"Thank you," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "I . . . I hope you catch a fish . . . just as often as you need to."
"That's clever," said the dverg. "It makes it mine to use, but not to abuse."
"And mine to fix," said Finn. "Ah well. My work is never done. Come. We need to start practicing our routines, Scrap. And you want to be seen doing them. Remember that!"
So they went back to tossing balls. Meb tried as hard as she could, but she just could not see how he kept them all in the air, let alone caught them behind his back. As for how he made them disappear . . . it had to be a trick. But it looked like magic.
Finn was a hard taskmaster, she'd learned. She had to throw those balls perfectly and exactly in time with his tapping toes. He made it look very, very easy, but Meb was quick-witted enough to realize that in part, it was just the result of endless practice. He had quite a repertoire—juggling, tumbling, even balancing things on a stick on his chin—and she felt fairly useless. She couldn't even do cartwheels, let alone acrobatic somersaults. Still, she applied herself to the juggling with a will. She wanted to be good enough to go on being his 'prentice, for as long as possible. She dropped the balls a lot, while trying. She was aware that the dvergar were watching, surreptitiously. She was also aware that they betrayed themselves with helpless laughter when she failed. They seemed to almost like watching that more. Practical-Meb the inner voice said that the important thing was that they watched, not why they watched. So . . . even as she got better, Meb would fumble a ball every now and again. The practical voice in her head was right, as usual. The watchers loved it.
Meb was not too sure how long they stayed. It was always lamplight, not night or day. And the meals were . . . irregular. Frogs' legs were quite nice, provided she pretended they came off something else—like a very small chicken. Finn spent some time teaching her, and some time . . . just not anywhere around. About his mysterious business. Well, she'd always thought gleemen just traveled around doing tricks, telling stories and moving on. But it would seem that there was more to it. She'd come in and found him muttering over a complicated looking set of charts, once. The part of Meb that was practical and down-to earth said that it was none of her business. The other part wished that staring at writing long enough could make her able to read. Sometimes the squiggles almost seemed to be trying to reform themselves into words for her.
When he disappeared she worked on her juggling. She'd been awake for an hour or two, she guessed, doing so when he came in to the cavern, suddenly, moving as silently as only he could. He startled her into dropping all six balls. She was very proud to be up to six. She hoped that he had noticed.
If he did, he didn't say so. Instead he said: "It's time we were off. The road is calling. There's mischief to be done, trouble to be made."
She nodded. But . . . this was safe. Warm in the teeth of autumn. And . . . and the dvergar had been nice to her! Her face must have showed her feelings. Finn smiled wryly. "Chin up, Scrap. The trick is not to wear out your welcome. It's time we were on the road again. The hue and cry will have died down a bit. Zuamar will be hunting further afield. We need to get out there and stir him up again."
Meb had almost forgotten that she'd sworn terrible vengeance from between the fish racks. Life—her life—had moved on. Grown immeasurably more complicated and odder than even her daydreams had ever made it out to be. She touched the dragon-pendant. It was comforting. "Yes. I suppose we must."
He seemed to understand that too. "There'll be more folk to meet, offend and befriend, Scrap."
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that her name was not "Scrap." It was Meb and she was afraid of all of that. But the inner voice said:
shut up,
so she didn't tell him that she was a girl and really couldn't be his apprentice. Instead she gathered up all the balls.
Vorlian had acted with great circumspection, calling them together only some days later. It was probable that Zuamar had talked to other dragons. It was possible that he'd talked to Vorlian merely as a feint, or a warning. He was one of the old ones and they were as cunning as only a dragon that had survived to that age could be.
"It would seem," he said coolly to the sprite and demon friend, "that you underrated Zuamar. He's been hunting high and low . . . for your dragonish conspirator. Who is he?"
Even the sprite, who normally looked just faintly supercilious, looked confused. "If we had one we would hardly have come to you," said Lyr.
That had the ring of truth and logic to it. Of course anything a demon was involved in made treachery likely, but they needed him. Dragons prepared to work with the lesser . . . other species were rare. Did this mean that another dragon was involved . . . perhaps in a separate plot? Given dragonish nature, you could not discount the possibility.
"Anyway. Zuamar is searching both the land and ocean for your pirates. He's convinced that a dragon was involved. I hope I've sent him off on a false lead. But we need to act with circumspection in Yenfar. It's only a single little human girl-child, and she almost certainly doesn't know what she is capable of, or, if she does, has no idea how to control it. She's hardly a danger. Can we not arrange a quiet kidnaping without bloody mayhem? Humans disappear all the time. They will think that she's run off, probably."
"Her village is deserted. We followed the trail to Tarport," admitted Haborym.
"Carefully," said the sprite. "We have some human agents. Religious ones."
"Tarport," said Lord Rennalinn. "There have been some strange rumors out of there. Some of my bondsmen sailed from the place. But their ship was searched from stem to stern. And the dragon Zuamar himself came and sniffed between the decks, apparently."
Vorlian started. "He knows what is afoot!"
Rennalinn shook his head. "No. Someone set fire to and looted his tax hall."
The very idea shocked Vorlian almost as much as the idea that Zuamar could have found—and killed—the human mage they needed. Of course she would have to be killed. Dragonkind would settle for no less—the old ones like Zuamar still remembered that human mages had abused them and used them in their conflicts. But they planned to kill only after her work was done. But to dare to steal gold—because they would have stolen gold, what else, from a fellow dragon? Tarport would be lucky if it escaped incineration.
"Zuamar is an impediment. We need to remove him," said the centaur—as if a dragon was a mere human or dverg. To Vorlian's surprise the others nodded.
"But a dragon in his own demesne is not easy to deal with," said Rennalinn.
"I disapprove," said Vorlian. "But I believe that he's looking for a dragon called Jakarin that recently lost her hoard. I . . . er, cast suspicion on her. It is possible they may fight. Jakarin is fat bodied and witted, but . . ."
"Zuamar is one of the great old ones," said Haborym. "Not likely to be killed by a conflict with this dragon. But it might distract him."
Vorlian was struck, once again, by just how well informed the fire-being was about dragonkind. They didn't know everything, but they certainly had studied dragons. Vorlian wondered why? Well, perhaps it was natural. Dragons ruled Tasmarin, after all.
"Nonetheless I think we need to act with some caution about that merrow 'treasure' held by the alvar lordling of Yenfar."
"We have secured the services of a very skilled thief and provided him with a simulacrum of the merrow treasure. It will defy even the most expert detection. Prince Gywndar is away too. A hunting trip, I believe," said the fire-being.
Once again they were moving too far and too fast. And knew too much.
A little later, after some further discussion the conspirators went their various ways. Vorlian found a reason to delay and have a private word with Lord Rennalinn. "A word, alv, before you go. It concerns our relationship."
Rennalinn seemed flattered. "Of course, Lord Vorlian. We—as the ruling classes of Tasmarin—must have matters to discuss."
Vorlian smiled. Some of the alvar did delude themselves that rule of Tasmarin was shared. He said nothing however, just waited until the others had left.
"Now, Lord Vorlian," said Rennalinn—putting himself in dire danger by sauntering toward the dragon and his hoard, "what can I do for you?"
"I want to know about the magical compulsion of the other species," said Vorlian, restraining himself.
Rennalinn blinked. Looked faintly guilty. "It is possible, Lord Vorlian. But not to dragons, of course. They cannot be compelled."
"Zuamar said that that was most distinctly not true. Dragons can be compelled, and were. He said that this was how they were forced to act by the human mages before the creation of Tasmarin. And by the First before that."
"Ah. By humans. But not by the First. We alvar are directly descended from them. And human mages are now extinct. Besides," said Rennalinn with a hasty and rather false little laugh, perhaps suddenly grasping that Vorlian's tone was far from friendly, "you'd know straight away if anyone even tried, my Lord."
"And you are sure that this ability was confined to humans?" said Vorlian.
"Absolutely certain. That was why the dragons eliminated them."
"I have to point out that we have good evidence they're not extinct. Or without power."
"Don't worry, Lord Vorlian," said Rennalinn. "The balance of power among all the species is such that human magic works poorly on us. Or the creatures of smokeless flame."
Vorlian found that relatively uncomforting.
* * *
Lyr watched. Communication among her kind was not instantaneous, but, as long as there were growing things around, she could pass word and receive information through the vast delicate chemical net that the sprites controlled. One of the reasons that the sprites disliked this world so much was the endless islands. The sea, of course, had plants too, from the great kelps to the things that floated and could not be seen. But they fell at least in part under the magic of the merrows, with whom the sprites had an old enmity.
She did not like the meeting place the fire-being had insisted on. The cave was above the tree-line. There was little that grew up here beside lichens, and she hated the place as a result. But she understood the demon's reasoning. It made Vorlian so uncomfortable that he could barely think. Because all sprites were one, Lyr knew that this was not the only dragon they'd got to that point, but the others were less able and more difficult to push in this direction. She listened. So, he was suspicious. But at least he had asked the alvar-fool.
It had taken Hrodenynbrys a long time to swim back to the halls of his people. The merrow had time to think. He was, according to most of his kind, too inclined to do that anyway. A merrow's place was to revel in the wild water and the storm, to hunt great fish, whales or giant Kraken, and, naturally, to keep up the traditional pastime of caging the souls of drowned sailors. Hrodenynbrys was not entirely sure that that was worthwhile, or that successful. One couldn't ever get them all. He was fond enough of wild water and the hunt. But . . . it might be that they hunted bigger game, and in a wilder ocean, this time.
Perhaps he shouldn't have let her go. But he had her hair. He smiled at that. Humans really didn't understand the value of hair.
He swam on, to a place where the gap between the cliffs funneled the currents into a tumbling churn of angry, ship-eating surf. That wasn't how merrows saw it, of course. They saw a huge whirlpool sucking vast amounts of bubbles down as an entertainment and opportunity.
Firstly, it made a good wild ride. And secondly, the bubbles could be trapped in the fine meshwork that channeled them upward along into the sea-home. It was dvergar work and amazingly fine and cunning. The water rushed out and the bubbles remained. Hrodenynbrys swam steadily along the snaking seaweed-hung pipes into the vast sunken caldera that was Merrow-home.
Here, far beneath the waves, the light was muted, blue. The impossibly tall fragile-seeming towers swayed slowly. Shoals of fish drifted between them. No merrow would hunt here, nor did they allow other predators to do so. 'Brys allowed himself a moment of joy and pride. Merrow-home made alvar castles look like clumsy, earthy things. Once, long ago, there'd been better relations between alv and merrow, and some had even come here. But 'Brys had other things on his mind now. Hair for a start. Magic for seconds. Both hope and fear.
He swam past the soul cages and into the halls of Margetha. Merrow-kind had always resisted formal hierarchy. It would take a very odd merrow to admit that he was inferior to another. Still: there were times when they needed disputes settled, and the like. What little leadership they had, she provided. The chieftainess Margetha dispensed justice, decision and abuse with a skill that gave her respect from merrow-kind.
"Look at the bit of flotsam that just drifted in," she said from where she lounged on her judging chair of delicate corals—with sponges for comfort. "Hrodenynbrys. I thought a dogfish had eaten you. Pity I was wrong, to be sure."