The Veiled Dragon

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 scarlet-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 white-paved 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 of Bedine 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, long-tailed 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, red-lacquered 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 portal, drawing a silver coin from his sleeve and deftly displaying it between his cupped hands, where the two sentries could not see it.

“I ask Prince if he wishes to see you.”

A sharp clunk reverberated through the gates, then one gate swung open. Abazm led the way inside, slipping his coin to the Honored One so smoothly that Ruha did not see it change hands. Inside, a path of white marble led across a huge, yellow-bricked courtyard to a double-tiered mansion. The building was of the same post and beam construction as the portico, save that the spaces between the posts were filled with white-plastered walls, silvery windows of rare and expensive glass, or red-lacquered doors decorated with yellow basilisk emblems. The pillars and lintels were carved with a great variety of stylized creatures: birds with tails of flame, tiger-faced jackals, furry imps with long curling tails, and a hundred more. The building’s two roofs, as the witch had seen from outside, were covered with scarlet tiles and swept up at the eaves. Every detail was arranged in perfect symmetry and balance, carefully contrived to impart upon the onlooker a complete sense of serenity and consonance, as though to imply that the master of the palace could control even the wildest whim of nature.

Ruha started to follow the Honored One across the courtyard, but suddenly found her path blocked by six guards who had apparently stepped out of nowhere. They were armed and armored as those outside, save that their emotionless gazes were locked on the witch’s face.

Abazm took Ruha’s sleeve and gently pulled her back. “Please, Mistress, we have not been invited into the palace.”

He pulled the witch toward a pillared gallery that ran along the inner perimeter of the curtain wall, where a long line of stone benches had been provided for the comfort of those waiting to visit palace residents. Ruha counted more than thirty merchants gathered on the seats. Many wore the billowing tunics and outlandish hats of Sembite merchants, but there were also dwarves in striped burnooses, elves outfitted in their customary leather and green, even a pair of bare-chested orcs dressed in silken knickers and garish stockings. No matter what their costume, they were all holding a coffer similar to the one in Fowler’s hands.

Ruha’s heart fell. Abazm had gotten them inside the Ginger Palace as promised, but it was going to be a long time before she could begin her search.

A few of the merchants called greetings to the dwarf. Abazm returned each salutation with artificial warmth and politely introduced his companions as Ruha and Fowal’sid of the Mtair Dhafir. Without exception, the dwarf went on to explain that his clients were incense traders from Anauroch, and then suggested a meeting in his shop—no doubt with an eye toward earning a commission if anything came of the arrangement. With each introduction, the witch silently cursed Abazm’s efficacy, but she forced herself to offer salutations and respond enthusiastically to her guide’s efforts. Before she finally reached a vacant bench at the end of the line, Ruha had made three appointments for two days hence— by which time she hoped to have returned the stolen staff to Yanseldara and be well on her way back to Storm Silverhand’s farm in Shadowdale.

Fowler remained strangely silent the whole time, preferring to stand behind Ruha with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. As the witch took her seat, he leaned close to her ear.

“I told you this plan was a foolish one. I’ve carried cargo for half a dozen of these fellows.”

Ruha looked back down the line and saw that several merchants were, indeed, staring in their direction. “Then sit down and do not look so suspicious. I am sure you are not the only half-orc they have ever seen. With luck, they will find it difficult to tell you from the others.”

Fowler scowled as though insulted, but sat down with the coffer in his lap and pulled his keffiyeh down his brow. Ruha settled in beside him, and Abazm clambered onto the bench next to her.

“Not to worry,” the dwarf whispered. “I am a favorite of the Princess Wei Dao. She will see that we do not wait more than three or four hours.”

“Four hours?” Ruha gasped. That was half the day, and from what Tombor had said, Vaerana would be able to delay Hsieh’s arrival little more than a day. “Is there no faster way?”

Abazm’s bushy eyebrows came together in an exaggerated expression of hurt. “That is fast” He gestured to the long line of merchants. “Of late, Prince Tang has been slow about his business. Some of these men have been waiting three days already!”

Ruha glanced at Fowler and caught him sneering as though he were going to speak. “Say nothing, Fowal’sid. At least we are inside.”

“Of course we are. Is that not what I promised?” Abazm cocked an eyebrow and gazed thoughtfully at Ruha. “But if that is all you wished, there was no need to hire me—as I am sure your friends told you.”

“They said you could arrange a quick audience.”

Ruha looked toward the rear of the courtyard, deciding to use the time to familiarize herself with the palace’s layout. She could see only the front part of the compound. The back half was sealed off by a pair of winglike ramparts that spread outward from the midpoint of the mansion, where it changed to a two story structure, to meet the walls of the outer curtain. Above these partitions showed the tiled roofs of two huge, single storey buildings located near the back of the compound.

In the front courtyard, where Ruha and the other merchants sat waiting, a narrow, L-shaped building stood in the southeastern corner of the enclosure. The witch concluded that this was the sentry barracks, for a steady flow of guards passed through the doors in both directions. A similar building sat in the opposite corner of the courtyard. Save for the two guards posted outside its doors, this structure seemed deserted.

The witch had barely finished her study before the Honored One emerged from the mansion at the head of a small procession of guards. He led the troop across the courtyard toward Ruha and her companions, drawing an astonished murmur from the pillared gallery. Abazm frowned in puzzlement, but pushed himself off the bench and turned to his clients.

“It is better than I hoped,” he declared. “We will not be required to wait at all.”

Fowler looked far from relieved at this news. “Why all those guards?”

Abazm shook his head, bewildered. “Because of you two, perhaps. The Shou are not fond of half-men, and they are bound to be suspicious of women who cover their faces.”

The procession stopped before them; then the Honored One bowed to Abazm. “Princess Wei Dao asks you into audience hall.”

The dwarf cast a smug look over his shoulder and returned the bow, as did the witch and the captain. The Honored One turned toward the mansion, and the guards closed around Ruha’s small company without showing a flicker of suspicion or anxiety. The witch found it strange that, if the Shou were suspicious of her and Fowler, they did not bother to take her jambiya or the captain’s sword.

The Honored One led the procession up a marble staircase and through an open doorway at the far end of the mansion. They passed through a high-ceilinged anteroom so quickly that Ruha barely noticed the stylized frescoes, then entered a long, spacious room hung with silk tapestries and floored with the mosaic of a beautiful, flame-tailed crane.

In a teak throne at the far end of the room sat a striking Shou woman in a tight, ankle-length dress embroidered with a golden dragon almost as sinuous as she. Arrayed around her were a dozen women and half as many men, all watching in expectant silence as Abazm boldly led his clients forward. As the trio drew nearer, Ruha saw that the princess was a woman who believed even more firmly than the Bedine in the power of cosmetics. Her painted lips were as glossy and red as the palace’s lacquered gates, her eyelids were sapphire blue, and, save for the rouge highlights beneath her round cheekbones, her face was powdered as white as alabaster. Only a yellow scarf carefully tied around her throat seemed at all out of place, bunched up as it was around the dress’s high collar.

The Honored One stopped before the throne and bowed, then flourished his hand at Abazm. “The dwarf Abazm, Princess.”

Abazm stopped before Wei Dao’s throne and kneeled on the floor, then leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the wood. Ruha cast a questioning glance at Fowler, who scowled at the dwarf’s gesture and merely bowed. She did likewise, hoping they were not inadvertently insulting their hostess.

If they were, it was impossible to tell. The princess glared at the back of Abazm’s skull as though she wanted to stare a hole through it. The Honored One slipped away from the dwarf, and no one took any notice whatsoever of Ruha or Fowler.

At last, Abazm could no longer stand the silence. The dwarf cautiously allowed his gaze to creep across the floor to the princess’s feet. “Princess Wei Dao, you honor me with your radiance.”

“Abazm, how surprising that you return so soon to Ginger Palace.” The princess fingered the scarf at her neck. “And how fortunate.”

Abazm raised himself so that he was merely kneeling before Wei Dao. “I am your servant, and the servant of the Ginger Palace as well.” He twisted around to gesture at his clients, and Ruha glimpsed a bewildered gleam in the dwarf’s eyes. “I have brought traders from a distant land—”

“No! No more foreign powders!” Wei Dao ripped the scarf from her throat, exposing an ugly swath of partially healed skin eruptions. “See effects of your pearl dust?”

Abazm gasped at the sight of the princess’s ravaged complexion. Incoherent, half-voiced explanations regarding Lheshaylian sorcerers began to pour from his mouth, and he looked to the Honored One for help. The Shou fixed his gaze on Princess Wei Dao and pretended not to notice.

“You say, skin shine like moon!” Wei Dao waved a hand toward the sky, gesturing so angrily that the effort carried her to her feet. “Skin shine like harvest moon, craters and all!”

Abazm leapt up, but before he could turn to run, two guards caught him by the arms. They lifted the dwarf into the air and held him before the princess, his feet dangling six inches above the floor.

“I b-b-beg your forgiveness!” the dwarf cried. “I did not know this would happen! I made my own wife try the powder before I sold it to you!”

“You give me same powder as dwarf woman?” Wei Dao snarled.

“Only to see if it was safe, Princess!”

The princess’s eyes narrowed. “Liar—it is not safe!” She tied her scarf around her throat and nodded to the guards. “Take deceitful dwarf to tanning vats.”

Ruha cringed at the punishment. It was unlikely that the tubs would be deep enough to drown Abazm but, unless the Shou tanned leather differently than the Bedine, the vats would be filled with harsh fluids and the foulest offal gathered from the pens of dogs and swine. The witch knew better than to think she could intercede on the dwarf’s behalf, but she would not leave him behind after she recovered Yanseldara’s staff.

As the guards carried him out the door, Abazm jerked one arm free and swung around to face the throne. He glanced briefly at the witch and Fowler, then yelled, “Wait! Spare me, Princess, and I will tell you something you should know!”

Ruha’s stomach grew as heavy as lead. Fowler gnashed his tusks; then the Honored One’s panicked voice echoed across the chamber. “Take him away!”

The guard recaptured Abazm’s arm and turned to obey.

“Wait.” The princess leaned forward in her throne, peering past Ruha and Fowler to the dwarf. “Say what I should know, Abazm. Then I decide whether to spare you.”

The Honored One stepped forward, positioning himself squarely in front of Wei Dao. “Frightened dwarf say a-anything, Princess. We cannot b-believe him.”

There was a catch in the Shou’s voice—and Ruha thought she knew why. “But you can believe us.” The witch bowed to the princess, tugging on Fowler’s sleeve so he would do the same. “We have no reason to lie.”

Wei Dao studied the witch and her companion, then asked, “You know what insidious dwarf says?”

Ruha turned to face Abazm, trying to decide whether it would be wiser to expose the chamberlain’s corruption herself, or to restrain herself and hope the treacherous dwarf realized that his best interests now lay in working with her.

“Do you know what dwarf says?” the princess demanded.

Ruha fixed her gaze on Abazm and let her hand drift toward her jambiya. Without turning around, she said, “I think I do, yes.”

Abazm swallowed hard, then looked away from Ruha. “Most Merciful Princess,” the dwarf began. He glanced at the witch’s hand, then continued, “Most Compassionate Lady, I beg leave to report that it is necessary to pay your trusted chamberlain in order to secure appointments within the Ginger Palace.”

Ruha sighed behind her veil. She turned to face the princess, fully expecting to be called upon to confirm Abazm’s story.

The chamberlain was already kneeling before Wei Dao’s throne, his brow pressed to the floor and his arms stretched out before him. “Compassionate Princess, I beg mercy for my family.”

Wei Dao raised her thinly plucked eyebrows. “Then you acknowledge this crime, Chuang?”

“I do. My pockets hang heavy with silver.” Chuang’s muffled voice was barely audible. “It is way of this land, and I am weak. At first, I am surprised and grateful when visitors pay me silver. But soon it is expected, and I do not open gates until—”

“Enough. You do not lie to me, and I grant mercy to your family.” Wei Dao stared at the prone chamberlain until his body began to tremble and great, racking sobs reverberated across the floor. “But you dishonor your ancestors before Mandarins of Heaven, and it is beyond me to ask that they make you welcome.”

“Yes, Princess. I know.”

Wei Dao looked up, then turned to a squat, flat-cheeked man with an unwavering scowl and granite eyes. “Please, General Fui.”

Before Ruha realized quite what was happening, the general had drawn a heavy, square-tipped sword from one of the guard’s scabbards and stepped to Chuang’s side. There was a sharp, wet thunk, and the witch saw just how swiftly and surely death would come if the Shou found her out.

The general cleaned the blade on the headless chamberlain’s silken robe, then returned the weapon to its owner and stepped back to his place. His face remained as impassive as ever.

Wei Dao studied the chamberlain’s disembodied head for a moment, then seemed to remember herself and looked toward the chamber entrance.

“Perfidious dwarf is permitted to leave.”

The guards set Abazm down. As soon as the merchant’s feet touched the floor, he spun on his heel and bowed very low.

“Your wisdom is more boundless than the sky, Princess!” As he spoke, he was backing out the door. “Only Eldath herself is more merciful and forgiving!”

Wei Dao accepted the tribute with a faintly amused smirk. “You always welcome at Ginger Palace, Abazm. Please to call when berry lip paint is ready.”

Once the dwarf was gone, Wei Dao rose and, stepping around the pool of blood at the base of her throne, led her entire entourage across the floor to Ruha and Fowler. She circled them slowly, running her gaze over their robes and studying the witch’s veil especially closely, then stopped in front of them.

Ruha was astounded that Wei Dao’s guards would allow their mistress to approach so closely to two armed strangers, a fact that suggested they believed the princess to be perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

“Abazm says you come to do business with Ginger Palace?”

“Aye, with Prince Tang,” Fowler confirmed.

Wei Dao’s eyes hardened. “Prince Tang is no longer receiving today. Perhaps you come back tomorrow.”

“We’re wanting a large cargo, and we’re ready to pay now.”

“Tomorrow.”

The princess stepped away without turning her back on her visitors and paid no attention to the coffer in Fowler’s hands, even when he shook it to clank the heavy load of coins inside.

Ruha laid a restraining hand on the captain’s arm. “That is enough, Fowal’sid.”

The half-orc scowled, but held the coffer steady, and Wei Dao stopped short of turning to leave.

“We have come to sell as well as buy, Princess,” Ruha said. “And you will be more interested in our wares than your husband.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ruha caught Fowler frowning at her unexpected improvisation. She ignored him and lowered a hand to the pocket of her aba, asking, “If I may, Princess?”

Wei Dao nodded, but Fowler, who had seen her draw spell components from those same pockets, cleared his throat.

“Maybe now’s not the time—”

Ruha whirled sharply on the burly half-orc. “Did I not tell you to be silent, Fowal’sid?”

Fowler’s leathery lip trembled with the impulse to curl into a snarl, but the half-orc forced himself to lower his gaze and nod respectfully. “You did, Lady.”

When the witch looked back to their hostess, she noticed a glimmer of respect in Wei Dao’s otherwise inexpressive face. Deciding that she had read the princess’s character correctly, Ruha reached into a pocket and withdrew two milky tears of hardened tree resin.

“Have you heard of frankincense or myrrh?”

Wei Dao examined the droplets closely. “Are they gems?”

“In a manner of speaking, for they are more valuable than gold. If you can have someone fetch a brazier and fill it with coals, I will show you.”

“Magic is forbidden in my presence.”

“This is not magic.” Ruha found it interesting that the Shou considered sorcery a greater threat to the safety of their nobility than they did blades. “The drops will produce a pleasant smoke, nothing more.”

Wei Dao nodded to two men, who promptly left through a door in the rear of the chamber. Fowler continued to stare at the white tears so tensely that Ruha feared he would alarm Wei Dao. The witch stepped closer to her hostess, until their shoulders were almost touching.

“While we await the brazier, I will tell you more about these wondrous tears.” Ruha raised her hand, displaying the milky drops before Wei Dao’s eyes. “They are resins, scraped from beneath the bark of certain trees that grow only on the eastern side of the highest mountains in Anauroch.”

“The great desert?” Wei Dao asked.

“Yes. There, we use frankincense and myrrh to scent the air around stagnant oases. The tears can also be pressed to create perfumes, or mixed with almond oil to create restorative tonics and soothing lotions, or stirred into elixirs to ease the pains of childbirth.” Ruha paused to see if this elicited any interest from the princess. When it did not, she continued, “They are also good for soothing stinging eyes, earaches—even as a remedy to the bites of certain venomous insects, and as an antidote to some kinds of poison.”

Again, Ruha watched closely to see if the last item of her description drew any special notice from the princess. But if Wei Dao had any interest in poisons, it remained concealed with the rest of her thoughts.

“Is there anything frankincense and myrrh cannot do?” Wei Dao’s voice was somewhat incredulous.

“Perhaps there are other uses, but I have described all I can demonstrate.”

The two men returned with a small brazier already filled with hot coals. Ruha crushed one of the tears between her palms, then sprinkled the crumbs onto the embers. An aromatic smoke rose from the pan, filling the entire chamber with such a sweet, fresh smell that the Shou finally allowed their stoic masks to slip. They began to smile openly and crowd closer to the source, taking such deep breaths that some of them actually snorted. Even the stern-faced guards could not keep their nostrils from flaring.

Wei Dao studied her entourage’s reaction in bemused meditation. “This is not magic?”

“I am no spellcaster,” Ruha lied. She pressed the other tear into the princess’s hand and motioned toward the brazier. “It will smell just as sweet if you sprinkle the crumbs. Tomorrow, I will demonstrate its use in the making of perfumes and poultices.”

Wei Dao did not step toward the brazier. “Not necessary. We buy all you have.”

“What about the price?” Fowler gasped. “Aren’t you even going to ask?”

Wei Dao glanced at the brazier, where her entourage stood sniffing the sweet-smelling smoke. “You already tell me it is more valuable than gold. I believe you.”

Fowler shook his head in amazement, then looked back to Ruha. “Well, Lady Ruha, how much do we have?”

It took Ruha a moment to realize what he was asking, for she had not expected her plan to succeed quite so well. “I’m afraid we have very little at the moment.” The witch had only three more tears in her pocket. “You see, our ship was sunk by a dragon—”

“By dragon?”

Wei Dao’s exclamation caught Ruha as much by surprise as had the offer to buy all her frankincense. “It was a very large dragon,” the witch explained, keeping a watchful eye on the princess’s expression. “A black one. Do you know it?”

Wei Dao’s face became as unreadable as ever. “I do not know this dragon. But it is difficult for Shou to hear of dragons doing evil things.”

“Yes, I have heard your emperor is a green dragon.”

“Jade.” Wei Dao bowed, suggesting that the audience was at an end. “Please return to Ginger Palace with more frankincense and myrrh.”

Ruha did not return the bow. “You may be certain we will—but first, we are interested in purchasing some wares to take with us.” The witch fingered the silk veil that Hsieh had given to her. “As you can see, the love of Shou silk reaches even into the depths of Anauroch.”

“Of course. You discuss with Prince Tang.” Wei Dao bowed again. “Come back tomorrow, and new chamberlain sees you are among first to see my husband.”

“I am sorry, but that is not possible.” Ruha had to fight to keep the panic out of her voice. “We must leave for Ilipur tomorrow to buy a new ship.”

“Then come very early in morning. Chamberlain give you first appointment.” Wei Dao turned to leave, this time without bowing.

Ruha threw open the coffer in Fowler’s hands. “Before you go, Princess, Abazm said you would want to see the color of our gold.”

Wei Dao spun around, affronted. “Show me money? What for?”

Fowler tipped the box so she could look inside, and the princess’s expression changed instantly—first to one of puzzlement, then interest.

“Yes, of course. Abazm always tells us we must inspect coins.” She glided over to the box and started to reach inside, then remembered herself and asked, “May I touch?”

Ruha nodded, and Wei Dao picked up several gold pieces and raised them to her face. When Ruha saw the coin from Calimshan slide down the long sleeve of the princess’s dress, she thought it best not to say anything.

“You stay tonight in Ginger Palace,” Wei Dao said, as though she had thought of the idea herself. “We see Prince Tang soon after breakfast.”