Dragon's Ring (32 page)

"You're still on about balance, Fionn. Well, can we redress that balance? We want the Angmarad. We should never have let them take it in the first place."

"We should never have even made it in the first place," growled Hrodenynbrys.

"Well, yes," said Finn. "But there is the matter of a hammer that you agreed on as price for it. I'd have been more trusting, but for him and his soul-net. So I thought it would be best if we exchanged the two, instead of me having to come asking, later."

Margetha scowled. "If I'd known what was going on, it would never have happened. 'Brys did as I told him. It was a mistake. We made our bargain, and we'll stand by it, even if we're reluctant, because the dvergar have dealt fairly enough with us, and we rely on them for much."

"A bargain is a bargain. When I said I'd get it for you, you agreed to the price," said Finn, his tone mild, but with a hint of steel behind it.

"That was near on ten years back," Margetha said. "We were thinking it was all just talk by now. But we'll hold by it."

"These things take time. There are portents and signs. And of course getting around to it," said Finn. "But we're here now. The Scrap has the Angmarad for you."

"And we have the hammer for you," said Margetha, picking up a silvery oblong box from next to her seat. "It needs to stay in the box to stay away from the moist air down here."

Finn took it. Cracked the seal around the edge. Took out a plain, unornamented hammer, with an odd-shaped head. It was made of a silvery-blue metal, but seemed quite un-special looking in any other respect. "And to stop curious merrows from playing about the hammer of artifice. It's an old thing. Been around since not long after the First. It doesn't rust."

"We did wonder what it could do," admitted Margetha. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Ah, now that's for me to know and you to find out," said Finn.

"It's a singly annoying fellow that you are," said Margetha irritably.

"It'd be likely that he'll give it back to the dvergar," said Hrodenynbrys.

"Then why would he not just say so?"

Hrodenynbrys shrugged. "It's that he likes being thought a rogue."

"And you never know. I might be one," said Finn. "Now I suppose we can be leaving."

Margetha cleared her throat. "There
is
the matter of returning the Angmarad."

"Of course," said Finn, airily. "Silly me. Scrap."

Meb reached for the twist of bladder-wrack on her head.

Margetha held up a hand. "It would probably be better if you just took it to the water for me, child. The temptation to hold onto it otherwise might be too much. Come, there is access to the open water from the antechamber."

So they went together. The transparent walls showed a view onto a seascape of delicate corals and fish feeding in bright twists of color and silver.

"If you reach under that rim," said the merrow-woman, pointing, "your hands will be out in the open water. Please, will you put it there." There was no jest in her voice now. It was a genuine plea, humble and faintly desperate. Meb looked at Finn. He made no sign at all. Well, thought Meb, she could live without a piece of old seaweed around her head. She'd only put it on—and kept it there—because he told her to. So she took it off her head and—even though it was going to mean getting wetter—knelt down and pushed the Angmarad through into the water outside. She could see the trailing fronds of the beer-brown seaweed swelling. Looking as if they were almost alive again. The coronet had a strange shivering feeling in her hands, almost like a live fish.

"Will you let it go for us, mage?"

Mage? They thought she was like Finn because she was his apprentice. Let it go? But it would just drift away. But if that was what they wanted . . .

So she did. And it did drift away. Although it seemed to be growing and spreading as it did, and there were shoals of fish darting through it.

Meb stood up again, aware that Hrodenynbrys was suddenly exhaling. And so was Finn. "It is back where it belongs. Thank you," said Margetha. "The people of land beneath the waves are forever in your debt. Call on us at need." She looked at Hrodenynbrys. "I would give you the gift of making you safe from drowning, but that is your birthright anyway. He owes you for the hair and the garment."

"Ach," said the merrow, "it'd be a small price to pay. I'll have it ready for your wedding, belike. And I wasn't to know what the future held."

Meb didn't feel she could say "Just what is going on?" but she wanted to.

"There'll be feasting, dancing, music, and probably a fair amount of fighting and wild lovemaking to follow this," said Hrodenynbrys cheerfully. "I'll be playing my pibgryn."

"Some other time," said Finn. "This is a party for merrows, this time, I think, besides, I have to move. Strange things are afoot, and great powers and magic wait not on partying."

"They should," said Margetha. "But we'll see you safe to your boat and safe over the rim-wall."

So they were escorted back to the bubble they'd come down in. Meb got to ask about the soul-nets finally. Hrodenynbrys blinked. "Because it's our duty, see. Otherwise the sea would be too haunted to swim in or sail on."

"Why?"

"Well, you have the spirits of the dead that are linked to the stuff of the body sometimes," said Hrodenynbrys seriously. "Hair's best, but the whole body is linked . . . that's why you have graveyards being haunted. Only, as there no graveyards down here for sailors lost at sea—and the bodies break up, get eaten, rot and scatter, you end up with the souls following the water they died in. Some are right nasty about it. So we gather them in, and give them a place to rest with suitable respect."

"Oh." Meb swallowed. It was sometimes easier to think the worst of people than the truth revealed.

Meb and Finn got onto the pole and held onto the handle for it to be flipped upright, ready for the long slow ascent. Once they were sealed into the privacy of it Meb felt she could finally ask: "Just what was I doing? And did I do it right?"

Finn laughed so much she thought he might fall off the pole. When he eventually stopped he patted her on the back. "You did fine. And they did what I had been leaning on them to do. It was a big temptation, that piece of old seaweed. It was more powerful than most pieces of seaweed, but the merrows and the sea will be better off for it being let loose again. At least half the power and life of the sea was bound into it. You gave it up, willingly, freely. No chieftainess has been able to, before. Margetha wouldn't, if she'd touched it."

"Oh. Why me?"

"Someone had to do it," said Finn. "And you were quite used to the smell of seaweed."

She got the feeling that that wasn't the entire answer, but it appeared that was all the answer she was going to get. So she looked at the fish instead of talking.

The pup scrabbled from the arms of Hrolf and leapt into the bubble and bounced up on her, trying to lick her face and bark and wag his entire tail end, let alone his tail.

Mikka leaned over the gunwale. "Next time, think before you do these things. He's been crying fit to drive us all overboard. And we had to fish him out the drink with a dip-net, when I let go of him for the first time."

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.

"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.