A chorus of strumming bowstrings sounded from atop the gate towers. The leading Shou riders sprouted arrows in their chests and fell from their wooden saddles. The rest of Hsieh’s men whipped their reins around, guiding their horses into a sheltering alleyway.
Ruha’s prancer clattered through the dark gateway of Moonstorm House into a spacious, hexagonal courtyard of ornamental trees and twining garden pathways. The witch reined in her mount, bringing the entire train to a halt and drawing a relieved nicker from the wounded packhorse. The enormous garden was enclosed by a milky wall, with slender, cone-roofed towers standing at each of the six corners. The castle had no central keep, nor, as far as the witch could tell, any sort of inner defensework at all.
Despite the excitement of the phony chase, Ruha found herself completely and utterly exhausted by the long ride from the Ginger Palace. This was her second night without sleep. She kept yawning behind her veil, and her eyes were burning with the need to close. She braced her hands on her saddle pommel and fought to clear her head; she could not allow herself to even think of resting, not until she had laid her trap.
Captain Fowler rushed from a gate tower’s narrow doorway, followed closely by Vaerana Hawklyn, Tombor the Jolly, and Pierstar Hallowhand. Though the hour was well past midnight, they were still dressed in jerkins, tunics, and trousers. They had, no doubt, been up planning tomorrow’s assault on the Ginger Palace.
Fowler stopped beside Ruha and took her mount’s foam-covered reins. “Are you well, Witch?” The half-orc scowled at the lather on his hand, then wiped it on his pants. “And what have you done to this poor beast?”
“Galloped him all the way from the Ginger Palace, by the looks of it,” said Vaerana, joining them. She turned to Pierstar. “You’d better have someone rouse John the farrier and his boys. These horses need some attention.”
Pierstar stopped beside the wounded beast and winced at the two bolts lodged in its rump, then turned toward a tower in the back of the castle.
“I’ll do it myself,” he said. “And I’ll send a patrol of Maces after those riders. I doubt we’ll catch them, but I don’t want them in the city. Those Shou can be sneaky.”
Tombor the Jolly went to the first horse and stood on his toes so he could reach the knots. “Perhaps we should unload. Since Ruha risked her life to bring us this cargo, I assume it is of some importance.”
“It is.” The witch glanced at the cleric just long enough to nod, then stifled a yawn and dismounted. ‘It’s the last ingredient the Cult of the Dragon needs to steal Yanseldara’s spirit—ylang blossoms. They arrived on the Ginger Lady with Minister Hsieh.”
“Then you’ve saved Yanseldara!” Fowler’s outburst was as much question as exclamation, but that did not stop him from folding Ruha into his arms. “Maybe now you can get me my gold.”
“Not so fast.” Vaerana went to help Tombor unload the pack train. “As I understand things, stopping the cult’s not the same as saving Yanseldara.”
“That is correct. I have bought us more time, but Yanseldara is still in danger until we recover the staff.”
Vaerana tossed a sack of ylang blossoms on the ground. “I don’t suppose you can tell us where it is?”
The witch shook her head. “I am sorry. Lady Feng’s familiar was gone. It was all I could do to return with the ylang blossoms.”
Vaerana sighed wearily. “I guess I’ll have to do this myself.”
“I am sorry I failed you.”
Vaerana shrugged. “I’m sure you did your best.”
The Lady Constable probably did not mean to be insulting, but her patronizing tone vexed Ruha and made the witch burn to expose Tombor’s treachery. Unfortunately, vindication would have to wait. Until the cleric was gone, Ruha could not tell Vaerana about his treachery, or about her plan to trick him into leading them to Cypress’s lair.
“What are you planning to do?” Ruha tried to sound genuinely sorry for her failure. Once she sprang her trap and exposed Tombor, it would be Vaerana’s turn to apologize. “Perhaps I can help?”
Vaerana rolled her eyes, but managed to make a civil reply. “Why don’t you get some rest? You look like you need it, and this is better done alone.”
“Then you’ll try to snatch a member of the cult?” asked Fowler.
Vaerana nodded and reached across a horse to untie another sack of ylang blossoms. “I know a couple of likely places to find one.”
Tombor shook his head. “Even if you’re lucky enough to catch someone who knows where the lair is, he won’t tell you. If you want to make him talk, take me along.”
“Sorry, Tombor. We’ll be moving fast tonight.” Vaerana patted the cleric’s stomach. “I don’t think you can keep up.”
“You’ll have to torture them.”
Vaerana nodded grimly. “I won’t enjoy it.”
Somehow, Ruha suspected the Lady Constable of being less than honest.
“Vaerana, before you go, we should talk.” Ruha could hardly explain why in front of Tombor, but the last thing she wanted was for Vaerana to leave Moonstorm House. “I should tell you of some other things I learned in the Ginger Palace.”
“Then talk.” Vaerana continued to help Tombor unload. “I don’t have all night.”
Ruha forced herself not to look in Tombor’s direction. “First, Cypress is back.”
Vaerana’s jaw fell, and she let a sack of blossoms slip from her grasp.
“I saw him in the spicehouse,” Ruha explained. “He was smaller than the first time I saw him. He could not speak or use his magic, but it was definitely Cypress. By kidnapping his cult members, you may be drawing his attention to you.”
Vaerana turned back to the pack train. “Better to face him in Elversult than in his lair.” There was not much conviction in her voice. “What else?”
“Cypress is not stealing Yanseldara’s spirit so his cult can control Elversult.” Ruha was frantically trying to think of something that would keep the Lady Constable inside Moonstorm House without arousing Tombor’s suspicions. “The dragon wants her spirit for himself.”
“For himself?” Vaerana echoed.
Ruha nodded. “I think Cypress is in love with Yanseldara, or believes he is.”
Tombor raised his brow. “You seem to have learned quite a lot during your visit!”
Behind her veil, Ruha bit her lip and wondered if she had said too much. Her mind was as weary as her body, and she found it difficult to be subtle when her thoughts were so sluggish.
“I overheard a conversation between the prince and the dragon.” Then, doing her best to sound indignant, Ruha said, “I am not entirely inept.”
“No one said you were—er, at least not lately.” Vaerana motioned Fowler over to hold the wounded packhorse. “But Cypress doesn’t have any reason to love Yanseldara. She’s the one that killed him!”
“You don’t know much about men, do you Lady Constable?” Fowler gave her a roguish, yellow-fanged grin. “There’s a fine half-elf tavern wench over in Saerloon who slams an ale tankard against my head every time I see her, and I keep coming back for more. What’s that tell you?”
“That you let your orcish blood get the best of you,” Vaerana growled. “You ought to know when to quit.”
Fowler shrugged, trying not to look hurt. “Maybe, but what I’m saying is that I don’t quit. I keep wanting what will never be mine. Seems like that’s what Cypress is doing. Yanseldara killed him—maybe Sharee’ll kill me with that tankard someday—and now he’s trying to steal her, just as he stole all that treasure that belonged to someone else. He wants what he can’t have. It’s part of being male.”
Vaerana pulled the last of the ylang blossoms off the wounded horse. “Fair enough. Let’s say I don’t understand men—not that I’d want to—what does it matter?” The Lady Constable dropped the sack on the ground. “It doesn’t change anything I’ve got to do tonight.”