Dragon's Ring (9 page)

It was a good bit taller than she was. But he seemed to expect her to climb it. So Meb tried. And failed. After the day she'd had her muscles felt like jelly. Even the walk back through the streets had seemed a long, long way.

The gleeman shook his head. "Not like that."

"I'm sorry. I'm just so tired. I can't," she said weakly, hating herself.

"Ach. You poor little scrap of humanity. Here. Have a boost." And he made a stirrup of his hands, and lifted her, so that she had her waist over the top. With a scrabble Meb tumbled headlong into the small yard.

He came over the top as easily as a lizard.

"Good." he said quietly. "No dog."

The idea hadn't even occurred to her. She really wasn't very good at this, the inner person admitted, but she was so tired . . .

He hauled up a bucket of water from the well, and they washed hands and faces. The water was cold—and it wasn't going to do anything for her clothes. But the gleeman seemed to have thought of that too. He slipped into the barn and returned as she was still scrubbing. "Here," he said, handing her a bundle from the pack he'd retrieved from a hayloft. "I've . . . um . . . outgrown them a little. Fling those clothes of yours in the manure pile, and toss a bit of straw over them. I'm going to open a back way in for us. I think we'll have been here quietly, all evening."

Meb was relieved when he went so that she could change, anyway. But her very tired mind did ask her if she knew quite what she was getting herself into. And that was no reference to the red and yellow jester's knee-breeches and the loose tunic-top he'd given her. There was even a cloak, too. It was good cloth, if rather worn. She scrambled into them hastily. And there were boots . . . she'd never had real shoes. They fitted surprisingly well, even if they did feel odd.

"Ah. Well, you'll pass as a jester 'prentice," said her new-found mentor, coming back so quietly that she hadn't heard him. "Got rid of those clothes yet?"

"No . . . but there's good wear in them yet. They just need a wash," she said.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue. "People will maybe be looking for a fisher-boy. Those are too recognizable. And too smoky by half. Give." She handed them over to him. He shook the bundle, and shook his head. "You even forgot to take the money out of the pockets, Scrap."

She blinked. "Sorry. Very tired."

He patted her shoulder sympathetically. "Food and sleep then. We'll need to make an early start tomorrow. We want to be a long way gone when Zuamar starts looking at his tax hall."

"We?"

He grinned. "It would seem that you're probably the worst possible choice for an apprentice rogue. Therefore I've decided to take you on."

She blinked. Gaped at him. "But . . . my step-brothers. I've got to wait for them. They're off at sea. They won't be back for days."

"Best place for them to be," said the gleeman. "I suspect that there is going to be a fair amount of trouble tomorrow. Some people are going to remember you jumping out of the chief tax-inspector's window."

"How will they ever know we did it?" asked Meb, fearfully.

He made a face. "Trust me. They will know someone did. And the bigger the thief, the nastier they get about being robbed, even if it is nothing but some small change you took from their pockets. Come on. There's a back window unlatched. You'll have to keep quiet. Someone is asleep in the room."

On her own Meb would never have dared to go into a room via the window, let alone past two sleeping people, snoring together in bass and alto harmony. She stumbled over some garments abandoned on the floor, but the jester caught her arm before she fell into the bed with the snorers. They navigated through the room to a dimly-lit interior passage, and slipped into the tap-room, to a table in a back corner.

A slatternly, tired-looking woman came to the jester's wave. "We'll have another drink," he said. "And maybe a plate of stew, eh, Scrap?"

"Have you got money to pay for it?" the waitress asked suspiciously.

The gleeman shook his head sorrowfully. "Where's charity these days? Here." He held out a small silver coin. "The boy's had the flux for half the evening. I suppose he'd better just have food. Or maybe a half of ale. He's not used to drinking yet."

The coin improved her expression. "I'll bring you the tail end of the squab pie that we had for our dinner. If the lad's got the flux already, I wouldn't eat the stew. Some parts of it died a bit too long ago."

The noise, the warmth and length of her day were finally telling on Meb. She rested her tired head in her hands, elbows on the rough wooden table, her head spinning gently.

"He looks all in, poor mite," said the woman. "Too young for your sort of life, gleeman."

"We all have to start somewhere," said the gleeman. "Now, let's get some food into him, before he falls asleep at the table."

The squab pie was excellent. Succulent, flecked with tarragon and set in crisp pastry. Even struggling to focus and stay awake, Meb knew that it was finer food than she'd ever had in her life, even without hunger adding sauce. Meb did find it a little odd that there should be no fish in it, but maybe other people did sometimes have meals without fish.

It didn't stop her falling asleep on the table.

Fionn looked at the sleeper across the table from him, her head resting on her arms, with her rough-cut hair a few finger widths from a puddle of spilled beer. He smiled crookedly. Well. Here was a pretty coil he'd got himself into. Somehow he'd have to teach her to leave fewer traces. She probably didn't know what she was doing. Actually, make it that she certainly didn't know what she was doing. When Zuamar came to look at his tax-hall, he would smell magic and dragon fire all over the place.

Fionn had long since given up on any belief in luck . . . or in fate. A planomancer such as he knew that everything revolved around energy. Sometimes you manipulated the energies of the world, and sometimes . . . they manipulated you. Given the way that she was tweaking flow-lines it was not surprising that she'd come to him. In short order Fionn knew that he would have been looking for her. She could very easily ruin his design, even destroy both him and it. It was most amusing that she'd come to the one dragon who really didn't want to find a human with magical skills. To the one who wouldn't either kill her or use her. Still, keeping her would allow him to fix the damage as she caused it and, of course, to thwart the designs of others. That would be sweet. And amusing. As funny as plucking a handful of tail-scales from Zuamar, just as burning his tax-hall had been. Besides, the place really had been a drain on the water-energies of the city. Of course there were other ways that he could have fixed that, but this had been more entertaining.

Warmth. Rich food. More alcohol than she was used to . . .  Meb should have slept like the dead. Perhaps it was being in a much softer bed than the thin straw pallet she was used to. This one had, by the smell, old feathers in it. It sagged under her and seemed to threaten to swallow her. It was warm. Too warm. She drifted in and out of sleep and strange shadowy half-nightmare dreams—which were eerily real. Flames, hot, angry and devouring. The spiky dark shape of the dragon etched against the pallid moon. And lines in colors she had no words for. Lines that drifted and wove through everything, in some vast kaleidoscope pattern, that spread out and out and out, shaping waves, edging the very stones of great buildings, a tower that hung over the endless void . . . And then the flames again, flames and a dragon. She woke, sweating.

Finn stood by the window, silhouetted by the moonlight. She saw the flash of white teeth in the dark face. "Ah. A bit warm here under the thatch," he said, fiddling with the window.

It was always confusing in the dark. She could almost have sworn that he was partially closing it.

Meb was unsure how she'd got here. A vague memory of being let upstairs, and a fear that she'd been undressed . . . but no, she was still in the clothes the gleeman had provided. No wonder she was hot! She undid a button. Pushed the cloak aside, and lapsed back into sleep.

* * *

Fionn stood watching, unblinking. Eventually, when her breathing had slipped back into the regular cadences of sleep, he walked back from the window, and took a small flask from his bag. He poured some of the liquid into his hand. It was a shame to waste it, but she'd been on the verge of setting fire to the place. He traced lines of water-force around her bed, quietly, and as gently as possible picking up the foot of the bed to re-align it. She did not wake.

After a while Fionn crossed to the window and stepped out onto the sill.

Meb stirred slightly as the spiky shadow of his wings passed briefly over her face. But she did not wake, as the dragon rose into the night with the swift and powerful beating of his wide wings.

Soon he was up where the air grew thin.

Others were already leaving the conclave, and Fionn skimmed low over the broken lunar surface, almost as if having got this far, he was leaving again. It was an effort of will and magic to reach this place, the air being far too thin for flying. It was easier, soon, to land and walk among the scattered rocks—something beyond the dignity of most of Fionn's peers. That suited him. Mostly he was hidden in the shadows. He came, at length, to a massive crater, and climbed down the rimwall, carefully avoiding certain holds, to enter a fissure near its base. It was dark on the way in here, but Fionn had no need of visible light. He rounded three corners, stepping on certain rocks only. The hoard that lay there was vast, lit up by a warm glowing orb on a high rock shelf. Fionn looked happily at the gold-pile. He had some coins from Zuamar's tax hall to add to it. He was, after all, a dragon. The model on which others were created.

Fionn knew a great deal more about gold than most dragons. He knew for instance how the magical conductivity of it was what underlay much of the magic of Tasmarin. How that had been used in the creation. Dragons, dvergar and humans . . . they undermined the very fabric of the place, which was quite amusing. Its foundation was the finest tracery of dragon-gold, but they probably had not understood that. Gold could be spun out so thin that it could not be seen. But it could easily be broken.

Zuamar had used the space and respect granted to the old, the rich, the large and strong within the conclave to find a time and opportunity to have a word with his island-neighbor, Vorlian. They could not talk outside the conclave as that would have meant entering the territory of the other—a difficult and dangerous process.

Vorlian was afforded similar space of course. He was rich, large and strong, even if, by Zuamar's standards, he was not old. The maneuvering was subtle, but, in its way, obvious. Zuamar seldom visited the conclave. It was most likely that he'd come here just for this purpose.

Their bows were a measured performance. So carefully measured Vorlian, judging his own, as to be precise mirrors of the other. "My good Zuamar. And how does the night find you?" asked Vorlian, carefully urbane.

"Angry, Vorlian," said the older dragon.

Vorlian wished he had less of an idea why. Or knew just how this had come back to him. "Ah."

"It's these humans . . . and I think some of the other lesser species. Things fall apart, and they're growing restive."

Vorlian hoped that his relief did not show. "I think we've been preoccupied with the situation, Zuamar. Allowed them to get above themselves." Actually, he thought most of dragonkind had diverted their attention from the true crisis to the petty pursuit of vendettas and ensuring that they got their respect and dues from those within their demesnes. But if that was what Zuamar wanted to hear about raiders attacking his island . . .

The older dragon nodded his vast head. "We need some kind of alliance against the pernicious lice. You are too young to remember the dark times before Tasmarin, Vorlian. They pitted dragon against dragon to serve their ends. The alvar and centaur-kind are supposed to be our allies. But they too were a part of it. And it's happening again. I've had a human raid on one of my villages. I went there this afternoon to inspect." The dragon snorted sulphurously. "I can smell magic, Vorlian."

It was an ability some dragons had. Vorlian for one. Magic left traces. "What kind, Zuamar?"

The Lord of Yenfar stared at him through slitted eyes. "Odd kinds. More than one kind. But one thing has raised my fears and my fury enough to come to seek you out."

Vorlian smiled attentively. "And what was that, and how may I help?"

"There was a dragon there. A dragon on my land. By the prints it was a smaller than average one. I cannot believe that such would dare to trespass. I suspect compulsion. I want that dragon found and I want those who dared compel it, destroyed."

Vorlian took a deep breath, absorbing the information. Had Haborym and the sprite found a dragon to serve their purposes? Were they playing him false? "My Lord," he said carefully, "there are—in these times of upheaval—dragonkind that have been left destitute. Some may have been . . . desperate enough for gold to participate in these activities, without compulsion. It is not easy to compel . . ."