Tang’s guards arrived at the park entrance and began to hammer on the gates, but they could not break through with anything short of a battering ram. Both portals were reinforced with heavy bands of steel, while the lock itself was the sturdiest Shou smiths could make. The sentries could not even scale the wall, as it was capped with a double crest of barbed spikes.
Cypress slunk off the bench, allowing Tang to glimpse a deep, white-fleshed gash that ran the entire length of the monitor’s belly. The beast trundled across the plaza on four stubby legs, then stopped next to the prince’s knee and rolled its lifeless gaze over his maitung.
Given that we have not seen you in so long, I find this altogether pretentious.
The lizard’s tongue darted out to snap at Tang’s maitung, which was tailored with overlapping brown patches resembling the spade-shaped scales of an armored skink.
How long has it been since you attended Lair?
“You know I resign.”
Cypress slipped behind his captive and lashed out with the monitor’s huge tail, catching Tang behind the knees and hurling him face first to the plaza. The prince’s nose and mouth erupted in stinging pain, and he felt the unaccustomed sensation of warm blood spilling from his nostrils. He tried to rise and found himself pinned to the ground, his entire body now as heavy as only his feet had been a moment earlier. He screamed, more in rage than anguish, and wished that he had a sword in his hand—and the strength to raise it.
The hammering at the gates ceased, then a sharp boom reverberated across the plaza as several armored bodies slammed into the portals. The thick planks creaked, but the lock did not give way. Cypress circled around in front of the prince, barely glancing toward the gates.
I have told you, no one resigns from the Cult of the Dragon!
The monitor took Tang’s hand in its mouth. The prince cringed, fearing he would soon have a bloody stump at the end of his wrist, but the powerful jaws did not close. Instead, the beast’s agile tongue rolled over Tang’s fingers, removing his golden rings. After doing the same with the other hand, the dead lizard dropped to its belly and stared the prince in the eye.
I thank you for the offering. Now, where is my ylang oil?
“Where is Lady Feng?” Tang groaned. “You have oil when I have mother.”
A red ember sparked deep within the lizard’s eye, then the beast dragged one huge claw across the prince’s face.
“You dare scratch me?” Tang squawked, astonished that even a spiteful creature like Cypress would mark a person of Imperial Shou blood. He spat on the beast’s snout, then added, “For that, you die thousand deaths!”
The monitor’s gaping jaws opened as though to chomp Tang’s head off; then the beast tipped its head sideways and did not bite. I think I shall!
A deep, rumbling laugh—more like a cough—rolled up from someplace deep in the monitor’s hollow stomach, and Cypress laid one of the lizard’s heavy claws on the prince’s shoulder.
I shall die a thousand deaths—a thousand deaths at least!
Cypress removed the foot from Tang’s shoulder and backed away, still chuckling. The prince found that his body no longer seemed quite so heavy. He gathered himself up and stood, one hand pinching his bloody nose. Another boom echoed across the plaza. The monitor’s head turned so that it could watch the arch with one drab eye and Tang with the other.
Lady Feng informs me that only you know how to press the ylang blossoms, so I will spare your life—but I am losing patience. If I do not have the oil by tomorrow, I shall start returning your mother in parts.
“What you ask is impossible! Pressing blossoms take one week—”
Don’t lie to me! I know how long you need to prepare the oil! The monitor whirled away and started across the plaza. Tomorrow.
A double click sounded beneath the Arch of Many-Hued Scales. The gates burst open, and Yuan led the guards into the garden. Several of the men were only half dressed and bleeding from their whip cuts. Their eyes went first to the prince’s bloody face, then to the lumbering monitor. To a man, they lowered their halberds and charged.
“No! Stand—”
Tang’s command came too late. Cypress ran the monitor’s dark gaze from one end of the company to the other. As the black eyes fell on each sentry, the man wailed and slapped his palms to his ears, letting his weapon fly from his hands. In a breath’s span, all ten guards lay writhing on the ground, screaming madly and bleeding from their ears. The lizard sauntered calmly into the squad’s midst, paused to suck the silver honor ring off each man’s thumb, and walked out the gate. By the time Cypress had lumbered down the Path of Delight onto the Five Color Bridge, the last sentry had curled into a tight ball and lay staring at the ground in front of him through gray, sunken eyeballs.
Tang sank to his knees and looked numbly around his garden, absentmindedly counting all the boulders and trees he would have to replace. At least now he knew how the vandal had penetrated the heart of his palace; without a wu-jen, even the most elaborate traps and precautions were doomed to fail against a master of the Invisible Art.
From beneath the Arch of Many-Hued Scales came a soft-voiced cough. Tang turned and saw the lithe form of his diminutive wife, Wei Dao, standing in the gateway. She had apparently come from her gymnasium, for her brow was wet with sweat, and she wore a black samfu, a long-sleeved uniform in which she always dressed to practice empty-hand defense. Today, her attire also included a red throat scarf. Despite her ruffled hair and flushed complexion, the princess looked as striking as ever, with generous painted lips, high cheeks, and a watchful, sloe-eyed gaze.
Wei Dao bowed. “Mighty Prince, please forgive intrusion, but I hear terrible commotion.”
Her eyes darted from her husband’s blood-smeared face to the fallen guards, but she made no comment on their condition and did not move to help them. As Tang’s wife, such things were as far beneath her dignity as that of the prince himself; at their first convenience, one of them would inform the commander of the guard that some of his men were in need of attention.
“I see Chult lizard crossing Five Color Bridge,” said Wei Dao. “It looks in no condition to walk.”
Tang rose and crossed the plaza to his wife. “We have unwelcome visitor.” He left the garden and pulled the red-lacquered gates shut behind him. “We need wu-jen.”
Wei Dao considered this a moment, then asked, “To stop dragon?” Then, as though there could be some question of which dragon she meant, she added, “To stop Cypress?”
Tang nodded. “I do not understand why, but he comes himself.” Cypress seldom ventured from the gluttonous comfort of his lair and would normally have sent his high priestess, Indrith Shalla, to deliver the threat. “And he leaves in body of monitor. Why does dragon want carcass of giant lizard?”
Wei Dao’s eyes flashed. “What do we care?” She took the scarf from around her neck, revealing the fading remnants of an ugly skin rash, and dabbed at Tang’s blood-smeared face. “Give him ylang oil before he kill Lady Feng.”
Tang winced at his wife’s ministrations. “He does not kill Lady Feng. She is safe.”
Wei Dao began to scrub the claw marks on her husband’s cheeks—harder than necessary, it seemed to him. “If dragon kills mother, you lose all honor before Emperor. We never return to Tai Tung. We spend rest of our lives exiled from court.”
Tang could think of worse fates, but he did not dare say so in the presence of his ambitious wife. “Lady Feng is safe.” He pulled Wei Dao’s hands away from his stinging face. “I know.”
The princess scowled and tried another tack. “Still better to give Cypress what he wants. If Lady Feng is not here when Minister Hsieh arrives, there be many questions. How do you explain that Cult of Dragon steals Third Virtuous Concubine?”
Tang pulled away from his wife and pushed his key into the gate lock. “I cannot give Cypress what he wants.”
Wei Dao’s perfect mouth twisted into a doubtful frown. “What do you mean? I see hundreds of ylan
g blossoms in spicehouse.”
“All picked in evening.” Tang turned the key and heard the double click of the bolt shooting into the catch. When the commander of the guard came to fetch his men, he would have to be entrusted with the key. There was nothing else to be done; certainly, the garden could not be left unlocked. The prince faced his wife, then said, “Ylang blossoms picked in evening are not potent.”
“Not potent?”
Tang shrugged. “They are good for balms and teas, but potion made from those blossoms does not last. Only flowers picked in morning have strength to make permanent love potion.”
Wei Dao narrowed her sloe-eyed gaze. “Why do we have only weak blossoms?”
“Because strong blossoms do not keep long. Even if journey from Shou Lung is short, they spoil before we sell them all.”
Wei Dao shook her head in open disbelief. “No. You do not want venerable mother to return! You like life of barbarian!”
Unaccustomed to being addressed in such tones, even by his own wife, the prince raised his hand—then found Wei Dao’s wrist pressed against his own, blocking his strike.
They glared into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Tang asked, “What if I press oil and spell fails? What does Cypress do to Lady Feng then?”
Wei Dao looked away and did not answer.
“Then we do this my way,” Tang said. “We wait for Hsieh’s ship—then I press oil.”
Wei Dao’s face paled. “You mean …?”
“Yes.” Tang nodded. “Blossoms come on Ginger Lady.”
The princess’s eyes grew as round as saucers. “And you do not tell Cypress?”
Tang scowled at her naivete. “Secret of oil is to press morning-picked blossoms. If we tell Cypress, do you think he returns Lady Feng to us?”
Wei Dao lowered her gaze in a practiced show of deference. “My husband, your wisdom outshines the sun.” She even managed a blush. “Please to excuse. I go do penance for my doubts.”
Tang smiled benevolently, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Do not be hard on yourself.”
“Oh, but I must.” Wei Dao bowed very low, then turned to scurry down the Path of Delight.
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.”
The Veiled Dragon Page 7