Vaerana turned to walk toward one of the towers, and Ruha, desperate to keep her from leaving, caught her by the arm.
The Lady Constable frowned at the witch’s hand. “What now?”
“Do you have an oil press?” Ruha asked.
“In the kitchens,” Tombor answered. “Why?”
The witch hesitated. She had already baited the trap, and she worried that in her exhaustion, she would explain too much and alert Tombor to her trap. On the other hand, if she did not explain, Vaerana would not stay to see the traitor take the bait.
“The members of the Cult of the Dragon are not the only ones who need the ylang oil. After we recover the staff, we must pour the ylang oil over Yanseldara to draw her spirit back into her body.” Ruha continued to hold Vaerana’s arm. “But if the oil is poured over a vessel containing the spirits of both Yanseldara and Cypress, the two will be joined together forever. That is why I believe the dragon is in love with Yanseldara.”
“And how did you learn so much about the uses of ylang oil?” Tombor asked.
“I am a witch,” Ruha replied, trying to dodge the question with a cryptic reply. “So is Lady Feng.”
In fact, Minister Hsieh had explained how to use the ylang oil. He had also provided Ruha with another Shou potion, one with which she was to send a message through Yanseldara to Lady Feng.
Vaerana studied Ruha for several moments, then asked, “So, you’re saying we need to press the oil ourselves—and be damned sure the cult doesn’t steal it back?”
“Yes.” Actually, this was only what Ruha wanted Tombor to believe. The blossoms in the sacks were the old, unsuitable ones; the fresh ylang was still in the Ginger Palace, being pressed in the spicehouse refinery. “That is what I’m saying.”
“Fine.” Vaerana looked to Tombor. “See to it that the blossoms are pressed and well guarded.”
If there had been any lingering doubts in Ruha’s mind that Tombor was the spy, they vanished when she saw the delighted twinkle in his eye. “The oil will be ready when you get back.”
Vaerana turned back to Ruha. “If you’re satisfied, now I’ve got to go.”
With that, Vaerana pulled her arm out of Ruha’s grasp and started across the courtyard. The witch stared after her in bewilderment, then scurried to catch up.
“Wait, Vaerana! There is one more thing.”
The Lady Constable stopped beneath the dark branches of a fragrant sweetbay tree. “What is it?”
Before the witch could explain, Tombor called, “There’s no need to delay Vaerana. If you need something, I’m sure I can help.”
Ruha glanced over her shoulder and saw Tombor coming after them, his jolly face bent into a mask of solicitous concern. The witch cursed under her breath and turned her back on him.
“Before you leave, you must visit me in my chamber,” she whispered to Vaerana, “alone!”
Vaerana shook her head. “I don’t have time—”
Ruha took her arm again. “You must! Promise me.”
Vaerana glanced down at the witch’s hand. “Then will you let me go?”
Ruha nodded and removed her hand. “It is important.”
“If you say so.” Vaerana looked past Ruha’s shoulder to Tombor, who was already upon them. “Lodge the witch in Pearl Tower.”
“Pearl Tower?” Tombor echoed, clearly surprised.
“Pearl Tower.” Vaerana turned to leave. “Are you having trouble with your ears?”
The cleric took Ruha’s arm, gripping it more tightly than was necessary. “I’ll show you to a chamber as soon as we’ve seen to the blossoms.”
“Perhaps we could go to the tower first,” Ruha suggested, worried she would not be there when Vaerana came to see her. “I have not slept in two days.”
Tombor shook his head. “You said yourself we can’t let these blossoms fall into the hands of the Cult of the Dragon. Besides, the kitchen is on the way to Pearl Tower. It’ll take only a few minutes to stop and set up the press.”
Ruha accompanied the cleric back to the horses. She removed a small satchel of supplies from her saddle, then helped Fowler and Tombor gather up the bulky sacks of ylang blossoms. Leaving the beasts with a guard, they walked down a chain of meandering pathways to a thatch-roofed shed against the back wall of the fortress. The place smelled of animal grease, smoke, and fresh Heartland spices.
Tombor stopped at the entrance and banged on the wooden door. “Up with you, Silavia! I’ve business in your kitchen!”
“The cook bars the door when she sleeps,” explained Fowler. “Otherwise, the night guards pilfer her breakfast tarts.”
They had to wait several minutes before a sleepy voice sounded on the other side of the door. “Go away, Tombor. I won’t have you calling in the middle of the night. You only want something to eat.”
Tombor looked slightly embarrassed. “I’ve—uh—guests with me, Silavia. We need the oil press. It’s for Lady Yanseldara.”
Silavia hesitated a moment, then asked, “Truly?”
“Truly,” replied Ruha. “The matter is urgent, I assure you.”
“Very well.” Silavia sounded more put-upon than curious. “Let me throw on an apron.”
From inside the building came several moments of bustling and whispering, which elicited a resentful scowl from Tombor. When a muffled thump finally announced the withdrawal of the bar, the cleric pushed the door open and stepped inside, where a stout, tousle-haired woman stood in a nightshirt and crisp white apron. The flickering taper in her hand illuminated an ashen, moon-shaped face with a bottle nose and plump-lipped frown.
Tombor dropped his sacks inside the door, then snatched the candle from the cook and went to light several others. A flickering yellow glow soon filled the room, revealing a neatly kept chamber filled with cutting tables, kneading troughs, and spice barrels. The embers of several spent fires glowed in three different fireplaces, one with a roasting spit over the hearth, one with soup cauldrons sitting in the firebox, and one built beneath a brick oven. Silavia’s sleeping pallet lay behind a dough bench, where a burly, black-bearded man stood looking down at a half-eaten honeycake and two empty mead pitchers.
Tombor glared at the embarrassed man for a moment, then growled, “You’d better get yourself to the gate, John. There’s a wounded horse there, and Pierstar’s looking for you.”
“My thanks for telling me so, Tombor.” The farrier, looking happy for any excuse to leave, started toward the door.
Tombor watched the man leave, then turned to Silavia. “What was he doing here?”
“It’s none of your concern who I give my honeycakes to!” Silavia retorted. “Not that there wouldn’t be some for you, if you ever came around at a decent hour.”
“It’s this trouble with Yanseldara’s catalepsy!” the cleric protested. “I’ve been busy.”
“So have I,” Silavia snorted. She led the way to a small storage pantry and unlocked the door with a key from her apron. “The oil press is in here, if you want it. Don’t expect me to help you with it.”
Tombor motioned to Fowler, who dropped his ylang blossoms beside the cleric’s and followed him into the little room. Ruha put her own sacks on the floor and tried not to yawn as Silavia glared at her.
“You a friend of Tombor or Tuskface?” the cook asked.
“I am closer to Fowler. I do not know Tombor very well. Is he an important person in Elversult?”
“You could say that,” Silavia replied proudly. “Tombor’s the one who saved Vaerana when the assassins first got after her. He’s done the same twice since—at the risk of his own life, I might add.”
The witch smiled, anticipating the apology she would be due when she exposed Tombor’s heroism as a cult ploy. “I had not realized he is so well thought of.”