The Veiled Dragon

Five

The harbor at Pros seemed equal parts quicksand and mudflat, with just enough water to float the flat-bottomed scow carrying the Storm Sprite’s survivors toward shore. Ruha sat beside Captain Fowler in the front of the boat—it seemed ludicrous to call the square end a bow—scanning the shanty town ahead. Most of the buildings were gray, ramshackle affairs in desperate need of a lime wash. The huts closest to the water hovered above the beach on flimsy stilts that looked ready to pitch their loads into the mud at the slightest push. A half-dozen rickety docks jutted far out into the bay. Two of the piers were empty; the rest bustled with fishermen unloading their take.

As the scow approached shore, Ruha noticed that most of the catch had the same high dorsal fins and wedge-shaped heads as the vicious fish that had swarmed her. The witch could not even guess how many sharks lay piled upon the piers, but there were close to two-dozen boats unloading the sharp-toothed monsters.

Ruha looked over her shoulder to the scow pilot, a sour-faced man with leathery skin and unkempt gray hair. “That seems like a great number of sharks. Do the people of Pros eat nothing else?”

“They’re not for us,” the pilot replied. “The Cult of the Dragon buys all we can take—and it pays mighty well, I’ll add.”

Fowler scowled at this. “What for? Shark’s hardly a good-eating fish.”

The pilot shrugged. “No one knows, and no one’s asked. Since the Cult came to town, we’ve learned to keep our noses out of their business. You’d be wise to do the same.”

The pilot barked a command to his rowers, and the vessel angled toward one of the empty piers. A small gang of shoremen emerged from the shanties and wandered down the dock, preparing to unload a cargo the boat did not carry.

Fowler gnashed his tusks, then stood to inspect the small crowd more carefully. “I don’t see Vaerana Hawklyn.” He glared down at Ruha’s face, veiled behind a beautiful silk scarf given to her by Minister Hsieh, and fingered the Harper’s pin fastened inside his robe. “If she’s not here, how do you plan to pay me?”

“Vaerana will meet us.” The statement was more one of hope than conviction; it had taken the disabled caravel five days to sail the short distance from the battle site to Pros, putting Ruha ashore four days late. “And even if she does not, I have been given a local name.”

“Jonas Tempaltar? No cooper I know has the gold to buy a cog.” Fowler cast a longing glance toward the Ginger Lady, which still lay anchored in the bay, awaiting a small load of supplies needed to complete her most pressing repairs. “It’s not too late to go to Ilipur.”

“Captain, if you wish to return to the Ginger Lady alone, perhaps Minister Hsieh will give you the reward.”

“Not bloody likely.” During the voyage to Pros, it had grown apparent that while Hsieh felt indebted to Ruha, he considered Captain Fowler little better than an animal, hardly worthy of notice, and certainly not deserving of reward. “I’ll see my gold from the cooper first.”

The scow scraped over a mud bar, then slowed as it approached the pier. As the stubby vessel drifted alongside the dock, the pilot commanded his crew to raise oars. The rowers stowed their equipment and threw mooring ropes to the shoremen, who quickly pulled the boat to the dock and tied it to the piles.

A pair of large warriors in steel breastplates stepped forward to peer into the empty hold. Both men wore black caps embroidered with the hastily sewn emblem of a dragon’s head.

“No cargo, William?”

The pilot motioned at Ruha and her fellow survivors. “Only these castaways.” He glanced at the emblem on the warriors’ black caps, then added, “A dragon sank their ship.”

“That so?” The speaker sneered and glanced at his companion. “That’s too bad for them, ain’t it, Godfrey?”

Godfrey nodded. “Terrible, Henry—but they’ve still got to pay the harbor tax.” He raised a finger and pointed it at each of the survivors. “Let’s see, I count eleven people. That’ll be eleven silver.”

“Eleven silver!” Ruha protested. “That’s—”

“That’s a sight too much,” Fowler interrupted. He shot Ruha a warning scowl, then motioned at two one-legged sailors who had so far outlived their amputations. “We lost most of our silver when my ship sank. Besides, you can see some of us aren’t whole. We shouldn’t have to pay full for them.”

Godfrey eyed the pair’s bloody stumps, then laughed heartily. “Very well, half-fee for the half-men. Ten silver.”

Fowler glanced at the long swords hanging from the men’s belts, then spread his hands. “We cannot pay your price.”

It was a lie, for Ruha still had twenty silver coins that had been inside her aba when the Storm Sprite sank, but she did not contradict the captain.

Fowler reached inside his own tunic and withdrew two coins. “How about two silver?”

“For two silver, we will not let you spit on the dock.” This time, it was Henry who spoke.

Fowler shrugged in resignation, then turned away from the two warriors. “Pros used to be an honest place. I don’t know what happened.”

Godfrey peered over the half-orc’s shoulder, then motioned to Ruha’s jambiya. “Let me see that knife. Perhaps we can let you ashore in exchange for that and the two silver.”

“No.” Ruha motioned to the coins in Fowler’s hands. “Take those coins or nothing. I will not let you have my jambiya.”

Godfrey’s eyes hardened, then he and Henry drew their swords. The pilot and his two rowers leapt out of the scow, and the gang of shoremen backed down the pier. Fowler picked up an oar, as did Arvold and two more healthy crewmen. The eyes of the two armored warriors widened at the unanticipated opposition. They glanced around the quay at the smirking faces of the shoremen and the scow crew, then gathered their nerve and stepped to within a pace of the scow.

Godfrey stretched his hand toward Ruha. “The dagger—and the silver.”

Fowler looked to Ruha. “Your call, Lady Witch.”

“Witch?” The color drained from the faces of both warriors, and Henry whispered, “Maybe we oughta call for some help.”

Ruha blew a breath into her hands and began the incantation of a wind spell that would silence the men’s voices—then abruptly stopped as the clamor of galloping hooves reverberated down the pier. All eyes turned shoreward to see three riders charging down the quay, two holding cocked crossbows in their hands, the third leading a string of empty mounts.

The trio was coming so fast the scow crew and shoremen had to leap off the quay to avoid being ridden down. Ruha saw that the first rider was a sturdy, florid-faced woman with a flyaway mane of honey-blonde hair. Like her two companions, she wore an indistinct cloak over a coat of chain mail and carried a large mace in a sling on her saddle. The second rider was a grim-jawed man with a drooping black mustache and stony black eyes, while the third was a rotund cleric with the heavy silver chain of a holy symbol showing above his collar. They reined up just short of Godfrey and Henry, and the two with crossbows aimed their weapons at the two ruffians.

Both warriors lowered swords, and Godfrey hissed, “Vaerana Hawklyn!”

“You know me?” Vaerana asked. “Too bad for you.”

She shot the man in throat. Her companion did likewise to Henry, drawing a chorus of angry cries from the other quays. Vaerana nonchalantly glanced toward the shouting, then dismounted and stomped to the edge of the pier.

“Sorry we weren’t waiting when you docked, Tusks!” she said, grabbing Fowler’s hand and pulling him onto the pier. “We were expecting the Storm Sprite!”

“We had some dragon trouble.” Fowler glanced at the other quays, where dozens of shouting, black-capped warriors were rushing toward shore, intent on avenging their comrades’ deaths. “Have you lost your mind, Lady Constable?”

Vaerana waved off the captain’s concern. “Don’t worry about the Black Caps. They’ve got a few surprises waiting for them.” The Lady Constable turned to Ruha. “You must be the witch Storm sent me.”

“Ruha of the Mtair Dhafir at your service, Lady Constable.” Ruha glanced at the two corpses lying on the pier. “Their crime was not so terrible. Was it truly necessary to kill them?”

Vaerana’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Only if I don’t want Cult assassins waiting behind every hill on the way home,” she growled. “Now, if you’re through interrogating me, can we get the hell out of here?”

“Yes, of course.”

Feeling sheepish for questioning Vaerana’s actions, Ruha stepped over to the side of the scow. Although Hsieh’s physician had done a remarkable job of healing her wound—her thigh was now swollen to only half-again its normal size—the witch could not help limping as she moved.

“What happened?” Vaerana was looking not at Ruha, but at Fowler.

“Sharks.” The half-orc waved a hand at his two amputees. “Them, too.”

Vaerana looked the men over, then turned to her rotund horse-handler. “This is going to be more difficult than we thought, Tombor.”

“We have a little time.” Tombor was staring toward the shore, where the Black Caps were already ducking for cover as a hail of crossbow bolts rained down on them from the windows of several huts. “Let’s just hope that once we’re mounted, we can charge out of town as easily as we sneaked in.”

“Maybe we should leave the one-legs here,” Fowler suggested, helping Ruha out of the scow. “They aren’t much good to me, and the ride’s liable to kill them anyway.”

Vaerana shook her head. “Can’t do it, Tusks. The Cult’s worse than ever; a ride on a galloping horse will seem like fun compared to what the Black Caps would do to them.” She turned to the grim-jawed rider who had killed Henry. “Pierstar, you and Tombor see to the crew. I’ll take care of Tusks and the witch.”

Pierstar jumped into the scow to help the amputees, while Tombor directed the rest of the crew to come around to the left side of the horses—he had to say ‘port’ before they understood what he wanted. Vaerana led Ruha and the captain to the first pair of spare mounts.

The Lady Constable held out the reins of the first horse. “You can ride, can’t you, Witch?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Ruha’s reply was unduly modest, for she had grown up riding camels. Compared to those cantankerous brutes, even the most spirited stallion was child’s play. She took the reins, gathered up her aba, and slipped her foot into the stirrup. Her only awkward moment came when she had to swing her injured leg over the saddle and did not quite succeed. A fiery ache shot through her entire body. In the tongue of her father, she cursed all fish and wished them a frigid death in seas as cold as ice.

Once Vaerana saw that Ruha could handle her own mount, she passed the reins of the second to Fowler. “How about you, Captain? Can you ride?”

“If I can handle a ship’s helm, I can steer a dumb animal.”

The captain picked Godfrey’s sword up off the pier, then clumsily thrust his large foot into a stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. By the time Fowler’s sailors were ready to ride, the Black Caps on shore had broken through the hail of crossbow bolts. They were advancing through the streets toward the end of the quay, where dozens of armored horsemen, all dressed in a similar manner to Vaerana and her companions, were beginning to assemble.

“I thought the Cult controlled Pros!” Fowler commented. “How’d you get so many of Elversult’s Maces into town?”

“The shark bounty; the fishing captains are desperate for crews,” Vaerana explained. “We snuck in a few at a time, pretending we wanted work.”

Vaerana stood in her stirrups and twisted around to look at the quay behind her, where Fowler’s crew sat two to a horse. The amputees were seated before the two strongest men and tied into their saddles with leather straps. They looked rather frightened and weak, but they had heard what would befall them in the Cult’s hands and made no protest.

“Listen up, sailors!” Vaerana said. “Your horses know more about this than you do, so don’t start thinking you’re smarter than they are. If you get in trouble, just drop the reins and hold on to your saddles.”

Arvold immediately released his reins. Though Tombor had already positioned himself at the back of the group, Ruha moved her own horse out of line and deftly backed him to the rear of the line. If the sailmender had trouble, she did not want to miss the chance to repay the debt she owed him.

Once the witch had changed positions, Vaerana pulled her mace and set the spurs to her mount. Pierstar’s horse reared, then bolted after the Lady Constable, and in the next instant the entire line was thundering down the dock.

When Vaerana neared the shore, she gave a loud whoop. The entire company of horsemen began to move, some blocking the alleys and others spurring their mounts straight down the village’s largest lane.

Ruha’s mount left the quay. She saw several enemy arrows streak through the air ahead of her; then she passed across the waterfront and followed the rest of the column into a warren of narrow streets. As the company passed, the warriors blocking the side streets fell in at the rear of the charge, and the witch soon found herself caught in the midst of a herd of snorting, pounding horseflesh.

The company galloped inland past a dozen ramshackle inns, then came to an intersection and turned westward. One of Fowler’s men panicked and jerked his mount’s reins, demolishing a shanty when the startled horse lost its footing and crashed through the hut’s weather-beaten walls. Ruha saw one of Vaerana’s Maces guiding his own mount into the debris to help the tumbling sailor, then she was around the corner and thundering down the muddy lane. A hundred yards ahead, the road passed through the gateway of a timber stockade, then curved around a grassy hill and disappeared from sight. A pair of Black Caps were trying to push the rough-hewn gates closed, but a flurry of crossbow bolts suddenly sprang from the front of the column to cut them down.

That was when a shower of flaming hail filled the air, followed by a flurry of arrows that caught the company in a deadly cross fire from both sides of the lane. Several men cried out, nearly falling from their saddles as fiery pellets pierced their legs and shoulders and even their chain-mailed torsos. Panicked, ringing whinnies echoed off the weatherworn huts as tufts of black fletching suddenly sprouted in the flanks and withers of galloping horses, and one of the beasts fell.

The rider went rolling head over heels down the street, coming to a rest before an alley too narrow to be called a lane. It was simply a space between two shanties. From this crevice shot a glimmering net of golden light, which quickly settled over the stunned horseman before he could recover his wits and rise.

Ruha yanked on her reins, nearly knocking Tombor from his horse as she crossed in front him. She guided her mount toward the lane, kicking its belly to urge it onward. The beast realized instantly what she wanted. The witch barely had time to raise herself in her stirrups before it leapt over the fallen warrior and entered the cranny, its flanks brushing the wood on both sides of the lane.

As Ruha expected, she found herself barreling down upon an astonished wizard who, lacking the time to cast a spell, turned to hurl himself to the ground. The witch spurred her mount forward. The horse caught the sorcerer square in the back with both front hooves, snapping the man’s spine with a sickening crack.

“I love horses!” Ruha cried, reining the beast to a stop. “You are so much more cooperative than camels!”

The witch looked over her shoulder to see Vaerana’s grim-jawed comrade, Pierstar, staring down the alley as the fallen wizard’s net dissolved around him. The witch backed her mount down the lane toward the dazed warrior.

“Stand up, Pierstar!” she ordered.

The astonished warrior tossed off the remnants of the net and lurched to his feet, stuttering his astonished thanks. Ruha emerged from the alley to find a crescent of horsemen arrayed around her, firing their crossbows into the huts from which the shower of Black Cap arrows had erupted.

“That was a damned thoughtless thing to do!” snarled Vaerana Hawklyn, pulling Pierstar onto her own horse. “We go to all this trouble to fetch you, and what do you do? Put yourself at risk!”

With that, Vaerana jerked her horse toward the gate. Pierstar glanced over his shoulders and shrugged in apology. Ruha was so astonished that she could only stare after the Lady Constable.

“Go on, Witch.” Tombor pointed his mace through the gateway. “And don’t mind Vaerana’s sharp tongue. She’s just worried about Yanseldara.”

“Who?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” The cleric spurred his horse after Vaerana, waving at the witch to follow. “She’s the reason you’re here.”

Ruha urged her horse after Tombor. A steady clatter of crossbows sounded behind her as, one after the other, the warriors fired their weapons, then turned to follow the rest of the company through the gate.

The terrain outside Pros was surprisingly clear. Other than a few weed-choked farm plots lying close to the village stockade, the vista was one of grassy, rolling knolls, with a vast sapphire sky hanging so low it seemed they would ride into it. The muddy road snaked its way up a broad, dry valley, meandering back and forth around the base of the dome-shaped hills, gradually growing drier and dustier as it climbed away from the Dragonmere.

At last, the road curled around a knoll and angled up the headwall of a small dale. As the company approached the slope, the largest part of the column peeled off and circled the hill, leaving the wounded and those riding double, save the Lady Constable and Pierstar, to continue up the main route.

Ruha caught up to Captain Fowler, and together they followed Vaerana to the back side of the knoll, where the warriors were dismounting and reloading their crossbows. They dismounted and passed their reins to Tombor, who had been assigned to stay with the horse holders and ready his healing spells. Vaerana cast a wary glance in Ruha’s direction, but turned without comment and started up the slope. Fowler offered a helping hand to the witch, and they began to climb.

During the ascent, they had to pause several times to rest the witch’s throbbing leg, giving them ample opportunity to study the road to Elversult. After cresting the dale’s headwall, it struck out as straight as an arrow across a broad expanse of flat, featureless tableland. Already, the wounded riders and the sailors were a hundred yards across the plain, but the distance before them seemed immeasurable, and the witch could see that there were no knolls or ravines where the company of riders could hide while it regrouped and tended to its wounded.

By the time Ruha and Fowler reached the summit, the Maces had already fallen to their bellies and crawled to positions overlooking the road below. Some of the men had wrapped small strips of oil-soaked cloth around the heads of their crossbow bolts and were preparing small piles of tinder to ignite with flint and steel. The witch made note of where the nearest fire would be, then she and Fowler crawled to the crest of the hill and laid down on either side of Vaerana.

“If we are setting an ambush, I have fire magic that will prove useful.”

“I’d like to keep you secret, at least as much as possible.” As Vaerana spoke, she kept her hazel eyes fixed on the road. “Don’t use your magic unless you’re certain of getting them all.”

“I cannot be certain. It depends how many they send.”

“It’ll be a bunch,” Fowler said. “That arrow squall at the gate was no accident. They were waiting for us.”

The suggestion drew an angry scowl from Vaerana. She remained silent a long time, then reluctantly nodded. “I guess we weren’t as sneaky as I thought. The Cult was watching us.”

“How’d they know you were there?” Fowler asked.

Vaerana shrugged. “Pros is a small town, and we hadn’t planned to be there four days. The Cult probably grew suspicious when they heard the innkeepers gossiping about all the strangers lolling about in their rooms.”

“You are certain they do not have a spy among your men?” Ruha asked.

Vaerana frowned as though insulted. “Not among this bunch. Pierstar picked every man himself.” She glanced down the long line of warriors as though confirming to herself that she was right. “Besides, I’m the only one who knew you were coming. A spy couldn’t have told them anything except that I was in town.”

“When Pierstar fell, their wizard tried to capture him,” Ruha observed. “Perhaps they were curious about what you wanted in their village.”

“Not that curious,” Vaerana retorted. “They’ve had a thousand gold coins on my head for two years. Their assassins wouldn’t pass up that price out of curiosity.”

“Speaking of prices,” Fowler said, “a thousand gold ought to cover what you owe me when we get to Elversult.”

“Owe you?” Vaerana narrowed her eyes and glared at the half-orc as though she were considering running a dagger up his belly. “Why do you think I owe you a thousand gold?”

“Because of my promise,” Ruha explained. “I said the Harpers would buy him a new cog.”

Vaerana’s eyes bulged. “You what?” she gasped. “Why?”

“So he would attack the dragon,” Ruha explained. “It was tearing another ship apart, and it was the only way to persuade him to risk the Storm Sprite.”

The Lady Constable’s mouth gaped open. “You can’t … you don’t have the …” She let the sentence trail off, then shook her head and cocked her brow. “Did Storm say you could do that kind of thing?”

“No,” Ruha admitted.

“But it was a Harper’s promise.” Fowler turned out the collar of his tunic, displaying the pin Ruha had given him. “And I’ve got proof.”

Vaerana stared at the silver harp and moon, shaking her head in disbelief. “You gave him your pin?”

“The ship was a very big one,” Ruha said. “If I had let the dragon sink it, hundreds of lives would have been lost.”

“If Captain Fowler was reluctant to attack the dragon, didn’t you think it might be too much for the Storm Sprite to handle?”

Ruha shook her head. “Of course not—not with my magic.”

A purple cloud settled over Vaerana’s face. “Witch, I don’t know where we’re going to get the money to pay for a new cog—but I can tell you this much: it won’t come from Elversult’s treasury! Yanseldara would never stand for that, not for Storm Silverhand herself!”

Ruha turned to Fowler with a guilty knot in her stomach. “I am so terribly sorry, Captain. They told me that the Harpers always stand behind the word of—”

“What are you apologizing for?” Fowler interrupted. “Didn’t you hear her? Vaerana said we.”

Ruha lifted her brow. “She did, did she not?” The witch looked back to Vaerana. “And I was beginning to think you did not like me.”

“I don’t, but you are a Harper—at least until Storm Silverhand gets the bill for Fowler’s new cog.”

With that, Vaerana fell silent and looked back toward Pros, searching for the first sign of pursuit. The Black Caps were slow in coming, which Ruha took to be an omen both good and bad. On one hand, it suggested that the Maces’ escape had taken the Cult by surprise, which would make it more difficult for them to pursue. At the same time, however, the delay also meant they were taking the time to organize themselves and gather a large force.

After a few minutes, Fowler grew impatient and started to rise. “What are we waiting for? Those Black Caps had their fill of fighting in Pros. They’re not coming.”

Vaerana grabbed the half-orc’s furry arm. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Tusks. It’s a long ride to Elversult.”

“Then the sooner we get going, the sooner I get my gold.”

“It’s not that easy.” Vaerana pulled Fowler back to the ground. “If we don’t discourage our pursuers now, they won’t hesitate to attack us on the open road. I’m afraid the Cult of the Dragon has grown bold since Yanseldara’s catalepsy.”

“Catalepsy?” Fowler echoed. “Something’s wrong with the Ruling Lady?”

The Lady Constable’s mouth tightened, and she looked away. “Someone poisoned her. Yanseldara’s fallen into some sort of trance, and we haven’t been able to call her back. That’s why I sent for the witch.”

“But I am not a healer!” Ruha objected. “I know little of poisons and antidotes.”

Vaerana glowered at her disdainfully. “I know what a witch is.”

The Lady Constable did not have time to say more, for the valley below began to resound with pounding hooves. She turned and nodded to the Maces who had wrapped oil-soaked cloths around the heads of their crossbow bolts. The warriors began to strike their flints, and within seconds several of them had ignited small piles of tinder. Faint wisps of white fume began to rise from the tiny fires, but Ruha did not think the smoke would be visible from the road, especially to someone on the back of a galloping horse.

The first riders appeared at the base of the hill, mounted on skinny horses with frothing mouths and lathered coats. The men were whipping their haggard beasts mercilessly, demanding speed that the neglected creatures could not possibly provide.

Vaerana raised her hand, holding her warriors at bay while the column of Black Caps wound its way around the base of the knoll. The men with the oil darts touched the heads to the small fires they had kindled, and long ribbons of black fume began to rise into the air. Several Cult warriors looked toward the summit of hill.

“Now!” Vaerana yelled.

As one, the entire company of Maces rose and aimed their crossbows at the road below. A staccato chorus cracked over the valley, and the first third of the Cult column hit the ground screaming. Blossoms of flickering orange flame sprang to life on the opposite hill.

“Reload!”

Vaerana’s warriors touched the heads of their empty crossbows to the ground, then stuck their boots into the toe stirrups and began grunting and cursing as they pulled the stiff bowstrings back to the lock plates. On the road below, the anguished wails and cries for help went unanswered as the uninjured Cult warriors galloped forward, trampling their wounded fellows in a desperate effort to round the corner before the Maces loosed another volley. The fires on the opposite hill began to spread, creating an impenetrable wall of flame and filling the valley with a choking pall of smoke.

Vaerana waited until the leading riders had cleared the tangle of wounded, then called, “Squad the First!”

Half the Maces loosed their bolts, again aiming at the front of the Cult column. More men screamed and fell, lengthening the obstacle course for those behind and adding to the confusion. While the first squad reloaded, the rest of the Elversult warriors turned their aim farther back, where the enemy horsemen continued to round the corner.

Vaerana waited until the first group of men had reloaded, then called, “Squad the Second!”

The second half of the company fired, downing a dozen horses and men. More riders galloped around the bend, either leaping their fallen comrades or stumbling over them, and a few alert Cult members turned their terrified horses up the hill.

Vaerana waited until the assault had almost reached the top, allowing the second squad time to reload, then called, “All fire!”

The Cult horsemen rode into a wall of black shafts that unhorsed all but three of them. The survivors brought their mounts up short, took one look at the gang of warriors reaching for their maces, then spun their mounts around and charged down the slope.

That was all it took to break the enemy’s morale. When the rest of the Cult riders rounded the corner and heard their wailing comrades, then saw three of their fellows coming down the hill at a breakneck gallop, they quickly concluded that the situation was hopeless. The entire column turned back, beating their horses as savagely as when they rode into battle.

“That’ll keep ’em off our backs.” Vaerana turned away from the bloody scene below and pointed at five men. “You men hang back and keep a sharp eye. I doubt the Black Caps will find their courage again, but let me know if they do. The rest of you, to your horses. We’ve a long ride before we’re safe again.”

Fowler started to take Ruha’s arm to help her down the hill, but Vaerana moved between them and took his place.

“You go on ahead, Tusks,” Vaerana said, slipping Ruha’s arm over her shoulders. “I’ll help the witch.”

Fowler raised his heavy brow, then shrugged and began to pick his way down the hill. The Lady Constable let him get a little way ahead, then started to help Ruha down the slope.

“Now, about this absurd promise you made—”

“Which promise?” Ruha interrupted. “The one wherein I swore to combat villainy and wickedness, or the one wherein I swore to help those in fear for their lives?”

Vaerana stopped walking and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you quote watchwords to me! I’ve heard about you, and I won’t stand for such trouble—not in Elversult, and not when so much depends on you!”

Ruha lowered her gaze. “Forgive me.” Had everyone in the Heartlands heard of the Voonlar debacle? “I did not mean to anger you, but what would you have done? The dragon was tearing the ship apart, and Captain Fowler would not go to her aid. Hundreds of people would have drowned.”

Vaerana started down the hill again. “A tough choice, I’ll grant you. But defending others doesn’t mean throwing your own life away, not when people are counting on you someplace else.”

“I would not have attacked if I thought the wyrm was going to kill me,” Ruha remarked. “Nor would I have asked Captain Fowler to risk his ship if I thought the creature would sink it.”

Vaerana shook her head in incredulity. “Well, what’d you expect? Did you think you’d kill it?”

“Of course.”

Vaerana stumbled and nearly sent them both tumbling.

Ruha hissed as she caught her weight on her injured leg, then explained, “I have killed three other dragons, in the desert. And I would have killed this one, had it not already been dead.”

“Dead?”

“It was like a ghoul.” As they continued their descent, Ruha explained how Captain Fowler’s crew had harpooned the beast, and how it come back to attack after her spell had destroyed its internal organs. “Then it sprayed a black cloud over the bow, and the entire front half of the ship dissolved.”

Vaerana’s shoulders suddenly grew tense beneath Ruha’s arm, and her florid complexion turned as pale as ivory. “You’d better describe this dragon to me, Witch.”

“As you command. First of all, it was huge, perhaps as large as the Storm Sprite herself. It was very black, with dull and withered scales and many fleshless places on its—”

“Cypress!” Vaerana hissed.

“Cypress?”

“He came up from the Wetwoods to attack the caravans around Elversult,” the Lady Constable explained. “But that was three years ago, and Yanseldara said she 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, well 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.”