ext day they descended a broad alluvial fan, formed by the spring floods of millennia washing dirt and sand down out of the canyon they had descended the day before. Nothing grew here except scattered tufts of grass, long dried and dead. The trail was ankle deep in dust, which a fitful, chill wind sometimes whipped into blinding swirls. And then again it would clear the air so that they could see the far off green line of the river.

Some hailed these glimpses excitedly, and cursed the blowing dirt with lurid blasphemies. Shazar merely plodded along, head down, mutely enduring wind and dust as he had endured so many unpleasant things since he had fled the empire. He had become somewhat inured to the uneasy, comfortless life of an outlaw, but he had not grown to like anything about it. The rags, the filth, the constant threat of discovery, the "pleasures" of cheap wine and tawdry women, the half truths and outright deliberate lies ... if only he knew where he was going, or why he was enduring! He was just running, in a desperate, mindless attempt to survive. And for what?

The Gods had said that They had a great work for him to do, but so far he had done nothing except flee, and hide, and steal, and lie, and kill a few odd bandits. Could he perhaps throw off this sleazy cloak of deception and be himself once more in Sothismar? Its rulers were of his own blood – would they welcome him – or send his head back to the emperor next spring? The price was sufficient to tempt even a wealthy city-state. Then, too, Sothismar had close trading ties with the empire. His head might be worth even more in political good will than it was in gold!

Or was he just being paranoid? Perhaps the news of the man-hunt had not yet reached Sothismar, or had not been considered worthy of note. Perhaps the bearers of such news would not consider it prudent to announce it to those of Dragon blood. But they might well have heard it from traders, and it was not inconceivable that they might stand ready and eager to give him asylum! How could he know?

They reached the Imlare River the following day. It was broad and sluggish, meandering among sandbars and mudflats, and occasional swampy patches. The road stayed clear of the bogs and bends, but there were glimpses of water every few minutes, and once they even saw a trio of barges working their way upstream.

Late that afternoon they neared the city. As Kol had said, it crowned a bluff jutting into the lazy course of the river. Sheer precipices fell on the west, from the feet of the Sothi palaces to the water, but as the promontory slanted away eastward, the slopes became more broken and gradual. A great wall marched in stairsteps down the hill almost to the level of the river plain. The gate appeared more than halfway to the top, well fortified with towers and approachable only by a zigzag roadway running closely under the protection of the wall.

Though it was not yet sundown, and the gates stood open, the caravan’s master ordered them to make camp on the plain. That spawned bitter grumbles around the fire that night. The city, with all its promised (or imagined!) delights was so close, yet denied to them.

"What the hell good did it do for Ton and that stuck-up Nolhari to ride ahead, if we still have to sit here like dogs outside the kitchen?" Yar grouched.

"Obviously, they’ve had some trouble arranging for the inspection," his brother responded imperturbably.

"More like they’re swilling wine in a brothel to wash the dust from their throats," Ing offered.

"Yami’s tits! What kind of dust d’they think we got in our throats, toilin’ along behind them! Those sons of asses ...."

"Oh shut up!" Kol snapped impatiently. "No man yet died of what afflicts you, brother!"

Snickers greeted that sally; Yar’s lustiness was proverbial. But no one let him catch them smiling! He had been known to drop a refractory mule with one blow of his ham-sized fist.

Someone changed the subject. "If they tax the stuff going in and again going out of the city, why don’t people just meet down here by the river and do their trading?"

Yar answered, glad to show off his knowledge and restore his injured pride. "Because, you mud-clot, nothing gets out of here without two tax stamps–in and out. Remember that fort we passed? They paid us no mind then, nor we them. But when we go back past it, they’ll sift through every bag and bale, and search every last one of you sons of asses right down to your grimy skin. Anything they find without both stamps on it, they just plain keep!"

"What about money? They don’t stamp money, do they?"

"No, they don’t stamp money," Yar told the questioner with elaborate patience. "They just keep a third of all they find."

"A third!"

"Yeah, they’d rather you spent your wages in Sothismar."

Shazar, listening, bit his lip. It was a good thing for him that they didn’t search people on the way into Sothismar. Not only the inspectors, but his fellow travelers, would have wondered what a poor ragged mule handler was doing with a modest fortune in gold tucked into his sash! It would have been plenty to speed him over the Sim Nar in relative comfort, if he had dared to use it.

Oh, to be free of this tangled coil of deception! He raised his eyes to the walled outline blocking out the stars to the north. What were his options? He could remain Shazar of Lhorm, and hire on with a westering caravan or a barge returning to Anjayhata, two hundred leagues away down the river. Or he could walk up to the walled fortress of the Sothi and announce himself. A crooked smile quirked his lips at the thought of the reaction he’d get to that approach! Better to be taken for a peasant than a madman!

Yet even if he made prior preparation, and came properly clothed and groomed to the gates of the upper city, what stance would he adopt? That of a hunted refugee begging asylum? Or that of rightful heir to the defunct Dragon Throne? Neither would likely be welcome. If Sothismar’s relations with the empire were cordial, his presence would be an embarrassment, at best. Or if those relations were edgy, and they welcomed him with open arms, it would only be at a price. Ever since he had achieved the ark’khorm, everyone had wanted to use him and his Power to accomplish some aim of their own. It was unlikely, to say the least, that the Sothi would prove to be any different, considering that they were master merchants in a perfect position to make demands!

Next morning the inspector arrived to accompany the caravan up to the gate. The two envoys whom the men had cursed so feelingly the night before had made arrangements for the goods to be unpacked and stamped inside the city, where they need not be repacked again right afterward.

The mule train wound slowly up the road climbing toward the towers of the city gate. Hooves rang on the pavement of solid stone, molten into place by Ard’dra’an sorcery, possibly centuries ago. It pricked Shazar with a poignant reminder of his heritage. He glanced down guiltily at the stone ring on his left hand. Not even the Dragon emperors had possessed its like–and now it circled the grimy finger of a mule tender!

At the gate there were the usual guards, lounging on their pikes, and also a plump clerk with a folding desk, who accosted each traveller with a demand for his name and seal. He recorded the former on a ledger sheet, in neat Shani characters; then he presented an inked rag for the registrant to make a thumbprint next to his name.

When it was Shazar’s turn, the pudgy little official gave him a supercilious glance and snapped, "Name?"

The young Dragon Lord was seized by a sudden overwhelming disgust for his whole masquerade. "I am Sha’azharet’th, Elder Lord of Ard’dr," he announced in soft, but distinct Ard’dra’an. "And this is my seal." He doubled his left fist and pressed the blank bezel of the ring against the ledger. When he removed it, the paper bore a lightly scorched, circular Dragon emblem, the sigil of the ancient Dragon Empire! Then he turned and quickly caught up his mules, leaving the clerk with both eyes and mouth agape, while a smile of true joy curved the tall youth’s lips for the first time in many months!

Later, as he helped to unload and unpack in the courtyard of the inn, his common sense revived and began to berate him for a foolish and possibly deadly move. It was conceivable that the little clerk didn’t understand Ard’dra’an. But any chance that he was not at least familiar enough with it to recognize it when he heard it spoken was vanishingly small. Likewise with the emblem. Would he report the incident, or merely turn in his ledger without comment? Naturally he’d report it. The gate guards had seen the whole thing–they’d say something, even if the clerk didn’t.

So–before long the Sothi would know they had a Dragon Lord in their city. If they’d kept up on their lore, or if the clerk remembered his words accurately, they’d also know that he was an Elder Lord. And although that particular imprint, produced only by the Ring of Power, did not contain a traceable personal code like a thumbprint did, the Sothi would have no difficulty locating him if they so chose. Unless he took counter measures to conceal himself .... He shrugged irritably. No use now trying to coax spilled wine back into the skin! He might as well finish the draught he had poured for himself.

When the mules had been stabled and the goods safely stamped and warehoused, the men trooped into the common room of the caravanserai to claim the wages they expected to spend in celebration of their arrival. To avoid being trapped into a companionship he had no desire to share, Sha’azharet’th lingered a few moments with the mules, then left by the stable gate. He could always collect the money later, if he needed it; it was practically insignificant compared to the sum he carried in his sash. Within a hundred paces, he was swallowed up in the crowded, narrow streets.

Inspection of the goods had taken the better part of the day; he expected to see shops closing for the night, and hoped there would be a bath-house open, at least. However, the amount of activity in the market area was surprising. All the shops were open, with flaring torches that gleamed on silver and brass, and made glass beads sparkle like jewels. Harlots were plentiful, and cut-purses probably just as numerous, if less obvious. The young Dragon Lord kept a firm hand on his pouch, for the benefit of the latter, and warned off the former with an impolite hand gesture he had learned from the drovers. Sex was well down on the list of his priorities this evening.

First of all, before he had his bath, he must have something decent to put on afterward. The thought of getting back into the filthy rags he had worn day and night for nearly four months made his skin crawl even worse than it did from the dirt itself! He spotted a tailor’s booth and walked up to examine a length of jade green silk.

The tailor appeared as if by magic, a small, slender man with the darting manner of a bird. He quickly rescued the silk from his unprepossessing customer, giving him a glance even more jaundiced than the entry clerk’s had been. Sha’azharet’th smiled crookedly, and produced a gold kotan out of his hidden cache.

Instantly the little man’s demeanor was transformed. "Welcome to my poor shop, young lord!  I’m sure you would not be interested in this inferior yardage.  I hang it out here only because of the color, to attract the eye of the passerby.  But inside I have the best selection in the city–silks ten times finer than this, direct from the looms of the empire, linen from Tabish, brushed woolens from Enyat, soft as the cheek of a maiden–everything! And I can create any style you desire, in any fabric you might choose ...."

"I want something I can wear tonight," Sha’azharet’th cut him short. "I’m not particular about either style or fabric, so long as it’s clean, respectable, and fits within reason."

The merchant frowned. "You must understand, my lord, that one doesn’t just make up garments in fabrics like mine without an order. The customer who likes the material always wants it done in a different style or size, or if it fits, he wants a different color!"

"But anyone who does as much business as yourself must have a few things you’ve made that the customer never came back for, or wouldn’t pay for, or some such. If not, I’ll try down the street, here."

"Oh no, no, no, my good lord! They are all cheats and bunglers down there! Their materials are shoddy (though they sell them dearly enough, the gods know!) And their seams won’t last a week. Now that you mention it, I do have an outfit that I made for a Sothan nobleman. I believe it just might be long enough. Pray wait one moment ...." He whipped away to rummage furiously in a large wooden chest at the rear of his cubicle.

"And a cloak, too, while you’re looking," the youth told him.

"Aha!" The little man shook out a wad of gold-shot crimson, then dived back into the chest. "And here are the pantaloons!"

The full, gathered trousers were of pale pink silk, the knee-length coat of harmonizing deep red, stiff with gold embroidery. Sha’azharet’th winced faintly. He had never been fond of flashy clothes. "Don’t you have something a little less ... striking? I’m not going to an imperial ball tonight. A different coat, at least?"

"Well, I hate to break up the set. See how nicely the colors complement one another! You’d never find a match like this again, not if you searched from Min Tar to Werishtim! And I put my best work into the stitching. Just see here ... and here. Try it on, at least!"

He obeyed, finding it a bit tight, but the tailor pronounced it a perfect fit, going into ecstasies about how fine he looked in it. "Yes, yes, no doubt. How much?"

After ten or fifteen minutes of haggling, and another few threats to try the other shops, a satisfactory price was finally agreed upon. But as the man began to bundle up the outfit into a roll, the young man stopped him. "Now. If you can find me a plain coat or robe, say deep wine in color, or brown, or even dark green–and a linen undercoat, I’ll trade you this one back, straight across."

The tailor gasped, "You ... don’t like my coat?"

"It’s lovely," the youth told him patiently. "I’d admire it very much–on someone else. However, it’s a little ... ostentatious for my taste."

The little merchant’s face brightened. "Ah, I see now! I beg your lordship’s pardon for my stupidity. I see now that you are truly a gentleman of distinction and good taste, despite ... ah, um. Most Sothi are far too fond of ornamentation, if you ask me."

"I am not Sothan," the Dragon Lord informed him rather austerely.

The other’s eyes widened, then narrowed. "Oh," he responded lamely. "Ah ... well ... I’m sure I can find something suitable, although it may not fit as well."

After a few more minutes searching, he came up with a coat of dark brown raw silk, whose sleeves were not too conspicuously short, and a shirt of silk as well, in natural beige. He even threw in a length of soft, bleached linen for use as a loincloth.

"And a cloak," Sha’azharet’th reminded him.

"Of course, my lord! I have just the thing here–a blend of camel and goat hair, both warm and lightweight. And just feel this material!"

"Very nice. How much?"

This time the bargaining went faster. Sha’azharet’th ended by handing over his gold piece, plus another from which he received a handful of silver in change. As the tailor began his bundling operation once more, the young man asked, "Where is the nearest bath house?"

"Two streets down, turn to the right. It’s just past the sign of the Golden Pheasant, which is a very fine inn, by the way. But I suppose you’ll be staying at one of the noble houses?"

"No, I think not."

"Why then, I heartily recommend the Pheasant. They have a genuine chef; he was once chief of cuisine in a great eastern house. I often dine there myself. And I’ve heard as well that their pleasure girls are young and undiseased, though I myself have a wife and two concubines at home, which is more than enough for any man, I always say."

I shall certainly consider it," Sha’azharet’th promised gravely, with inward amusement.

"And if you find anything about the clothes which is not to your liking–too loose, too tight, whatever–be sure to bring them back, and I’ll fit them to your pleasure!"

Still smiling to himself, the Dragon Lord strode away down the crowded street. He found the sign of the Pheasant with no difficulty, and the baths beyond it. Here the sight of another gold piece initiated another flurry of ingratiation. A massive-thewed woman took him in charge first, stripped him, rubbed him all over with scented oil, giving special attention to his grimy knuckles and elbows; then she scraped it all off, leaving him very pink and sore, but feeling better than he had in months. A younger girl manicured his nails and trimmed his hair to chin length. She puzzled at his smooth cheeks, so he explained that a magic spell had left him beardless.

"Oh, that’s too bad!" she cried in sympathy.

He didn’t tell her that the spell had been his own, one of a long series he had learned in his early youth. The Ard’drin did not wear beards, but apparently the Sothi were not so fastidious.

A long, luxurious soak in a hot tub and a quick plunge into the cold pool completed his bath. He reclaimed his new clothes, which had been hung in the steamy hot room to remove some of the wrinkles, and his boots, now looking almost presentable after the ministrations of an energetic bootblack. When at last he was attired, and combed, and perfumed, he felt better than he had since he could remember! It wasn’t just the fact of being clean and well-dressed for the first time in a year; it was also the feeling of being served.