Трой Деннинг - The Veiled Dragon

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.

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.