Inside the cargo box, the thick stench of ylang blos- soms 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 stam- pede 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 cav- ernous 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 pass- ing 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 immedi- ately 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 situ- ation.

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 for- ward 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? Any-

The VeUed Dragon

one they would have trusted with the secret. In Vaer- ana'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 terrify- ing 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 suffi- cient to annihilate him.

The witch was only halfway to her goal when some- thing jolted the wagon. She heard the zip-zip of oilcloth being ripped; then a flickering yellow light of the spice- house's oil lamps filtered down through the ylang blos- soms. 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 other 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 any- where 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, and 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 sil.

uer I smell and answer a single question. I promise, your death shall be mercifully quick.

Ruha felt as though the fire in her hand was cooking her bone marrow as far down as her elbow, but she made no move to throw the fireball. Without being properly placed, the blast would do no more than melt a few of the dragon's scales. Besides, as much as the searing heat grieved her, the sphere could cause her no real damage until after it left her hand.

"I have known enough pain in my life not to be fright- ened of it," Ruha said. "If I am to die, I do not particularly care whether it is quickly or slowly."

As the witch spoke, she stepped over to Cypress's side of the wagon. To her surprise, the dragon moved neither away from the fireball nor forward to attack. Ruha might have been able to reach the dragon with a good leap, but he would have time to turn away and, in all likelihood, impale her on his long talons. If her plan was to succeed, she had to draw him closer.

"You may ask your question. Perhaps I will answer, or perhaps I will not."

You will answer. Cypress promised. And you will step out of the wagon.

"Why is it so important that I leave the wagon? I can answer your question from here."

In the black depths of the dragon's empty eye sockets appeared two dirty yellow sparks. When we met the first time, was it happenstance? As Cypress asked his ques- tion, the sparks lengthened into gleaming lines, then began to flicker at the ends and thicken into stripes. Or did someone tell you I would be there?

"Who would have told me that?" Ruha wanted nothing more than to hurl her fireball at the dragon and run for her life, but she forced herself to stand fast. If Cypress bad not attacked by now, then it had to be because he was afraid of destroying what was in the wagon. The witch tipped her hand so that the fireball was precari- ously close to slipping from her palm, then added, "And stop what you are-"