel their craving, deep

down in his abdomen where his own shrunken spirit cowered like that of a frightened peasant. They needed him to look at them, to acknowledge the futility of their sacrifice, to intercede with Yen-Wang-Yeh and tell the Great Judge that they had died bravely and well and that their mission had failed through no fault of their own. Tang could not bring himself to utter the prayer. To concede their valor was to admit he had suffered defeat at the hands of a barbarian; worse, it was to admit defeat at his own hands. When his soldiers laughed at him, he had let his embarrassment dictate General Fui’s death. The price for that arrogance had been the failure of his assault, and the prince did not care to admit—to himself or his ancestors—that he been had such a fool. If that made him a coward, so be it; Shou princes were taught to be cowards, and forgetting that lesson had been the cause of his ignoble defeat. Tang’s resolve only made the voices echo louder inside his head. He rolled onto his back and sat up. Midnight gloom filled the swamp below like a funeral pyre’s black smoke, spreading an oily, clinging ink over everything it touched. The darkness was broken only by a faint fox fire glow that illuminated the floating corpses of the screaming dead soldiers. “Silence, I command!” Tang hissed. “Present yourselves at Ten Courts and leave me in peace!” A gentle sloshing sounded below. Something broke the surface of the black water, sending a crazy pattern of rippling, ghost-faint lights bouncing off invisible cypress trunks. Tang froze, praying the disturbance had been caused by a restless alligator. It was impossible to say how long the prince stared into the darkness. He was not conscious of breathing until long after the air had grown heavy with silence and the pond had returned to its glassy stillness. It occurred to him that the voices of his dead soldiers had fallen quiet; then he sensed a pair of long reptilian necks rising from the black water. He did not see the creatures so

much as feel a pair of lighter, warmer presences among the cypress trees below, but he knew without doubt that his craven outburst of whispering had drawn the attention of Cypress’s wyverns. Tang had not expected the two reptiles to emerge froni the cave that night. They had both suffered a substantial battering during the destruction of the Shou assault party, so the prince had assumed they would lie up for the night and lick their wounds. Still, with a ready supply of fresh meat floating outside their door, it was not surprising they had come out to feed. Tang was glad he had decided not to hazard moving at night. If the creatures had been outside when he started rustling through the brush, they would surely have killed him. No sooner had Tang finished congratulating himself on his wisdom than the ground trembled beneath his legs He stifled a cry and, thinking one of the reptiles had landed nearby, reached for his only weapon, a pitifully inadequate dagger. Instead of feeling the sharp sting of a wyvern’s tail barb, however, he heard a series of faint, muffled knells—such as a distant bell or gong might make. The tolling had hardly begun to fade before a loud purl rolled from the mouth of the grotto below. Cypress’s form—a huge, shadowy darkness far blacker than the surrounding swamp—emerged from the lair and seemed to pause outside the cavern. The wyverns hissed in frustration and swam, rather noisily, back into the cavern. A loud, basal throb reverberated through the swamp as Cypress’s mighty wings beat the air. Visions of the dragon swooping down out of the darkness filled the prince’s mind, at least until he realized the pulsing was growing softer and more distant. The dragon was flying away. Tang sighed in relief, then kicked his heels deep into the mud and felt something slithering across his leg. The prince remained motionless until he located the creature’s head, then calmly grabbed it behind the jaws and