by Dave Freer
He led her off again, and while water washed over their shoes once, that was the most serious problem they had. They had to wait until some people passed—and just let others run past them. Soon they were outside the palace, in the walled gardens, but the wall provided little obstacle to Finn, and he hauled her up it easily. The streets were full of milling alvar. Meb and Finn were just some more of the same. Order was being shaped out of chaos by the yelling and by soldiery spilling out of the palace, but it was not quickly enough to stop the two of them walking peacefully to the museum. It was just as dark inside there, after Finn had let them in with his "fits anything key," but he knew his way, or could see a great deal better in the dark than she could. Soon she was reunited with her familiar breeches, cotte, cloak and boots.
"Don't forget to transfer the things you have in your pockets. Or to bring with you the bag with the Angmarad in it. It's been a lot of fun, but I think it might be harder if we had to do it again too soon," said Finn from the darkness.
Chapter 21
Fionn had always been adept at using a mixture of magic, trickery, brute force and mechanical means to do his work. And his glib tongue of course, although he tried to avoid levering rocks around with that.
The road from the white city was as much of a problem as the vast collection of rubies—and the magical energy associated with them—that its treasury had accumulated. Of course all things are interlinked, something the First had been aware of. The road ran too straight, carried too many people with the energies they trafficked, quite unintentionally. They'd cut through several granite spurs and altered the course of the river to achieve that. Fionn had discovered, quite by accident many centuries ago, how to make magically activated detonators. It was simply a case of having too much power pass through any one point at any time, and he had several options here. The area was overdue for an earthquake . . . in fact, the longer it took before it happened the worse it would be—he could see the plates and tense-bound energies waiting for the slippage.
He'd laid his explosives carefully, wedging them into cracks, and laying them behind piles of precarious rock. Of course the spurs and the river had been his first choice. But any place where his explosions would cause some deep, low frequency vibration would work. That was partially the result of the explosions . . . and partially the rockfalls. The vibration caused the planes of rock to start their slippage and release their stored energy, which, compared to his puny explosives was a giant compared to an ant.
* * *
Leagues away across the wide and island-studded ocean, Myrcupa, self-styled high lord and defender of the tower, had been sulkily staring at the great edifice that had been magically constructed long ages back to guard the strand of here and elsewhere that held the plane of Tasmarin. He was thinking of quitting this thankless task and seeing if he could ambush Zuamar of Yenfar. Yet he felt compelled to stay.
The death of his sycophant had hurt him. When the tower at Morscarg had fallen, seventeen years back, the talk had been that some nihilist had somehow managed to sabotage and destroy the foundation.
Dragons are nothing if not patient. He'd guarded this one faithfully in shifts since. But . . . well, the Tower had repelled any life-form—including its guardians. That was what it was supposed to do, Myrcupa knew. But he had felt—a little resentfully, that it might have given its defenders some . . . well, respect. Not that it was alive . . . Knowing it was illogical had not stopped him feeling that way.
He was supremely unaware of an earthquake many leagues away.
But he did see a crack in the vast masonry, one of several they were monitoring, suddenly grow and spread and run with a long, thunderous tumult up the wall.
He still could not reach it to do anything about it.
But although he took to the wing and searched, there was no-one visible attacking it, despite a strong scent of magic. It smelled . . . human.
Myrcupa despised humans.
The centaurs had always been the cusp between animal nature and civilization. Over the long history of their kind they'd swayed between the two. They believed that at last they'd reached some kind of balance, here on the high plains. Here philosophy and the noble arts of poetry and the sagas, the wild music and great dance had risen above the old scourges of conflict and war. Yes, the sheer, high cliffs of Thessalia, Laconia and Lapithidia limited the extent of the high tableland which they lived on. It had meant an end to the great migrations. But on the other hand it kept the Children of Chiron to themselves too. For centuries they had had limited contact with the other species. The plane of centaurs had always been one of poorly defined boundaries, in which conflict with humans, alvar and even the sprites had been a prominent part. Those years had honed the centaurs for combat. A man-horse could out-maneuver any horse-man. And they had become, perforce, great archers.
But the arts of war had been relegated to yesteryear, here. Until now. The dark glass of the seeing pool had caused old sabers to be sharpened and polished, and spare arrows—war arrows, with heavy heads for penetrating armor—to be made and fletched. Now the dust from great phalanxes of centaurs drilling and training hung over the high plains. The Children of Chiron had never been at home at sea. But they had been slowly accumulating transports. And the magical arts and defenses were being practiced. The time was coming. If . . . when . . . the black dragon brought down the next tower, or even before that, the fatelines all led to war.
Or extinction.
Ixion paced the looping trail that looked down on Lapithidia's only port, a good half a mile below. He looked down on the ships moving slowly toward the harbor. His companion Hylonome scanned the skies.
"Dragon," she said pointing.
He would have seen it too, as it was closing in on two vessels out beyond the Lapith point.
"It's green," he said, "Not that that will help the sailors."
They were too far off to see the crews—doubtless leaping into the water. But they could see the sails catch fire.
"It begins," said Hylonome in a heavy voice.
Ixion said nothing. From here they could not to do anything to help either.
The stream that flowed down from the mountains had offered Hrodenynbrys little respite from having to get out and walk next to it. Land was just so awkward. He couldn't merely swim over obstacles. He had to go around them. And slipping out of the water made merrows terribly vulnerable. He was very glad to reach the lake. Merrows had been this far before, of course. But the Angmarad had not been given into the keeping of alvar at a whim. The spells of warding set on it would, the merrow knew, protect it, and prevent him from getting any closer. The alvar had been their usual thorough selves about it, Hrodenynbrys had to admit, sourly. They'd protected it against the magics of all the species, calling in help, where need be. Well, all species except alvar, and humans of course.
It had seemed a fine gesture at the time. And merrow and alvar had been on good terms.
It was supposed to be a temporary measure.
Hrodenynbrys had barely slipped into the quiet waters of the lake, where the reflected lights of their 'burg gleamed, before they went out, and the earthquake began.
The water stirred and roiled and shook like a wild live thing.
It was nearly enough to frighten 'Brys witless—and enough to send him swimming as fast as he could for deeper water.
In time the water was still again. It was all stirred up, belching methane bubbles, and other smelly and nasty things best left in the still depths. But calmer.
Hrodenynbrys looked at the following charm he carried. If he went now . . . in the darkness? Would that be best?
He wanted to stay in the water. He really did not want to go out in the dark and shaken chaos that would be happening over there. He could hear the yelling across the water.
But duty called. The Angmarad needed the sea, and the sea desperately needed the Angmarad. And when would they find the hair of another human mage?
So he began swimming, slowly, tow
ard the city, admittedly at a pace that would have made a crippled flatfish seem like a harpooned marlin. Just how was he going to get to it?
Chapter 22
"And now, master?" said Meb. Pitch torches and candles were showering a sprinkling of points of light through the city.
"Now we head for the lake. To where I stashed the other large bag. We'll need to do a little engineering in the dark."
Meg wondered just what he planned to build. She found out soon enough.
"It's a coracle. Willow laths and an outer skin. It'll leak, but it will get us across the lake."
"Not . . . not this lake, Master." Even she had heard about it.
"They're getting organized behind us, Scrap. By first light there'll be a hue and cry like nothing this island has ever seen. We need to be a good long way away by then. Preferably hidden under a big rock."
"But master . . . the Nichor. He lives in the lake. He'll pull us in if we as much as touch it," said Meb nervously.
"Ah. That's the last lath in place. Help me to get it on my back, Scrap. The Nichor . . . well, it's his lake. But we'll toss him a ruby or two. There really is no other way out. Trust me."
She did. But she was deathly afraid, as they slipped out on the dark, quiet water. Sitting still—it was a tiny cockle-shell of a boat, with only a hand's width or two of freeboard while they got further and further out onto the water, with the pinpricks of flame-light in the city behind them receding slowly.
"Why don't they fix their light-magic?" asked Meb, desperate not to think of the green-toothed worm-beast that everyone knew haunted this famous lake.
"It may take them some months," said Finn. "It's part alvar magic, part dvergar contrivance, and part dragon-magic. They've burned their bridges rather badly with the dvergar. You noticed that there was little gold in that treasury?"
"Uh. Yes."
"Well, the alvar will hold that they prefer silver, and that it's a purer color—a matter of opinion. But the truth is the dragon takes the gold, and the alvar see that he gets it. Of course your old Loftalvar think that treachery. But the Huldralvar and Stromalvar made bargains with dragonkind. So now, as you know, your Prince, the one I swatted about the ear, calls himself Prince of Yenfar. The dvergar say he is nothing more than a tax-collector. But then the alvar can deal quite effectively with dvergar and their magic. There's no love lost, now."
Meb said nothing . . . because she was too afraid. It was overcast, but the sky was still lighter than either the water or the shore. And now part of that light was blotted out. A tangle of dark . . . it must be hair, was rising behind them. It must be hair, because set below it were definitely eyes. Huge eyes that glowed with a pale inner light, their glow illuminating a green face and a slit of a nose . . . and the mouth. An open mouth full of snaggled teeth. Long, clawed hands with seven spidery fingers were reaching for Finn.
Her mouth was too dry . . . "Nichor," she managed to croak in a tiny voice, pointing.
Finn turned the coracle. "How right you are. Go away, Shellycoat. We're not your meat." He tossed a stone at it, presumably a ruby.
It didn't seem to be planning to listen, or be interested in rubies.
He flung the paddle at it like a spear. The Nichor hissed like a fire that had just had water spilled onto it. The paddle didn't deter it, though.
"Take that bit of sea-weed and pearl out of the bag," said Finn, quietly.
She did so with shaking hands. She pulled back her hand to throw, but Finn reached forward and stopped her. "Just put it on your head."
"Whisht," said a voice in the darkness. "And just what have we here? Be off with you, Shellycoat, or I'll be putting my trident just exactly where you'd least like to have it put."
"Your work, Scrap?" asked Finn, sounding surprised.
"Work?" Meb was puzzled. The nearest she'd come to work lately was a bit of juggling.
"Calling a merrow to us," said Finn, quietly. "What is it doing here in fresh water otherwise?"
"I could just be looking for something that was taken from us," answered the voice. "It's to be hoped you can swim, because the Shellycoat's gone all stupid on us. They seem to get like that when they're really big. It's going to attack your little boat."
"I am about to splash you," said Finn, quietly to Meb. "I'm telling you just so you don't get a surprise and upset us or jump overboard. As soon as I do, you tell the Shellycoat to get gone. Firmly."
By now, Meb's nerves and wits were jelly. Even knowing that it was coming—the water that hit her in the face was an icy shock. She really didn't mean to start swearing. But she did. With every word garnered from her step-brothers' vocabulary she told the Nichor to leave them alone. She'd die defiant anyway.
The Nichor nearly swamped the coracle . . . the wave rocked it and slopped water over the edge. The creature dived with all the haste it could muster.
There was a silence. And then Finn began to laugh. "Do you know how anatomically difficult it is going to be for the creature to obey you?" he asked.
"It's a fine tongue you have in your head," said the other voice from the water, reminding Meb that they were not out of trouble, yet.
But the voice sounded amused and, if anything, impressed. "Well, what are you doing out on the water on a night like this?"
"Much what you're doing, I suspect," said Finn. "Trying not to get eaten, Hrodenynbrys."
"It's a good ambition, I'm thinking," said the voice. "And how did you know who I was?"
From the chilly lake water Hrodenynbrys considered his options. It would take him only a moment to tip the coracle. On the other hand . . . the fact that other human knew his name, and didn't seen in the least perturbed to find him here, was worrying in itself. And she was now wearing the Angmarad. The force of it—when water touched the poor long-dry stems—had been like a tidal bore. She might just use it on him, if she fell in. She didn't do too well in water, as he remembered. And he liked the attitude of the lass. She had fine tongue on her. Swear a fire-being out of the hot place, let alone a Shellycoat back down into the depths.
The intrinsic problem was that he was supposed to bespell her to fetch the Angmarad . . . not for her to take the power of it and give it into fresh captivity. Well, merrows were gamblers by nature. That meant knowing when to bluff and when not to bet too. "Before I give you a tow to the shore, as you are short a paddle now, I'd still like to be knowing how you knew my name?"
"Ach," said the man, easily. "Your fame goes before you. Really."
There was something almost familiar about the speaker. Enough to make Hrodenynbrys wary, and glad that he hadn't merely tipped the coracle over. "If I was to believe that, I'd have to be human, or something equally daft. Have you a bit of rope? It'd make pulling you easier."
It was still hard work. But gave him time to think. That had been the biggest Shellycoat 'Brys had ever seen . . . and what had happened over in the alvar city? Who was this human with her . . . he fenced as well with words as a merrow. And more relevant: why had she got the Angmarad . . . and what was he, Hrodenynbrys, going to do about it?
By the time he got to the shore, 'Brys had decided that he'd better play it the way Margetha intended, even if it went against his better judgement. He pulled on the cape—which allowed him to change into human form. There was some confusion about that, in human circles. It was something merrows were keen to see continued.
"I think I might have some trousers to lend you," said the man, as he stepped ashore. "It seems a fair exchange for the ride."
Hrodenynbrys had forgotten humans felt like that about nudity. Merrows seldom went on land these days. No wonder those women gathering berries had run away from him in such surprise. "I forgot," he said. "I have them here in my bag." It was good hunting misdirection. He pulled out the throw-net, so cunningly made and bespelled, its fringe weighted with coins from shipwrecks, and he flung it with a smooth, perfect cast.
And that was the last thing that went well.
As he threw, she—who had be
en carefully not looking at him—stepped closer to her companion. Instead of catching the one fish he had two. Considering the magic expended on every knot of that net it should have ensnared any human, and also made her his to command. It should have bound her as still as stone, beyond anyone but him freeing her. He'd reckoned that he could retreat into the water if the man gave him any trouble that a trident couldn't fend off. After all he just wanted the Angmarad off her head, and he'd be away so fast that they'd think he was a sea-pike.
Margetha's spell-work—or that of the human mage, or the effects of the Angmarad on her head—failed completely, in a series of little sparkly explosions as the two of them tore free. Hrodenynbrys held his trident at the ready and retreated back into the icy lake.