by Dave Freer
Biting her lip, she turned back. Her head still throbbed. Her shoulder—which had taken part of the blow, was just plain sore.
She crept down those stairs as quietly as she could. The Green Lantern provided enough light for her to see that what had caught her eye was a cloak—actually a motley of bright yellow and crimson. A traveling gleeman! Guilt plucked at her again. The gleemen and their 'prentice-boys had come to the village now and again. Wulfstan said they stole. But they always provided welcome news and laughter in exchange.
She nearly crept back up the stairs then. But her eyes hadn't deceived her—it was a pouch, protruding from under the edge of his cloak. It bulged. And right now she didn't care if he was a prince, if that bulge was bread and cheese or gold coins she was going to take it, or some of it . . . actually, bread and cheese might be better for her conscience.
Tentatively, slowly, she reached out a hand to the pouch.
As her fingers closed on it, it all went horribly wrong. A talon-like hand locked onto her wrist. The shut eyes snapped wide open, and the jester laughed evilly. She screamed as he pulled her towards him. She kicked out as hard as she could, and somehow she twisted free. Staggering, she tripped on the narrow stair . . . lost her balance, and fell.
Into the canal.
She screamed again, kicked and swallowed water. Went down. Somehow came up again.
And then her victim jumped into the water too.
He grabbed her by the collar, rather as if she was a kitten, and hauled her towards the steps, swimming strongly. He pulled her up onto them, and then picked her up over his shoulder, as if she weighed less than a bag of feathers. She coughed, spluttered and rid herself of a fair amount of water. None too gently he put her down onto the hard stone. Meb managed to get as far as her hands and knees, still coughing.
"Now what in hell did you do a silly thing like that for?" asked her victim-rescuer, looking down at her. "You poor clumsy little scrap of humanity." He was grinning as he said it. "Now I'm all wet and your screams will likely have frightened my targets off. They'd never believe I was asleep again."
Meb managed sit up. "S . . . sorry," she sniffed, between shivers. To her shame she started to cry.
It seemed to take the gleeman aback too. "Now, now. It's not that bad. I'm not for turning you in. You've had a wetting, and a lesson. You'll be better at it next time."
"There's not going to be a next time. You should have let me drown," said Meb miserably, knowing she sounded like an ungrateful, sulky brat, but unable to stop herself. She sat and shivered, the tears running down her face.
She heard the sound of a cork being drawn. "Here, scrap," he said in a tone that held both amusement and sympathy. "Drink some of this and take heart." He pushed a small metal bottle at her.
She waved it off weakly. "No. I don't want it."
He took her by the bristles of hair that the merrow had left her. Tilted her head back, and put the bottle to her lips. "I wasn't asking if you wanted it. I was telling you to drink it, little scrap."
Thus constrained, Meb did. It was like drinking honeyed fire. It went down, but started her coughing again. The gleeman gave her what he obviously considered a gentle pat on the back. "Let it work. It'll put heart into you. You're obviously fairly new to this sort of trade." She caught the flash of grin. "Or you'd have learned to swim and chosen a warmer night."
His firewater—or perhaps it was the honey in it—did seem to have helped. She wiped her eyes and nose with a wet shirt-sleeve. "Never did it before. I just . . . I was so hungry and cold and I saw your pouch . . . I'm sorry."
He grinned again. "Nothing in it but a few old rags. Learn. If you can see a fat pouch, belike someone wants you to see it. It was a bait, but I wasn't planning to catch a little fish like you."
"Are you a thief-taker then?" she asked warily. Even in little Cliff Cove she'd heard of them.
He looked shocked. "Me? Now what sort of thing is that to say to fellow who plucked you from the mucky water of the canal, scrap? No, I'm more like a taker from thieves."
"What do you mean?" she asked, curiously.
He looked up, cocking his head to listen. "Patrol coming. Come, we best be away from here. I'll explain. Methinks we need a fire to dry you out, youth."
She followed him up the stairs, and saw that he was heading for the alley next to the Green Lantern. Grabbed his cloak. "There are muggers waiting up there. I heard them . . . after they hit me, earlier."
The gleeman laughed, took her hand from his cloak and hauled her toward the alley. "You've had quite a night of it, young scrap. I know. I was waiting for them to come to me, when you decided to come for swimming lessons."
Meb looked at him in astonishment.
He took her by the sleeve, pulled her into the alley. "The patrol are just around the corner. Come on. Your two 'friends' have gone now. Let's get you some fire and ourselves a little something to pay for supper and bed. You look in need of them. It's that or getting you home to your mother."
"My mother is dead and my home has been burned to the ground," said Meb, dully. "I haven't got anywhere to go. I'd be very grateful for some food and a dry place to sleep. That's why I tried to steal from you. I didn't know what else to do."
He snorted. "So this is the first time you've ever stolen anything?" he said, his tone full of unbelief.
"A couple of windfall apples," said Meb, guiltily. "The dragon destroyed our village and our dam, and I had no food."
"Ah. A hardened criminal you are!" he said admiringly. "I could tell. So a dragon destroyed your home . . ." He paused. "A little fishing village, no doubt. Hmm. Let's get you a bit of recompense from the dragon."
She gaped at him. "From Lord Zuamar?"
"Could it have been another dragon?" asked the gleeman rhetorically. "This is his island after all. And it suits me. I like stealing from thieves. It's most entertaining. But if I can't take from small thieves, I'll take from a big one. And get you a fire to warm you properly, at the same time."
Meb's inner voice had to admit that she could see the pure joy of mugging muggers who had attacked her. With that in mind, and no certainty of what he planned to do next, but glad to let someone else do the planning, she let him lead her along several alleys and out into Tarport's central square. The scavenging boys had long gone, having disappeared rather like the barrows had earlier. "A fine sight," he said, pointing to a two-story building across the square. It was lit by a series of lamps, each in its neat little sconce.
"Yes," agreed Meb, impressed. "What is it?"
"Zuamar's tax hall. Let's burn it down."
Chapter 8
Meb looked at the gleeman in horror. He couldn't be serious. "You can't set fire to a building!" she said, shocked.
He looked quizzically down at her. "But it won't burn unless I set fire to it, Scrap. And getting into it unless it's burning is too much like hard work. Besides, the fire will warm you up nicely. You've started shivering again."
Meb shut her mouth by force of will. It had fallen open involuntarily at the gleeman's crazy idea. She took a deep breath and shook her head. "You can't set fire to buildings," she said firmly. "People will get burned and hurt."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "But there is no one in the tax hall at night. They only extort during daylight hours. So no one gets burned. In fact, even the tax-men will be grateful. They'll get a few days holiday while Zuamar organizes another place for them to work."
Meb had sworn vengeance against dragonkind—no matter how ludicrous the idea. But a lifetime's ingrained deference came pounding at the doors of her conscience. "You should call him 'Lord,' " she said firmly.
The jester snorted. "Why? He's no lord of mine. I'm no one's vassal. A lord has a duty to give his a vassal a living, and my pouch is empty tonight. A lord has a duty to protect his vassals, and your home is ash."
Deep inside, Meb knew that this was dangerous talk. But she found that it did make a peculiar kind of sense. A very appealing kind of sense. The very idea that t
here should be some form of duty imposed on lords, just as there were taxes imposed on the lesser people! The logical part of her mind said, "I bet the lords will just love that idea . . . and anyone who comes up with it." But she nodded all the same. "We can't, though. Fires spread. It's not right that others should be hurt," she said sanctimoniously, hating herself for saying it, but knowing that she must do so.
The jester laughed. "You're a good little scrap aren't you? No wonder you make such a dismal thief. Look, it's raining. The tax-hall stands well away from other buildings. I'll probably have the merry devil of a time getting it to burn, let alone anything else. Anyway, all you have to do is yell 'fire, fire!' which is exactly what a public spirited young fellow like you would do anyway. Then we help to put it out. Good citizens!" he said loftily. "We just charge a little tax money for our services! It is our money, after all, eh? You get dry, and we go off and find a nice inn for a spot of supper and a couple of warm beds, eh. Besides, it's an ugly building. Burning it down would be a public service," he said in a tone just as sanctimonious as hers had been earlier.
She found that she had to laugh a little. Uneasily, but still she was laughing. "You're sure that there is nobody in it? You're sure that it won't spread?"
"Sure as death," he said cheerfully, flicking his cloak over to hide the bold motley. It was a drab grey on the inside. "Now, you stay here. As soon as you see the flames, you sing out. Yell 'fire' at the top of those fine lungs of yours. Then let a few people arrive, before you come and join me. I'll be with the bucket carriers."
Meb waited back in the shadows, as the jester walked across to the building. The logical part of her mind said: "Run. NOW." But it was outweighed by a horrified fascination. He couldn't really mean to set the building on fire, could he? It was made of brick and surely bricks didn't burn? She saw him walk up to next to one of the urn-like lamps. It went out abruptly. Next thing she saw someone moving up on the roof cornices. There was just a dark, spidery, rain-hazed figure, but she'd swear there was an urn with him. A little later he climbed back down.
There was a sudden gush of flames from the little alcove where the lamp had been. The flames ran hungrily up the wall, following a gleaming trail of lamp-oil. Next moment the flames were at the roof.
"Fire!" yelled Meb. What else could she do? Just let it burn? "Fire!" She yelled again.
Shutters began opening across the square. Smoke and flames were rushing out of the tax hall roof by now. People with buckets began pouring out into the street. Joining in was the easiest thing, armed with someone's spare bucket, Meb found herself with those filling at the square's central fountain. "We need to get inside," bawled the gleeman, pushing against the door. "Help me here, all of you!" Several watchmen, their quarterstaves forgotten, joined him, and the doors gave way. "Buckets!" yelled a watchman. "Bring buckets, boys."
Meb was among those who responded. And there in the smoke and darkness was a cheerful gleeman's voice. "Come on," he said, taking her by the elbow. "It's not even burning in here, but there is plenty of smoke. Let's break down a door or two. Make a little confusion for everyone."
He suited action to his words and a wooden door cracked open. He was certainly very strong. And, it seemed, quite able to see in the dark. "Nothing here, except a lot of paper. Frightfully flammable stuff." And a flame licked at it.
"Time to go," he said. "Tch! Don't use that bucket on something I've just lit, Scrap!"
He kicked another door. By the time she got through there, a kist was burning merrily. And the gleeman was pouring a handful of coins into his pockets and then a second handful into hers. "Right," he said, cheerfully. "Time we got out of here. That lot'll be a fine mess of melted gold in with the silver coin. Take them a while to figure out what's missing, if they ever do. And it sounds as if the guard and the fire-watch are getting here. It's definitely time we left."
She followed him, coughing. He was yelling, "Everybody out! The roof's coming down," which was a chorus the others took up loudly.
And somehow, in the smoke and darkness, Meb took a wrong turn.
She ran down a passage . . . and realized that he wasn't ahead of her any more. There was just a closed door. She tried kicking it, as he had. All it did was hurt her toes. And now there were flames behind her too. Even the clangor of yells predominated by "Out, out!" were more distant.
Desperately she went back to the door, about to kick it again. They'd broken when the gleeman kicked them! In the firelight she could see a handle. She tried that and the door swung open. There was a flight of stairs beyond it and she raced up them. This led onto another corridor. Looking back she saw that flames were burning up the stairwell. There was no way back down there. The air was hot and smoke-filled. She could not hear voices any longer. Just the hungry cackle of flames. She wished desperately for the sound of one voice, any voice. But Meb, poor, tired, confused Meb, wasn't ready to give up yet. There was another door. She must find a way down or at least get to a window. This door—a large one, with a bright-polished handle, was locked. But there was a bench—narrow, plain, sturdy and well-worn, in the corridor. Meb picked it up.
She wasn't very big, but a girl from a small fishing village had to be strong. There were always loads to carry, work to be done. She backed off, going as close to flames as she dared and then charged the door with her bench-ram.
It didn't break. But she rammed it again . . . and then again. This time the wood cracked and let her crawl into some high panjandrum's sanctum . . . with shuttered windows. She wrenched them open. Cool, blessedly wet night air rushed in.
She peered out of the window. It seemed a fairly long way down. "Tch," said a voice behind her. "You can't even manage to burn down a public building well, Scrap? No training in arson, either. You've had a sadly neglected upbringing, youth."
Meb turned to find the gleeman standing in the doorway looking at her, his hands on his hips, his toothy grin white in the firelight. "Can we get out that way?" she asked. "It's a long way down."
"Alas, no," he said with a shrug. "With the front doors open and the roof burning this place is an excellent chimney. We'll have to leave by the window that you so wisely found your way to. Let's see. Those drapes should make a fine rope, if you mislike the jump. Never jump onto cobbles in the dark. They make for poor landing places." He ripped the drapes off their hooks as he spoke. "The bench will do nicely," he said. "Bring it to the window."
Meb did. He looped the now-knotted drapes around it, and pointed at the window. "Out you go. Slide down it like a rope. Drop when you get to the end. And head for the alley across from the fountain."
Meb had never slid down a rope in her life—but boys did that on the boats—so at least she'd seen it done. She took her courage in both hands and went over the sill. It was a lot more difficult than it sounded. But the fire was behind him, and he'd come back to find her. She had to do it. It wasn't that far down . . .
Sitting, rubbing the seat of her breeches, she knew that rope-sliding would be the next thing that he would say she needed to learn.
"What were you doing in there?" someone asked, helping her up. "That's the chief inspector's room!"
"We were trying to put the fire out. We got stuck on the second floor. We had to break in there to escape the flames." She thought fast. Better to sound like a real firefighter. "Mairi's going to kill me. I left her bucket in there . . ."
"She'll probably be glad to have you back in one piece, you young tearaway," said the man, laughing.
Meb had been watching anxiously for the gleeman. He didn't appear. She'd have to go back for him! He had come back for her. Could the smoke have overwhelmed him? She got up, and headed back toward the burning building.
"I thought I said the alley across from the fountain," said a voice behind her.
"I thought you were still inside," she said gaping.
"I found a side door. I'm good at that," he said quietly. "I thought if they were going to look for anyone, it shouldn't be the two of us. Head fo
r the alley."
She did, and he arrived moments later. "Time to go," he said. "Unless you want to serve in the bucket chain. They're getting organized, and the rain seems to be coming down harder. Unfortunately. I've never liked tax halls."
He led her through several alleys and out into a broad street, then off down a side road, to an inn. Standing outside under the hanging lantern he looked speculatively at her. "Hmm. You're smoky smelling, and your clothes and your face are sure give-aways, blackened like that. Are you dry again?"
"Er. Yes." She was, fairly. The heat had been enough to frizzle the hair on her hands, which, now that she looked at them, were black. Her face probably looked much the same.
"Good. Time to get you wet again, then," he said, evilly. He somehow seemed to have escaped the worst of the smoke and ash. "There's a well around the back. Come. Over the fence rather than in the front door. The front door is not for the likes of us, anyway. The only time I see the front door of an inn is when I'm being thrown out of it." He led her to the gate at the side of the building and said, "Well, up and over then."