“Barbarians have strange customs.” Tang knew that his response was a feeble one, but he needed time to think of something better. “Vaerana Hawklyn does not trust afterworld magic and accuses us of causing her queen’s illness.”
“Have we?”
Tang tried to swallow and found that he could not. “Why do you think that, Minister?”
The minister splayed his fingers, then began to tick off the names of poisonous plants that had been hidden in the Ginger Lady’s cargo. “Oleander … lantana … castor bean … pink pea … Shou berry.” He reached his little finger and stopped. “Need I go on?”
Prince Tang shook his head. “We only sell poisons, not use them. Yanseldara’s condition is not our fault.”
Hsieh lowered his hand. “You know I do not care if it is, as long as your reason is good. But if you are lying—”
“Never!” Both Tang and his wife spoke at once.
Hsieh raised a cautionary finger and continued, “If you lie to protect Lady Feng, I have no mercy.”
Tang’s head began to spin. “To protect Lady Feng?” he asked, truly confused. “How does lying—”
“We do not lie.” Wei Dao stepped around the table to her husband’s side. “We send a company of guards to inform Lady Feng of your arrival. Perhaps you wish to send Yu Po along?”
Hsieh considered the offer, then shook his head. “That is not necessary. If there is anything I should know, it is certain to come to light.”
The mandarin rose and honored them with a shallow bow, then led Yu Po and his guards from the room. As soon as their steps faded from the corridor outside, Tang sent the servants away.
“Why do you lie to mandarin?” he demanded, turning to his wife. “You dishonor ancestors and condemn us to Chamber of Agonizing Death!”
“Only if Minister Hsieh discovers abduction of venerable mother.”
“How can he fail?” Tang’s legs were trembling. It made him feel ashamed and weak. “Any servant tells esteemed mandarin everything he wants to know.”
“True, but Minister Hsieh is sure to ask wrong questions,” Wei Dao replied calmly. “He thinks venerable mother has lover, and any servant he asks certainly tells him that is nonsense.”
The princess’s reassurance did little to bolster Tang’s courage. “But how do guards bring Lady Feng home from Moonstorm House? Cypress has mother, not Vaerana Hawklyn!”
“Yes, but now we have fresh ylang blossoms.” Wei Dao grabbed her husband by the wrist and started toward the back of the palace. “Now come. We have no more time for your cowardice—or your foolishness.”
* * * **
Inside the cargo box, the thick stench of ylang blossoms did more to muffle the unexpected shriek than the canvas tarp—or so it seemed to Ruha. The first screech was instantly followed by more cries from all corners of the cavernous spicehouse, and then came a brief stampede of drumming boots. Wisps of another smell, rancid and even more cloying than ylang oil, drifted through the gaps between the wagon’s sideboards. After that, the cavernous spicehouse fell silent, leaving the witch to wonder if, after untold hours of stillness, she dared uncurl herself and peek outside.
Ruha decided to wait; ten heartbeats, twenty, thirty. She had thought it would be a simple thing to stow away until the wagon was inside the palace, then slip out from beneath the tarp when it was parked to await unloading. But the Shou had driven the witch’s wagon and several others into the shady coolness of the spicehouse and left them there, then began to unpack the vehicles parked outside in the hot sun. Until now, the patter of feet passing by her hiding place had been so steady that she had hardly dared to breathe, much less poke her head out from beneath the tarp.
Ruha’s count reached a hundred. She slowly uncurled herself, taking a moment to stretch her stiff muscles in case she suddenly had to run or fight, then half-swam through the dried blossoms to the back corner of the wagon. In the inky darkness beneath the tarp, her sun spell had grown weak and expired some time ago, leaving her as visible as any workman. She used the tip of her jambiya to lift the tarp, then raised her head high enough to peer over the tail boards.
A gasp of surprise rose into her throat and escaped, half-strangled, from her mouth. Less than five paces away sat a small black dragon. Save that it was no larger than a cargo wagon, the creature was identical to Cypress, with the same dull scales, splintered horns, and sinister voids where his eyes should have been. The foul odor she had smelled earlier seemed to be coming from the carcass, and now the witch thought she could identify the stench: rotten fish.
Ruha dropped back into the wagon and tried not to choke on her own heart, which had somehow climbed high into her throat. When the creature did not immediately come tearing through the tarp, the witch dared to hope it had not seen her and frantically tried to think of some reason that did not involve her that it might be waiting outside her wagon. She failed, rather quickly, and started to consider what she might do about the situation.
Come out, my dear. Though the voice reverberated through Ruha’s head without passing through her ears, it sounded as raspy and chilling as the first time she had heard it. You have no idea how I have been looking forward to our second meeting.
Ruha knew then that someone had betrayed her, but who: Vaerana or Fowler? The thought was ludicrous. They both had more reason than she to hate Cypress, yet who else could have known where she was hiding? Anyone they would have trusted with the secret. In Vaerana’s case, at least, that circle was no doubt larger than the witch would have liked.
Come out and give me that silver I smell in your pocket If you show that much courage, perhaps I will have mercy.
A prickling chill ran down Ruha’s back, and a terrifying possibility occurred to her. I have seen your mercy, she thought. And you have seen my magic. Go away, or it will be you who begs quarter.
The witch waited a moment for Cypress’s response. When none came, she breathed a little easier. If the dragon had been able to read her thoughts, her chances of surviving the coming battle would have fallen to nothing.
Ruha sheathed her dagger, then burrowed into the ylang blossoms. She crawled toward the front of the cargo box, taking care not to jiggle the wagon. As she moved, she summoned the incantation of a fire spell to mind. She doubted that she could trick Cypress into swallowing a chestful of oil vapor again, but neither would it take such a huge explosion to destroy his new body. A smaller blast, properly placed, would prove sufficient to annihilate him.
The witch was only halfway to her goal when something jolted the wagon. She heard the zip-zip of oilcloth being ripped; then a flickering yellow light of the spicehouse’s oil lamps filtered down through the ylang blossoms. Already uttering her incantation, Ruha lifted herself out of the blossoms and, expecting to feel the dragon’s claws driving deep into her flesh at any moment, thrust her hand over the sideboard.
The flames shot off the wicks of half a dozen different lamps and streaked into the palm of her hand, gathering themselves into a hissing, sputtering ball of fire. She whirled around, ready to slap the scorching sphere into Cypress’s empty eye socket or beneath his arm, or anywhere that would channel the explosion into her attacker’s vital areas.
The dragon was not there. He stood three paces away from the wagon, the dark voids beneath his brow fixed on the fire in Ruha’s palm. From his talons hung the remains of the shredded tarp, arid she could see the tip of his tail flicking back and forth behind his head. He made no move to attack.
There’s no need to burn down poor Tang’s spicehouse, the dragon said. Step out of the wagon. Give me that silver I smell and answer a single question. I promise, your death shall be mercifully quick.