The Veiled Dragon

by Denning, Troy

  “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.r />
  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 tus
ks; 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—”