Dragon's Ring (10 page)

Zuamar snorted a cloud of pungent steam. "Vorlian. That sort of story is well and good for the younger ones. We've done our best to make sure the lesser species believe it. But you are not that stupid and neither am I. We were created impervious to most spells. At best we can be stunned by certain combinations of magic. Otherwise only our own magic works on us . . . except compulsion. How would the First have sent us about their errands otherwise?"

Vorlian was shocked. The First were seldom mentioned. And talk of dragonkind running errands . . . the subject was completely taboo. Many of the younger ones, those born here, would not know of it all. "We don't talk of such things!"

"Forgetting the First is a mistake, Vorlian," said Zuamar. "You can be certain that centaurs and some of the others do not. Here in Tasmarin we are the masters. But we need to remember that it was not always so. Changes are coming. It may not always be this way. We do not want to return to servitude. We need to deal with any that dare to interfere."

Vorlian found himself in much sympathy with that point of view. "I will investigate."

Zuamar hissed between his teeth. They were large, needlelike teeth. "So will I. I gather like minds, Vorlian. If we find those who consort with the lesser races, we must act swiftly and harshly. It will be dragon against dragon again. Are you with me, Vorlian?"

"If it comes to that, yes," said Vorlian with calm assurance. The older dragon should remember something besides the servitude and the First. Who actually knew what they'd been, anyway? Zuamar needed to remember that dragons were masters of many things: war, the elements, and deceit. He served a higher purpose. And he was sure that he was not compelled to do so. "You could check on a dragon called Jakarin. She lost her hoard recently. I had heard a rumor that she was looking for any sources of gold." Vorlian's mind turned briefly to the smaller dragon of the encounter a few days back . . . Fionn. Dismissed him. He was sharp-tongued. Too clever for his own good. But there was something about him that made Vorlian wary about accusing him. It might just get back to him.

Fionn spiraled his way in a slow sinistral curve down towards Yenfar and Tarport again. The rain had set in, in earnest now, blanketing the place in cloud. But Fionn could find any place. That was an aspect of his ability, aided by the fact that he saw deep into energy spectra, and Tarport glowed, even through the rain. Soon he landed on the roof-tree of the inn, and changed once more into the form of Finn the traveling Gleeman. He slipped—almost really slipped, back down the roof and into the attic-room. He hadn't slept, but, well, he was refreshed. Fionn resolved that one day he'd find out why gold affected dragonkind like that. He suspected that it was a catalyst of some sort. They needed it, particularly for molting and breeding.

The scrap of human-kind was asleep now, sheltered and safe within the wall of dragon-tears. Fionn erased their mark as best he could. Magic would leave a trace for the very skilled, of course. It always did. Fionn lit a candle. There was no one to see how he did so, so he did not bother with his normal fakery. It had taken him years to master not reducing the candle to a pool of tallow with that breath.

He touched her cheek, and she stirred. Burrowed down into the bed. She looked fragile and very innocent . . . well, if he left her here, she'd be broken soon enough, and they'd use that innocence. "Up you get, Scrap. It's time we were away."

She sat up. Yawned. "But it is not even light."

"All the better reason to be away, before it is. We have some distance to travel today."

She didn't argue, just got up, and followed him. He liked that in a human. They were inclined to be complicated early in the morning. Far too full of questions. As usual Fionn had carefully scouted a way out . . . which he had to modify a bit. She wasn't able to transform her body. But when all else failed there was always the front door. It was so unlikely that people always assumed you'd taken a harder way out.

The sons of Chiron stood around the sacred pool like statues, perfectly placed and ordered. Not a tail moved, nor nostril flared, as they focussed their will on the pool. The peat-stained water was very dark and very still. That stillness was a rare thing up here where the winds were born. Yet the faintest ripple would destroy the working that they had struggled so to achieve. This was an ancient place, steeped in magics. The future that they sought to explore was always an uncertain country.

There was not a hint of a breeze but the water shivered. Gradually it stilled. Images began to form in the water. Images of chaos and death. And twined through the shifting possibilities, over and over, a black dragon. But one area of water remained clouded. There were hints of reds and yellows. But the colors shifted and moved like oil on water, defying their will, refusing to resolve into a shape. And then briefly, a vista, a vast panorama, looking out across the autumnal hills and across the wild oceans to the purple mountains . . . two humans. One short, one tall, in grey cloaks with their backs to the centaurs. And the black dragon was there supporting the scene on his outspread wings . . .  The vision flickered rapidly to a snow-capped mountain, a stone 'beehive,' and, as it did that, the patch of water it had appeared in vanished in a sharp curl of steam. Like tossing a stone into the pool that had created ripples, spreading and distorting.

The ripples reached the edge and bounced back. And in the fading last visionary moments they saw Actaeon's face. The price of his vanity was a high one, they knew. The emptiness, so far from the high plateaux and endless song of wind and grasses, must be hard to bear.

The street was dark and still. The soft rain fell, and the cloud blanketed any hint of pre-dawn that might be lurking. Since the gleeman had snuffed the candle and left it in the hall, Meb had followed him more by sound and feel than anything else. She was terrified that she'd lose him. So terrified she'd taken a hold of his cloak-edge. She was sure that no real 'prentice boy would have done that. They were all big and brave and generally bad. But it was very comforting, and her new master had not complained. She was still very much in frightened awe of him. She could hardly believe what they'd done the night before . . . .

"The gates will still be locked," she pointed out. But he would know that.

"True," he replied cheerfully. "But we have work to do."

"What? I mean . . . not burning anything down is it?" she asked suddenly wary.

That amused him, by the snort of laughter. "Perhaps later. Right now we turn our cloaks around and visit a cart-shed. How are you with carts, Scrap?"

It seemed she had a new name. Well, "Meb" was a sure give-away of her sex. "I don't know how to drive a cart," admitted Meb. Being a cart-driver was a high ambition for a boy from a fishing village. For a girl like her it was just not to be thought of.

"It's fine," said her new master. "You won't be driving. You'll be jumping down and picking up the buckets."

"Buckets?"

"A town this size needs to dispose of its nightsoil somehow, Scrap," he explained. "Or it would have poisoned itself even more completely by now. Now, you just stay here until I call you. This is not the kind of trick you are ready to learn just yet."

So Meb found herself standing alone under a dripping eave. After a while she began to wonder if he'd gone off and left her there. She couldn't blame him, and whatever he was going to do next would be terrifying, but being deserted here was just as terrifying.

She didn't even hear him come back. He could move very silently. "This way. Here, take hold of my cloak again."

He led her on, through a creaking gate and to a chink of light. It proved to be coming from a crack in the door of a barn. It must have been a very strong light, Meb realized, as it had to fight its way past the stench that also came out of the crack. Tarport-town stank. This made that reek seem like perfume. The jester pulled the door open to reveal an elderly two-wheeled cart, with high sides. "Nightsoil cart," said the jester unnecessarily.

Meb had never met one before. But the cart could be identified by its smell. "Do . . . do we have to travel inside that?"

"Fortunately not! Help me hitch the donkey up. Then there is a smock over there next to the wall. Change into that. Save your kit."

Donkeys were unpleasant, uncooperative, and frightening too, Meb discovered. Well, they were to her. The donkey seemed to be afraid of her master, if not of her. Still, at least Finn knew what they were supposed to be doing. And he chased her off to change while he adjusted the harness. She had been wondering how she was going to do that. The answer was: very quickly, behind the cart. "Come hold the donkey's head while I change," he said, when she'd barely done. So she did. She was allowed to sit on the seat next to him, as the cart trundled out of the yard. There was just enough light to see now. It made her feel very grand indeed sitting on the seat of a cart, even a noisome one like this. But as she soon discovered that she didn't get to sit for long. The donkey knew its route, and Meb was soon leaping down to pick up the buckets of filth and tip them over the high sides into the tar-lined bin of the cart. She soon became aware that gutting fish was not the worst job on earth after all.

They even went past the remains of Lord Zuamar's tax hall. The square was over-run with soldiers. The Lord Zuamar's officials were grubbing around the ashes and masonry like frantic ants. "Where do you think you're going?" demanded a captain as the donkey plodded into the square, ignoring his soldiery as only a donkey can.

"Here to collect the nightsoil, general," said Finn, bobbing his head. " 'tis my job." He sounded like a half-wit, suddenly.

The officer rolled his eyes . . . and held his nose. "So I can smell. Go away."

"I can't do that. 'Tis my job. Junior clerk Mr. Panjar will have my guts for garters," said Finn, stubbornly edging the donkey forward.

"Go away before I send your guts back to him without the rest of you," said the officer.

"You'll give me a chitty to say I was here?" said Finn, looking helplessly at him. "I can't go otherwise. 'Tis my job, see."

"Oh lord. Yes." The man scrawled on a piece of paper and held it out. Finn prodded Meb in the ribs. She was nearly frozen with terror. "Fetch it, boy."

So she did.

"Now get yourself and your donkey and the cart out of here!" said the officer.

They did, although the donkey did not like a change in the route at all.

They were soon back on its familiar route, and Meb was heaving buckets. Finn had relieved her of the note. He must be able to read and write, Meb realized, to her surprise. He had, it would seem, a quill and ink with him in that pouch.

They worked on. The cart plainly only worked the better part of town, and the donkey's cart was soon trundling along, near brim-full, to the city gate.

The guards were checking every vehicle and person out of the city. It was apparent they weren't too sure just what they were searching for. But they were turning a fair number of ordinary people back.

"What have you got there?" asked the guard.

Finn stood up and scooped a bucket full. "All the treasure we looted from the tax hall," he said, waving it under the guard's nose. "Do you want some?"

"None of your lip or I'll run you in," said the guard.

Finn was not impressed. "You bugger off or I'll give you this lot up your snout." He held out the piece of paper. "Here. From Captain Flesch. We've got a permission to go and dump our load. Unless you want to search it. Stick your spears through it in case we've got thieves on the cart. Maybe have a feel for the gold in the bottom, eh?

The guard peered at the bit of paper. "Get along with you. And don't give me any more trouble," he said with an attempt to show that he was really in control of the situation.

So they got. Meb could scarcely believe it, as the donkey plodded slowly out of the gates and onto the main pike next to the canal. The water still looked filthy. But she itched to jump into it and wash and wash. The donkey knew where it was going and soon they branched off the pike road and onto a track to a sandy field near the sea. There were two men there with wooden shovels, resting next to a tree. They got up when they saw the cart. "You took your time," said the taller one. "Thought you'd never get here. We'll have that silver now, jester."

Finn jumped down. So did Meb, with relief. She'd got used to the smell, just not the idea. Finn reached up and tossed a bundle from the seat to her. "Off you go to the sea, Scrap. Get yourself washed off. You stink."

It was true that lofting the buckets, she'd had the worse job. And even seawater looked good after that. She was still scared of it, but . . . ankle deep should be safe enough. And it let her change in a little privacy. So she ran over the low dune and onto the beach. Finn seemed on friendly enough terms with the men.

She pulled the smock off and washed, rubbing her hands and forearms with the coarse sand, keeping a weather eye out for Finn, or anyone else. She had her new breeches and tunic-top on, and was sitting pulling the boots on before he finally appeared.