Dragon's Ring (17 page)

It had been startling. But what Meb did not say was that what she had seen in the mirror was even more startling. The two seamstresses—so ordinarily human looking—had been something quite different reflected in the mirror. It hadn't been her own ears she'd been startled by.

Later, when the sewing women had gone to sleep she quietly asked Finn. "They're alvar, aren't they? Why do they live in this horrible place instead of in the white city?"

He nodded. "Yes, little Scrap. Your education continues. But you must understand. There never were—or at least not for many years—just all 'alvar' any more than all humans are alike and belong to one group. The sprites and fire-beings are different, of course. The sprites are effectively one creature with many bodies, and the creatures of smokeless flame have a very powerful hierarchy that tolerates no dissent. But that was not true of the alvar. The alvar, broadly speaking, were divided into Loftalvar and Dokkalvar, Huldralvar, and Stromalvar. And of course several smaller factions, each with their own little kings and lords. The Stromalvar were always closest to the humans, and, with the Loftalvar, ascendant and dominant before Tasmarin."

He paused. "You must remember that the formation of Tasmarin was the work of a lot of malcontents. Inevitably though, quite a lot of ordinary folk who just happened to be living in the areas that were taken, also ended up here. The alvar got pride of power and place here, under the dragons, once they had killed the human mage Arawn. Only that was not—obviously—the Loftalvar. The Stromalvar took on the role of Loftalvar, took on their style of dwelling—although always by water—and did their best to out-high-alvar their image of the Loftalvar." Finn smiled wickedly. "That went down really well with the few Loftalvar that happened to be drawn in. And of course with the Huldralvar. They fitted in better than the Loftalvar did. But still . . . a good half of those living in this rat-warren are alvar. They're ashamed. They use their glamor to hide what they are. And they do not like or cooperate with the present rulers. Leilin and her sister are of Loftalvar blood."

"How do you know all this, master?"

He shrugged. "I've been around. And I tell stories, and listen to them, as well as juggle and do tricks and make people laugh."

"That's not all, is it?" she asked.

"Well, all that you need to think about now, Scrap," he said, wryly. "I forget that education in small fishing villages tend to be about how to gill and gut fish."

It seemed a slight on the village and Meb was still feeling slightly touchy. "Oh, we learn about the weather and the sea too. And I met a merrow once. Lands-people don't."

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, and a small smile. "Now that is interesting. They're sharp, are merrows. You have to watch them carefully. They're honest enough, but . . ."

She nodded. "They've got sharp teeth too. And they can be sort of . . . nasty-nice."

"They collect the souls of drowned sailors. And love storms," said Finn, his tone neutral.

Meb shuddered. "He didn't seem evil."

For once Finn's customary smile disappeared. His face was grim. "Not all that seems evil is. Not all of those who destroy and wreck all that is good are evil. It's not something quick or easy to recognize."

She nodded, halted by his seriousness. "But . . . how do you know what's right? What to do?"

He shrugged and grinned. "I suppose we just have to guess and muddle through."

Meb nodded, because he was her master. But deep inside she disagreed with him. You could feel "nasty," sometimes. But, true enough, since the dragon had overseen the destruction of her home, she'd realized that it wasn't always the obvious that felt that way.

"What must be done, must be done, 'Brys," said Margetha. "And it is fitting that it should be you doing it. It's an honor, as well as a fair reward for being far too clever for your own good."

"Virtue is its own reward," said Hrodenynbrys wryly. "I should have guessed." In actuality, he was quite pleased, even if the whole idea of a merrow going on land, let alone on land and out of sight of the sea, was an odd one. It had been done before, of course. Just not recently.

"Yes, indeed," said Margetha sourly. "Next time you find a human mage, try to make it one with straighter hair."

"Fussy! I'm the one who'll have to deal with the workings you do on it. She seemed a relatively simple fisher-lass, even if she had a fine tongue on her. She could swear a demon out of the fire-pit, that one."

"Good. Should make her easier to deal with," said Margetha, tying the net-knot.

Hrodenynbrys looked at her work. The net of hair was hardly visible, it was so fine. A sprat would be able to tear it . . . except that the spells and the very nature of it would make it hold what it was intended to hold. Compared to the simple charms on the cages this was high magic—which was why Margetha had to do it. "I've got me doubts. She's a strong minded lass for all that."

"We'll bind her soul, 'Brys. She will have no choice," said the chieftainess grimly.

"We could follow her. We have a part of her." And the part remained bound to the whole, no matter what the distance, Hrodenynbrys knew.

"And then? Ask her nicely to get the Angmarad back for us?" Margetha said sarcastically.

'Brys shrugged his fins. "Human magic is a dangerous thing, we've learned. Why not do a scrying at least? It would at least tell me where to go. Where the nearest water is."

She rolled her eyes. "Very well. A strand I can spare."

The scrying surprised both of them.

"That's both easier and more difficult than I had expected," said 'Brys.

Margetha showed her teeth. "And it means that you have no time to waste."

"You need to finish that," He pointed at the soul net.

"And you need to collect your cape. I will be ready for you, and of course will have a calling bracelet for you. Go."

"I've never been that fond of fresh water . . ."

"Go! I have work to do," she said crossly.

So Hrodenynbrys went. He swam to his home, collected the red cape—it was actually made of dyed seal-fur—and his next best trident. The cape was something all of his kind had, but rarely used.

By the time he got back to the palace she had the soul-net ready for him, as well as a plaited loop of hair which had the threaded seed-pearls and ear-bones of giant cod on it. It pulled towards the source of the hair . . . In case he did not know where to go.

With his charge as safe as possible, and with what safeguards he could contrive on the house to hide her, Fionn was able to slip out. There was considerable work to be done, preparing things. Firstly that abomination of a straight road had to be prepared to be set at rights. That involved some magic, some brute force and some careful balancing. Then he was overdue some time with his gold, not to mention spreading his long ears for rumors and information in the Conclave.

One piece of news did surprise him. He need no longer worry about the idea of Jakarin ambushing him. It appeared that a lack of gold at molt was not going to be a problem for that dragon any more. The conclave was full of the story. A fight to the death between Jakarin and Zuamar. A grim and desperate struggle . . . if a one sided fight. Jakarin had had little more than a large mouth to defend herself with, and that had proved inadequate against the speed, strength and the experienced cunning of the older dragon.

Fear stirred in the conclave. Yes, smaller, younger dragons fought. Some died, although it was rare. But the great old ones had not battled, not for centuries anyway. Everyone knew Jakarin had lost her hoard. Everyone assumed she had tried theft on Zuamar. Mostly, they believed that she'd deserved what she got.

But Zuamar had sought her out afterwards. And her friend Myrcupa swore that she'd been nowhere near the older dragon's territory.

Of course, he would say that.

But there was a lot of talk of the old times. Times when dragon fought dragon. When dragon was sent to fight dragon.

Zuamar himself had not come in. But he was reported to have been seen flying over the ocean. Flying a slow, questing search pattern.

Other dragons had been seen with him from time to time. And he was not confining himself to the sky over his demesnes.

It was a time of changes, and changes made for great uneasiness.

Meb woke in the pale hours of dawn. Sleeping as she had been, in the big sewing room, light came in through the high skylight. Besides it was not quite as quiet as a house could be at that time of day. They moved like ghosts, but Leilin and her sister still couldn't pack quietly. Meb watched for a while before saying anything. She couldn't see Finn anywhere . . . .

"What are you doing?" she asked warily.

"Ah. The 'prentice wakes," said Leilin, with just a hint of sarcasm. Meb suspected that the alvar woman didn't entirely believe that she was Finn's apprentice. "We're leaving for a while."

"Maybe forever," said her sister. "The sort of trouble that Finn brings along with him is something that we'd rather avoid. He'll be gone and then people will come looking for him. Somebody might have seen him arrive here. So by the time they come searching we'd like to be a good long way away."

"Where is he?" asked Meb, slightly nervous. She still wondered if the jester would somehow just disappear.

The two looked at each other. "About his usual mysterious business I would think," said Leilin. "It doesn't pay to inquire too closely into what he gets up to. He tends to vanish when you do. He didn't spend the night with me, however."

"He's up to mischief somewhere," said her sister. "He'll be back. He always comes back, eventually."

"Mind you, it can take him a few years at times," said Leilin.

Just at that point Finn stepped in through the doorway. "You're running late," he said. Plainly their departure was no surprise to him.

Leilin waved airily at Meb. "We were trying not to wake the sleeper."

Finn found that rather funny. "Time that the scrap was up, fed and watered anyway. And definitely time you two were away. You will take my advice, and take the bridle path going across to Mount Jindar?"

Leilin grimaced, nodded. "It's muddy, but I assume you have your reasons."

"Put it this way, I don't think anyone will be following it for a week or two, if ever again," said the gleeman. "And Jindar's a stable area. Firmly grounded, and correctly aligned."

It didn't make a great deal of sense to Meb. But then she didn't quite understand at least three quarters of what Finn said. She wondered whether all traveling gleemen were just as mysterious. But surely that was unlikely? People would have realized they were up to something by now.
Or would they? They never stayed anywhere very long, or even came back that often
, her inner voice wondered beginning to dream a great conspiracy of gleemen . . .

"Snap out of it, dreamy-head," said Finn, "and help the girls pack. It's likely this area will be a hornet's nest of searching guards by tomorrow."

So Meb did her best to help, and went along with them to help carry their belongings to the livery stable. They did not seem too unhappy to be leaving.

Meb asked.

"I'd like to stay and see the mess," said Leilin with a nasty smile. "But he's been very generous with someone's silver. And I can't say that I'll be sorry to see the back of this place. That was our lake."

"And may be again, Leilin," said her sister. "Good luck, child. Take care of Finn."

That made Leilin laugh. "You'll have your work cut out for you."

Somehow Meb hadn't thought of it as her having to take care of Finn. She was, by the standards of her fishing village, a grown woman, only unmarried because . . . well, she didn't look particularly womanly, or pretty. Her darker skin and wiggly auburn hair hadn't helped. And she'd had no kind of dowry at all. But she'd resisted growing up. Resisted being responsible. The idea of being responsible for someone like Finn seemed even more bizarre. Yes, he did strange and unpredictable things. But he seemed so casually capable of taking care of himself. "I'll do my best," she said, doubtfully.

"All we can ever do," said Leilin. "And farewell, Finn. Until next time."

He nodded. "There may be one. You never know."

They went back to the house of the seamstresses, ate and then packed up their belongings, with Finn's gaudy outfit and her dress being carefully folded before being put into a simple, anonymous canvas bag, of the kind that peddlers often used for their wares. Finn had another two of these—much larger ones—but he did not explain what was inside them.

A little later they made their way away from the tucked away grubby slum, and back down to the beautiful straight paved road to the white gate-house of the delicate and elegant city by the lake. They collected their passes . . . as he took them Finn dropped one of the bags, seemingly accidentally. The side ripped open, and a delicately made cage rolled out and opened. The small, brightly colored birds inside the cage seemed so shaken up that they nearly didn't take advantage of the opportunity. Then they, one after the other, fluttered out. None of them went too far in the first few seconds. "My birds! Boy, catch my birds. Help me catch my birds!"