by Dave Freer
Meb found herself trying not to cry. He was only a dog. But . . . well, he made it plain that he was her dog. Meb had never really been on the receiving end of loyalty before. She could get to like it, but possibly with less licking.
Chapter 35
"Prince Gywndar, they could not have survived that storm." The former captain of the swanship Melchior was still, a day later, a bedraggled and miserable alv. He, and most of his crew, had been rescued by the local fishermen from where they clung to the wreck before it went down. The other ship, which had been further offshore, had not been found yet.
Prince Gywndar's always uncertain temper had not been helped by the fact that floats with rubies attached had washed ashore from the swanships. He slapped the captain. "It was plainly a magical storm. Why would they make such weather if they could not survive it? They're in alliance with the merrows. That was water magic."
The captain, a minor alvar lordling himself, stared angrily back at his prince. "Prince Gywndar, I know that it was a magical storm. But that was not much of a vessel they were on. They'll have sunk themselves. The people of Starsey say no others were cast ashore. The Melchior was a powerful ship with a good, experienced crew. That was why we nearly made it to land. And the Starsey fishermen say that the merrows gave them warning. They told them the sea was going to boil with anger, and they must flee."
"Like my anger with you," shouted Gywndar. "Go. Before I have you strung up."
Later, standing speaking to his dragon overlord on the outer wall of Tarport, Gywndar slammed his fist into his palm. "The merrows refuse to cooperate with us. We have asked them to surrender the fugitives or their corpses. They say they have neither. They say we're welcome to come and look."
"Compel them," said Zuamar irritably. "You tolerate too much."
"We are fairly powerless—especially on the water—against the magic of merrow-kind," said Gywndar. "That is why we have the merrow treasure. At least we recovered that."
Zuamar spread his wings. "Use it then."
"But that would be against the compact!" exclaimed Gywndar.
"The compact is dead. And now I must go. I must evolve a plan to deal with Vorlian. The more I think about it the more logical it is that he must be the dragon that is involved in all of this. Consorting with lesser species . . ." Zuamar snorted a great gout of flame skyward.
Prince Gywndar stood for a long while after Zuamar left. Just stood, staring out at nothing. Then he called for one of his generals. "What more information do you have from the informant?"
"He died, Prince. He did tell us, repeatedly, that the woman's name is Meb, and that she is the sister of two of the fishermen. She was traveling with a gleeman. His description seems close to that of the thief and hers—by the height and size, could be the juggler-girl."
"I already knew that, fool." He took a deep breath. "I need a message carried to the merrows. You know the spells of calling."
The general nodded.
Gywndar continued. "Tell them we'll burn their precious Angmarad, bit by bit, starting tomorrow, unless we get the fugitives, and recompense in full for our ships and treasure."
The general was too shocked for speech. But he nodded.
Gywndar walked back into the governor's palace in the stinking sea-side town. He wondered if he'd already gone beyond what was going to be acceptable to his fellow princes. They were already less-than-supportive, some of them. But it wasn't their treasuries that had been looted! And he was sure that he wouldn't actually have to do it. And he had to do something. Zuamar was burning his principality to ash in his quest for the human mage.
It was a day later that Gywndar got a reply—just after he had heard that the second of his ships from the chase had been wrecked on one of the smaller islands, and had broken up on the reef there. The general bowed nervously. "The message from the chieftainess is that they do not have your 'fugitives' but you are welcome to come and have a look, as you were told before. She's tired of repeating herself. And she sent you this." He produced a very ordinary cheap-looking flask.
"What is it?" asked Gywndar, his suspicions aroused by the general's behavior.
"Uh. Some kind of alcohol, sire. She said that even very dry seaweed doesn't burn very well. If you pour this onto it first it might help."
Gywndar ground his teeth. "Is she telling me that it doesn't matter, or daring me to do my worst?"
The general coughed. "They're . . . not very polite, sire. Um. I was told that you could use the contents of the flask to set fire to the Angmarad, or drink it, but that you'd plainly had enough already. And if you were asking for repayment for your ships, she says ships and sailors who venture onto the wide and wasteful ocean do so at their own risk, and you should pull your head out . . . out of somewhere."
That was the final insult. "Call the magicians. And have the merrows' piece of seaweed-trash brought to me. I'll get dragons to drop rocks on their precious city beneath the waves, if need be."
Vorlian ached. The sudden, strange storm had almost been the death of him. Some of his left wing-ligaments were damaged. Dragons healed fast, but that didn't mean that they didn't hurt. He could only hope that Zuamar had suffered as much. But one thing was for certain: the dragon ruler of Yenfar had to be dealt with, and the sooner the better.
In his eyrie, Zuamar contemplated his hoard and thought dark thoughts about that young upstart. He had almost had enough of Gywndar and his prevaricating and his avoidance of pogroms too. The alvar prince had been urging restraint with the systematic elimination of humans . . . Bah. It was quite probable that the quarry had been in the vessel that they'd chased. That storm had merrow-magic written all over it, but that simply made the human more dangerous. Zuamar shifted some of his painful muscles closer to his hoard. His eye lit on a coin tossed there, recently. A very old coin—with the crudely stylized face of a bearded human holding a book on one face. A ducat, one of the original ones. Now where had he got that from? Ah yes. The late unlamented Jakarin, whom he now suspected had merely been a red herring, a distraction. He picked up the coin. Smelled it. Gold, of course, has no scent. But magic clings to it like one.
This coin did not smell, much, of the fat-witted Jakarin. It smelled of dragon magic though. And he recognized the flavor of it: the same dragon that had crossed the lake with the human mage.
He ground his huge teeth. Now all he had to do was to find out where she'd got the coin from. Then his eyes narrowed. He was not particularly adept at such workings, but the laws of contagion worked well on gold and dragons. The coin could work in a tracking spell.
Meb and the others—with the exception of her dog, who after the stress of losing his mistress to the sea, and then recovering her, was now sleeping the sleep of the exhausted but happy small dog—looked on in some fear as the yawl moved steadily, without any sign of a wind or current to push the vessel along, toward a gap in the barrier islands. The gaps between them were a tangle of raging surf and cruel spikes of black rock.
They did not seem to be slowing down at all as they got closer and closer. "They're going to wreck us!" yelled one of the fishermen fearfully.
"Don't be daft. If they'd wanted to, they could've driven us into the cliff back there," said Finn. "Hold tight, though. They like nothing better than to frighten the trousers off you."
And indeed, although the little fishing boat was thrown and tossed about, and seemed in imminent danger of swamping a few times, they ended up outside the reef, being pushed out between a line of breakers and into deeper open water. Then their motion slowed and ceased, except for yawl's rolling on the swell.
Hrolf took a deep breath. "Let's get the sails up then, lads. You've a story to tell your grandchildren about Dead Man's Sea, not that they'll believe you."
"Where are we going?" asked Mikka.
Finn looked at the westering sun sinking into the tatters of cloud. "Sundown should see you off the coast of Starsey in this wind. You can drop us and we'll pay you and be on our way. My advice to yo
u is to do a little quiet exploring of waters away from home for a few months. There are islands to the southeast. The smaller ones are underpopulated and could use some extra fishermen, with a seaworthy boat. And contrary to my first impression this vessel seems to be seaworthy."
"Aye. But it's not ours," said Hrolf with a show of Hallgerd's stubborn honesty. "We owe the owner his share."
"He'll be happy to get it at all, and his boat back too, if you wait a few months. Go back now and Zuamar and Gywndar will kill you and probably sink the boat. But if they're still around in a few months, you can slip back quietly," said Finn.
Hrolf looked mulish about it. Meb turned to her secret weapon. "You've a duty to Mikka. You promised mother you'd look after him."
"I promised I'd look after you, too," said Hrolf with a reluctant smile. "Only it was usually you looking out for us."
"That's exactly what I am doing this time too," said Meb sternly. "He's no ordinary gleeman, see. You must have realized that?"
"I am not sure just what he is," said Hrolf.
"Well," said Finn, "I am a gleeman. But a few other things too. And here's a suggestion. Put into one of the fishing ports on Starsey. Spend a week or two patching the vessel up, and keep your ear to the ground. Don't get drunk and robbed, just see what's afoot. Mark my words, it'll be safer for you and your families to be away from Yenfar for a few months. Zuamar is burning far too much. And Prince Gywndar is gearing for war. Gleemen get to hear things. Also they saw your yawl, and your friend that ran off will doubtless have told them who you are."
Hrolf spat overboard. "Morin. I'd forgotten him. Well, it's not easy advice to follow because it makes us look like thieves."
"A thief doesn't come back with a cargo of good stockfish. I know the cod will be running off Marslet and the catches will be poor off Tarport. If anyone is fishing out of Tarport."
Hrolf nodded. "True. I'd forgotten somehow that we weren't even being allowed to work our trade. It's our livelihood. We always paid tax on it too. That is their livelihood. What kind of madness is stopping it?"
"The madness of too much power," said Finn. "Who would stop them?"
"You've got a point there," conceded Hrolf. "Well, where do you want to be set ashore?"
"This side of Starsey is shallow-shelving. Try to land anywhere but the deep channels and you'll be grounded a long way from the shore until high tide. So I've a suggestion. Sell us the skiff—you can buy another, and we'll take ourselves in. You can then follow the leading lights into safe anchorage."
Mikka coughed. "Well, gleeman, there's the matter of your apprentice . . ."
"I'll take good care of the Scrap," said Finn. "I need a good juggler. And I always honor my bargains, gentlemen. The Scrap does not belong at sea on a fishing boat." Finn began counting out silver onto the fish-hatch. "That's what we owe you, and a fair payment for the skiff."
Mikka said nothing except a quiet "ah" of pain, because Meb had slipped behind him and taken his hand in the grip she'd learned from fighting with them, and was pushing his pinkie-finger in a direction it did not naturally go. "Shut up!" she said quietly in his ear. "Try and stop me and I'll jump overboard after him. I'm a gleeman now."
"Um." said Hrolf, looking at the silver. "Doesn't your apprentice want to stay with us? We're . . . er, kin."
"No," said Meb firmly. "But thank you." She was touched that they cared enough to have even tried. But now they should stop.
And they did. A little later, she, Finn and the pup were paddling away in the little skiff—barely big enough for three fishermen but roomy enough for a puppy, Finn and Meb, heading toward the dark mass of the shoreline, away from the yawl, which was picking its way slowly to the pinprick lights further along the coast.
That almost forgotten small fishing village girl part of Meb did give a small sniffle at leaving the last of her Yenfar roots behind. But then the half-grown puppy stuck its nose in her ear.
"Cheer up, Scrap," said Finn. "In an hour or two we'll be enjoying supper. I happen to know of a good inn built in a most auspicious spot.
"Auspicious spot?"
"Well, it will be lucky to have us anyway. Let's hope you and your faithful hound don't get us thrown out. Will you tell it to stop putting its nose into my neck while I row? And pull a bit harder on your side. We'll be heading out to sea again at this rate."
"Yes, Finn. Pup, come here. I think he's hungry."
"He's always hungry. And he needs a name. Something like Díleas."
"Díleas." She tasted the word. "Odd word. It . . . really fits him. Why call him that, Finn?"
"Because it means 'loyal' in an old tongue, and because that is his name."
Chapter 36
The inn extended a warm welcome to those who had silver. And Fionn was, here, making no pretense that he did not have that. It wasn't gold, so it was easier to part with. Yes, enough silver would buy gold. But it wasn't quite the same as handing out gold.
He hadn't been joking when he said that the inn was in an auspicious place, although there were many who might have been a little puzzled by what he meant, including the innkeeper. They were less aware of the great dyke of ironstone that ran behind it to the sea, that drew lightning and even lodestones. It was a place, Fionn knew, that played hob with many forms of divination and augury, where the forces of nature put out signs which could be confused with powerful magic. He would put what protections he could around her, but the Scrap was radiating magical force in such a way as to make her too easy to trace. Her brush with the Angmarad had left her even more charged with potential. He was going to have to explain this to her sometime. And possibly explain who was hunting her, and why. But first, tonight hopefully, Fionn needed some time with his gold.
They ate—the innkeeper soothed about having a scruffy young dog called Díleas in his inn, watching them at table, by the passing of some silver. After the innkeeper's pretty young daughter had served a good meal of rabbit and pearl onions cooked in cider, with a rhubarb tart with egg custard for afters, Fionn pushed his chair back. "Baths and bed, Scrap. We'll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow."
* * *
Washing all over in hot water was something that hadn't come Meb's way much before. Not that they hadn't washed in the village at least every year . . . but all that water, hot, all to herself? The problem, the innkeeper's daughter assured her, was cold water. There was a hot spring—one of many, just up the slope from the inn. Hot water was piped from there.
Díleas regarded it with extreme suspicion too—as well he might, because Meb decided that if she was going to wash he could be washed too. She discovered that it was a wonderful, relaxing luxury.
He did not.
Sleep, warm, dry and comfortable with Díleas looking like a black and white fluff-ball with sharp-pointed ears next to her, was like a deep well that swallowed her down into its stillness. Somewhere in its depths she dreamed of dragons.
Fionn had no time for dreaming. Instead he'd slipped away up the hill across frost-hard fields to change into his true form and launch across the ironstone. Here the warmth that the dark rock had absorbed during the day lent lift to his wings as he beat his way upward toward the sliver of moon sailing in the dark sky. He took the hammer with him. Tonight was no time for the conclave. Instead he headed to his gold-store and lay for as long as he felt he could afford to, before launching down toward Yenfar. Things were considerably simpler without a human in tow. He worried about her, naturally. He'd taken what precautions he could, and laid protections about her. And even on the dog. He was beginning to wonder if it would be worth getting her to raise a horse from a foal . . . but there probably wouldn't be the time, let alone a place.
He'd become fond of Díleas, he had to admit. The young animal's trust was disarming. And dogs were peculiarly sensitive to creatures of energy. He'd serve as a warning for the creatures of smokeless flame. The pup had of course been shaped by her and that dratted dvergar device, becoming what she wanted him to be—yet remaining himse
lf. She had good material to work on. Sheepdogs were known to be smart.
A little later, refreshed, he set off for Yenfar, heading for a stream from which a dverg artificer had just taken a fish. Breshy-Dvalinn was so absorbed in it that he did not notice a dragon. Fionn decided he'd better have words with Motsognir about that, so they'd at least send a minder out with him. The tweak her magical interference had made in the place was a minor one. Adjusting the water energies of it—he could no more pass it by than he could do without gold—took a few moments. It was fortunate that many things simply re-aligned themselves, or it would take him months to cover a hundred yards, he thought.
He waited until the black-haired dverg had his salmon safe in the coracle before he called out. The dverg-artificer was undoubtably a genius with metalwork but he was also quite simple-minded in other respects. It sometimes seemed to be like that with the greatest. He could get very upset if he lost his fish. Upset enough to refuse to help, even if it was in his best interest. "A splendid fish," said Finn, as the dverg admired it.