Dragon's Ring (38 page)

"I refused him and he tried to force me," said Keri.

Fionn laughed. He laughed so much he had to hold onto the rail. "I think it's the sheer inventiveness of your kind that terrifies even the dragons," he said to her.

"You think just because he's your boy-lover he'd never look at a girl? He was being unfaithful to you!" hissed Keri, furiously.

That made Fionn laugh all the more. And the Scrap slapped her again.

Justin surged forward.

Fionn picked him up by the shirt front and deposited him, hard, on his butt on the deck. "Now, let's not have any more of this silliness," he said, firmly. "All of you go back to bed. Your own beds. Young woman," he said to Keri, "you should at least learn to lie a bit better. My apprentice never made any passes at anyone. She has no interest in women, not even ones of negotiable virtue."

Meb gaped at him, at a loss for words.

"Are you saying that he's a girl?" demanded the bravo, rubbing his hind end.

"Yes," said Fionn.

"But . . . he is wearing trousers," said Keri, the boundaries of her world challenged.

"It is possible for females to do so," said Finn. "As the Scrap has lived a rather sheltered life in some ways, I won't ask her to show you. Now be off with you. I paid your passage on this ship. I think the captain will be happy, after this little fracas, to put you off on the first rock we pass if I ask him to. Go. Now."

And they went. So did the crew. Fionn could, at need, command. That left the Scrap standing there, Díleas pressing against her leg. Tears were quietly streaming down her face.

"What is wrong?" asked Fionn gently. Partly he was soothing her because she was possessed of enormous talent, and a dvergar artifact of great power, and if upset, could do anything. Partly he was gentle because . . . well, he was fond of her. He hadn't ever allowed himself to get this close to any other living thing, for this long, in many, many eons.

She sniffed. "I"—she swallowed—"I can't be your apprentice, now that you've found out. I didn't mean to deceive you, Finn! I would never! It just . . . happened."

He fished out a handkerchief from a pocket. He'd left his clothes behind on the boat, and was glad the crew and the combatants hadn't seen him, wet, naked and assisted by a merrow, return to them. "Wipe away your tears and blow your nose, then. I have always known exactly who and what you are. And I am not precisely an ordinary gleeman, as I think you've realized, Scrap. You must have realized that by now. My . . . trade hasn't had an apprentice for a long time. It was about time that I trained someone."

"You're . . . you're not just going to send me away?" she said in a voice full of both doubt and hope.

"Where do you get these odd ideas from?" asked Fionn.

Her little face lit up. "Thank you. Oh, thank you, master."

He had meant it as a comforting hug. She clung to him as if she was drowning. She lifted her face to be kissed. So he did.

Some long moments later, it occurred to him that when he next saw that black-hearted son of a ymir-maggot Motsognir, or Dvalinn for that matter, he was going to do something particularly fiendishly nasty to them. Steal all their treasures or something. The artifact they'd given her was thick with dragon magic, dvergar magic and of course her own. It would help her to become what she wished to be—which right now, was to be his lover. He pushed her away, but gently.

Instantly she was contrite, making him feel considerably worse about it. "I'm sorry, master, uh, Finn. I . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

He lifted her downcast chin. "But you did want to."

She nodded.

Finn sighed. "I wanted to, too." He did not explain why, or that love among his kind was brief. "But it cannot be, Anghared."

"My name is Meb."

Fionn smiled to hide his sadness. "It is given to me that I should know the names of all things. There are fewer names than you would think. They tend to get re-used . . . but I know all of them. That was your birth name. 'Meb' was merely what your stepmother called you. But that is why I cannot be what you wish me to be. I am not your of kind, my small scrap of humanity."

"I know. You're a mage. I know the dragons want to kill you, Finn. They kill all human magic workers. But you're cleverer than they are. And Díleas and I will keep watch for you." She patted the pup.

Fionn rubbed his face. "I think it is time I corrected a few of your misapprehensions. Scrap, it is not me that the dragons want to kill. It's you."

"Me? Why?" Her eyes twinkled with the audacity that she'd been learning, slowly. She cheerfully contradicted him now. It would have been hard to imagine once. "No, Finn. Sorry, but you have it wrong. I know that it's you. I'd never betray you, though. It is . . . too important to me."

Humans, thought Fionn, were rather like dogs. He'd got very used to having this one around him. It was not pleasant to hurt her. But it had to be said. "There are reasons why it cannot be me, just as there are reasons why you could not have impregnated that young woman, Scrap. You see, I am not human, whereas you are. I am the thing you fear and hate most. I am a dragon."

"You . . . look very human, Finn," she said, failing to restrain the dimple in her cheek.

This was not going quite as he had foreseen. "Dragons can take on a number of other forms, Scrap. I am . . . unusual, even among them. You are even more unusual. You do not belong here. My work—to put it in simple terms—is to put everything in the right places so that energies may balance. I know these things, just as I know where the trees and rocks belong. Do you remember the milestone we moved?"

"Yes. It was quite heavy." She reached out and put her hand on his arm. "It doesn't matter. I won't trouble you if . . . if you don't want me. I am happy just to be your apprentice. For always and always."

Her power was quite terrifying and she did not even know she was doing it. "Scrap . . ."

She continued, a look of trust in her eyes, that serious intent expression on her face that she got when she focussed her attention on anything—which was when she worked her magics best. "And it wouldn't matter to me if you were a dragon. Or an alvar with glamor to fool me with appearances, Finn. You are just Finn. Just like the mountain looked like all sorts of things but it was always Groblek. The world is a strange place, full of stranger things than I could have imagined once. I'm just a poor girl from a small fishing village. I don't know very much, or understand what you're doing. But I've seen enough to trust you. That is all."

Fionn sighed. "And you are probably going to drive me mad, Scrap. It's time you got some rest. I've still got other work to do." He dug out his charts and spread them close to the deck-lamp. He didn't actually need the light any more than he actually needed the charts.

* * *

Sleep was very far from Meb as she obediently lay down on the plaited straw pallet on the deck and pulled both her cloak and the blanket tight around her—and then opened it up again to let Díleas in. She needed her dog's simple unquestioning love now more badly than ever. Her thoughts and emotions were in a turmoil, one that followed her even into a confused, restless sleep. The small-village Meb told her that she was a brazen hussy. The practical Meb told it to shut up. That he didn't actually like her and was being kind. She wasn't beautiful or curvaceous. And the dreamer Meb wondered about moving rocks and the love between Groblek and the sea. It was all very complicated, hard even to start to understand, like just what Finn actually did. That wasn't being a gleeman or even a thief. Well, he'd said he'd keep her as his apprentice. She'd learn. She peeped at him from under lidded eyes. His black hair was still dripping-wet. It was cold out. He ought to dry it. Odd. It was a clear winter night with no sign of rain to have wet it.

The next day brought Justin seeking to mend some bridges, exerting himself to be charming. Meb was not that easily misled. But he did have a skill she wanted to learn, and juggling on the rolling ship was not easy. "Will you teach me how to read and write?" she asked.

He laughed lightly. "Women don't do that."

"They don't wear trousers and juggle either," said Meb, tartly. "Show me how it works."

"Very well. It's not easy."

Meb did not find it as difficult as he seemed to think it should be. It was quite logical when it was explained. She rapidly got to spelling out and sounding the words, and working out what they were. Keri did not approve of her lover's spending time with a woman who wore trousers, and kept coming over to distract him, while studiously ignoring Meb.

The latter part suited Meb fine.

Vorlian found that he had only one answer to his summons. The centaur Actaeon. The centaur's eyes were a little wild, Vorlian thought. Perhaps it was finding himself here in the dragon's lair, alone.

Or perhaps it was something else. Vorlian was not sure what this centaur had done to be sent into exile. There were others of course, scattered about the islands. But Vorlian knew that it was considered a terrible punishment. He wondered if the ambition of renewing the plane that was Tasmarin, with a flawed reed, was such a good idea. But they'd needed a centaur. Well, even if the others were not here, he might as well tell the centaur. "You've seen these pictures of our human mage?"

"No," said the centaur, his skin twitching. "But I know what she looks like. I did not realize that she was dressed as a boy. The merrow on the right is Hrodenynbrys, the consort of their Chieftainess Margetha. Hrodenynbrys is possessed of very powerful magical gifts."

"Well, I have established that they are indeed in cahoots with a dragon too. They set sail a few days ago, having been rescued by the dragon."

"He could be compelled. Any two of the species, acting in concert can compel one of the dragons," said Actaeon.

"That's not what Rennalinn said," said Vorlian, digesting this. "He said that it had to be a human mage . . . which she is, but surely unskilled."

"Oh no. Any two of the species. We keep the record," said Actaeon earnestly. "Do you know which dragon, Lord Vorlian?"

"One called Fionn. Quite small. Black. I can't think of another black . . ."

Vorlian noticed that the centaur appeared to be having a minor fit, sweating and shivering with his head jerking forward.

"What is wrong with you?"

The centaur wiped his brow with a shaking hand. "Their fate lines cross, often, in many possible ways. The black dragon comes to destroy Tasmarin."

"Fionn?" asked Vorlian incredulously. "He's a joker, Actaeon. You shouldn't take his silly statements seriously. I've even heard him say he's busy destroying the world myself. We regard him as humans would a village idiot. A minor annoyance, that is all. I will admit that he's clever, fast and agile and he has a nasty tongue in his head, but he's harmless. I'm sorry, I could have reassured you earlier. He'll just be involved in this to annoy the senior dragons. You'll have overheard his nonsense, but it is just a joke."

"It is no joke. We have not overheard anything. We have seen him in the dark pool of foretelling. Often. Almost all the fate lines lead with a grim certainty to him bringing down the second tower too. And then the others will fail. Tasmarin will break up."

Vorlian stared at the half-horse. "What? What do you mean?"

"He is the oldest and the most powerful of your kind. Like, but not like, the rest in many ways. A worker with the great forces and powers that hold the world together. He works now to destroy this place. He is often seen in the dark pool. His ways are mysterious but his purpose is clear," said the centaur, his voice quavering a little.

"But he's just a troublemaker!" exclaimed Vorlian. "He couldn't have brought the tower down! We can't even touch the surface of them. It's just a symptom of the breakdown of Tasmarin. That is why we need a renewal of the old spells! That's why we need the human mage."

"And that is why he needs her too," nodded Actaeon. "To keep her, and you, from undoing his work of generations."

Vorlian thought about all this. There was one flaw in it all, besides the fact that he struggled to believe it of the sharp-tongued Fionn. Fionn had a nasty mouth, but he didn't seem pent on utter destruction. In fact he hadn't even killed Zuamar—and he could easily have done so. And he'd been seemingly genuine in his offer to help Vorlian. In his usual snide way of course . . . but it was still not the behavior of a megalomaniac that sought the destruction of everything. "But . . . why shouldn't he just kill the human mage?"

"It does seem odd. But much of what he does is inscrutable to us. May I use your mirror, Lord Vorlian?" Actaeon asked. "This will not wait."

"Mirror? Yes. Although this doesn't seem like a time for vanity."

"Vanity is emptiness," said Actaeon. "Which is what time away from the herds of my people is."

"And what is the mirror gazing for, if not for vanity?" Vorlian said, snidely.

"It allows me to speak with them. Any reflecting surface is captured somewhere in the dark pool of the Children of Chiron. The sages there can hear and see me, if it is a windless day. Otherwise, they will see it later, when the wind is still."