Dog and Dragon

by Dave Freer

  * * *

  Prince Medraut had dressed himself hastily, not waiting for his manservant to return from calling Cardun. There were few others he could trust in this place, but the chatelaine would lose her place and probably her life if he lost his position here.

  The woman arrived, as he was attempting to dress his hair. “Pellas told me the story,” she said, taking over. “I think it is a trick, Medraut.” In public of course she gave him the honorifics he was due. In private . . . she was still his aunt. “One can’t be sure, yet, of course. But this is similar to the way Aberinn got rid of Regent Degen. The false feint and the death thrust, if you like.”

  “It’s hard to see just what sort of death thrust a young woman could manage, Aunt. And the sea-window is restored.”

  “There could be several ways a competent practitioner could arrange that,” said Cardun, who was far better at the theory of magic, even if her practice was feeble, for one of the house of Lyon. “The stones have the memory. Aberinn could set it up very easily. So could several others, but with the spells set to suppress magework within the castle, Aberinn is your principal suspect. And you know as well as I do that it is really his voice that stands behind the silence of lords. He is the reason the nobles’ houses do not call for you to become the king.”

  Medraut sighed. His aunt was driven by that ambition. It had its attractions, but being the regent was quite adequate in this dying, riven kingdom. He just wanted to stay that, because the alternative was to lose his head to a successor regent. “I was there. If it was trickery, Cardun, she must be the greatest actress in the world. She might be this Defender, and in some ways that might a relief. And now, I’d better go. Some fool will have called Aberinn, and I’d rather be there when they meet.”

  * * *

  Few guards were courageous enough to go and disturb the mage in his tower, no matter what had happened. And thus the guard sought his peculiar out, telling her the story.

  Vivien was just as afraid of Mage Aberinn. And she had even more reason to be afraid, for with Aberinn, that which she knew,was worse than the guards’ imaginings. Part of her hoped, though, that what the man-at-arms said was true.

  She went to the tower. Knocked on the heavy door.

  It opened by itself. He liked those sorts of small displays of power. He was sitting at his workbench . . . but he had been waiting, she was sure. “So Prince Medraut is dead. And they sent you to tell me. There are no secrets in Dun Tagoll,” he said, smiling his humorless smile.

  “No. Prince Medraut is alive. The Defender has come! The first part of the prophecy . . .”

  “What?” He stood up, disturbing the model he had been at work on. “The royal chamber . . .”

  “The sea-window is back. And a young woman calling herself Anghared has saved Prince Medraut.”

  “Anghared! Who would dare use a name like that? Don’t tell me—our all too clever manipulative regent. The commons will assume that the royal names are worn by the royal house,” he walked to the door, shooing her out in front of him, like a hen. “What has happened to her?”

  “They’ve taken her to the old queen’s withdrawing room. They fetch her food and drink. She said she was hungry.”

  “I’d better see this convenient miracle,” said the mage. “A neat ploy by Medraut. I wonder if she has any real skills? You are to watch and befriend her.”

  “But the queen’s window . . .” protested Vivien.

  “A trick that could easily enough be done . . . once. She could even merely spring the spell, without any skill herself.”

  * * *

  There was a sound from the doorway and the servitor straightened up, bowed, as Prince Medraut entered with another man in once-white robes and a beard that he should have washed after eating egg, and of course the obligatory couple of guards. Meb sipped the wine. If this was good wine . . . she’d had worse in her travels with Finn. But not much worse.

  More servants came in, carrying platters. It did look something of a feast.

  Medraut bowed his head politely. “Ah, Lady Anghared. May I introduce myself more formally. I am Prince Medraut ap Corrin, Earl of Telas, and Prince Regent of Greater Lyonesse. And this is our court magician, Aberinn. I trust you are enjoying your wine?”

  Meb had always been a poor hand at lying. So she stuck to a nod and a smile.

  “Allow me to cut you a piece of this bird,” he said, slicing into what appeared to be a plump roasted pheasant and placing it on the trencher that another servant had set before her. Meb knew it was a high honor to be served with choice portions cut by the lord of the hall, with his own dagger. And besides she wasn’t sure she still had one to eat with. Mostly a rough hand-carved wooden spoon would have done for the pottage of most inns and fingers and a knife for the meat they might have grilled on the way. Here . . . there were platters and silver salts.

  They were watching her rather carefully. She picked up the slice of breast and ate . . .

  It wasn’t pheasant. It wasn’t even bird. It was bread. And stale, at that. Fortunately, she eaten a fair amount of that in her time. The pickings as a gleeman’s apprentice had often been slim, but they were still better than they’d been growing up in Cliff Cove. There was always enough fish, of course. But bread was quite a luxury at times, and a girl-child often got the stale crusts. She washed it down with some wine.

  The magician and prince relaxed visibly.

  “If we might ask, lady, where did you come from?” said the magician.

  There seemed no harm in telling him. “A place called Tasmarin.”

  They looked blank at the name.

  “Ah. A far-off realm, no doubt?” said the prince.

  Meb was tired. The stale bread was better than nothing, as was the sour wine. But her stomach, and temper, were set up for more. “How would I know? I don’t even really know where I am now.”

  “You are in the Kingdom of Lyonesse, in the great fortress of Dun Tagoll, the crowning-place of the Kings of the West,” intoned the magician as if reciting a poem.

  “Never heard of it, I am afraid,” said Meb with a yawn.

  “Er. Perhaps more wine. Some of these little cakes?” asked Prince Medraut, into the awkward silence.

  She had no doubt, now, that those too would turn into stale bread. “No, thank you,” she said curtly. “Why are you doing all this?”

  The two looked at each other. “Because it was foretold that the return of the sea-window would come with the guardian against the sons of the Dragon,” said Prince Medraut.

  Meb decided not to tell them that Tasmarin was a place ruled by dragons, or just how she felt about a specific dragon. “What do you mean ‘the return of the sea-window’?”

  The magician shrugged. “There has not been a window in the antechamber since Queen Gwenhwyfach leapt from it with her baby son. She was the greatest of the summonsers, a powerful mage and much loved. The king was heartbroken, and had the window walled up. The masons closed it off, and then, when that was not enough for the king, they knocked out part of the wall, tore out the lintel and the sill, and built it again so there was no trace of the window.”

  “Oh.” It seemed a very inadequate response. But Meb couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she sipped her wine, and thought about it instead. She didn’t want to tell them that their prophecy was wildly inaccurate and the window, she now realized, had been something she needed to escape through, and that the magic of the dvergar artifact on her neck obviously still amplified her own magical skills, even here, far from Tasmarin. She didn’t want it! A hand went to her throat. And then Finn’s words about the dragon necklace with its wood-opal eyes came back to her. It wouldn’t stay lost, not even if she buried it or threw it into the sea. And would it be better used by the likes of either of these two men? She already trusted neither.

  Someone knocked on the door. It was a warrior, in a dripping cloak. “Prince Medraut. The enemy have been sighted from Dun Argol. They look a great host, burning and plunder
ing as they come.”

  The prince tugged his hair. Sighed. “M’lady. We will talk further, later. I must consult with my war leaders and wizards. The women will come to escort you to your chamber. You have not come at a time of peace, I am afraid.”

  It looked more like she’d come at a time of murder, war and conspiracy. She sipped the wine. Looked at the “feast” she had largely ignored. Out of the corner of her eye she realized the far items looked like hunks of bread. So she turned her head. Yes . . . on the periphery of vision it was all various shaped lumps of coarse bread. She had to wonder why, and about the wine.

  Was this what they had? Was it just for her? She hoped it was the latter, if they were facing war and probably siege. So . . . this was where she’d come from as a baby, was it?

  It made Cliff Cove seem quite attractive.

  A stiff-looking matron came in, her washed-out blonde hair done up in tight coiled braids and disapproval written on every line of her plump face. She had plenty to write the disapproval onto, but the application of powder and paint plastered over some of it. She looked Meb up and down as if examining a side of stockfish from a not-very-reputable dealer. “You are the Lady Anghared?” she said in a chilly voice. “Lady” was definitely questionable. “I am the Lady Cardun, the Chatelaine of Dun Tagoll. I was told that you would require a bedchamber and water and suitable attire.”

  Given the matron’s attitude, it was clear she felt Meb should be sleeping in the attic on a straw pallet with three others and a lot more fleas, and given a kitchen trull’s castoffs. Meb had already begun to think she might be better off leaving, even via the window that had once been blocked off, no matter the sharp rocks below. Maybe her face showed it, because one of the two women in the chatelaine’s wake, the one with the spare, lined face smiled sympathetically at her, and said in a quiet, much kinder voice. “Oh, Lady Cardun, she looks about to fall over. And so young too. Come, child. We’ll see you safely bestowed.”

  Obediently Meb stood up. Tears pricked at her eyes. She hadn’t had much female sympathy, or company, since the raiders had destroyed her home. And even there . . . she’d been an outsider. “Thank you,” she said gruffly. “I am very tired. It’s been a long and awful day.”

  “With Prince Medraut and Mage Aberinn at the end of it,” said the sympathetic one.

  Chapter 3

  A chemical brine steamed and frothed as it gushed through the new tear in the black road that crossed the shattered ash lands. Something hissed up from a fissure, taking shape into one of the elemental creatures of the smokeless fire. Díleas backed away, barking. So did the travelers. “Back on the carts, men, it’s one of the big Beng!”

  Fionn had spotted what he had been hoping for, deep down. This dolerite dyke had blocked it, and now the creatures of smokeless flame had cracked that. The bells that were ringing from the carts helped to hide the sound he made, as he sat down next to Díleas and scraped rock-sign onto the stone.

  The fire-demon was less easily fooled than the travelers. “What does one of your kind want here in our demesnes?”

  “Yours? I thought you liked places of ash and smoke and flame,” said Fionn mockingly, answering in the creature’s own language. “Not such a place as this is about to become. I am one of the advance surveyors.”

  “Surveyors?” hissed the creature.

  “Yes, that is what they call those who make accurate measurements and determine the boundaries. Those are busy changing,” said Fionn, with exaggerated patience, as if explaining to a simpleton.

  “We changed them, in order to stop this endless incursion into our lands!”

  “You did, did you?” mocked Fionn. “I was of the impression you liked incursions. Devoured their essences or fed them to your pets.”

  “These have protections. We seldom get one. So we have broken their road.”

  “And that has broken your land. You should have guessed that when you got the brine-boil instead of the lava,” said Fionn, with all the confidence in the world.

  “We frequently have fumaroles,” said the creature of smokeless flame.

  “Do they usually get cooler?” asked Fionn, his voice even. He had redirected sufficient heat downward for that to start to happen. All that heat was cracking the dome far below now. When there had been tiny fissures . . . the water had boiled and picked up minerals on the way up. But, if those fissures grew, more water would flow from the strata below. Water that had been trapped down there for millennia, under increasing pressure. A lot of water. Fionn chuckled to himself. The fire creatures would hate it, but it might help their ashpit world regenerate. They were running out of coal measures, and once, after all, it must have been wet and warm here to grow the forests to make the coal. It would ease the balance of forces here. So good to achieve two things at once. And seeing the look of startlement on the creature of smokeless flame’s features—you couldn’t really say “face”—was a joy.

  Ah, he’d forgotten the pleasure of being the trickster in the last little while. The wider worlds needed him. Aside from rebalance, there was the pure delight in overturning the expected and changing the order of things.

  The creature of smokeless flame left hastily, with no further words, not even of farewell, or of threat. No doubt it had gone to consult with its superiors. They had a habit of doing that, whenever confronted with something different. They were so hierarchical they struggled with independent thought. It was their weakness. Which was just as well, really. They needed some weak points.

  Fionn watched its departure with some satisfaction. And went on talking. He did the fire-creature’s speech part too, while he backed up to the cart, and felt for the catch to their hideaway with his foot. The travelers would be hiding their heads from illusions, most likely. And anyone peering out could see his head and hands. He was just as dexterous with his feet as with his hands, and he’d a lot of experience with hide-aways. He deserved a fee for this, besides the sheer pleasure of doing it.

  In a way, he thought, he had taught his Scrap of humanity, and she in turn had taught him. He told her that there were many ways of solving a problem. She’d showed him that his ideas were still quite constrained to maintaining the status quo. His purpose was retaining the balance, but it didn’t have to be same balance—just so long as it was balanced.

  A few moments later he was back at the edge of the flowing, fuming stream through the blue-black stone of the causeway. It was running stronger and fuller now, and definitely not as hot. He put his hand on Díleas’s head. “Wait. It will get cooler.”

  So what was it about him, and her, that would have unbalanced Tasmarin, that meant she had had to go back to where she came from?

  It didn’t make much sense to the planomancer.

  There was a need for balance, but why the two of them? In terms of energy all things were different, but not that different that they could not be balanced out.

  The traveler Arvan emerged from the cart. Fionn noticed he had his bow again, arrow on the string. “What were you talking to the Beng about, stranger?”

  Fionn had spoken in the tongue of the creature of smokeless flame. There was no need of course. They were nearly as adept linguists as he was, but it unsettled them to have someone address them in their own tongue. He wondered how the Scrap was coping with a language that would be strange to her . . . only that dvergar device might just help. She’d learned to read fast enough with its help. He grinned at the traveler, cheered by that thought, and pleased with his bit of work here. Force-lines were realigning already. “I just ruined his day. What did you want me to say to him?”

  “Nothing. They’re tricky, those ones. You know his language, though.” That was outright suspicion.

  Fionn shrugged. “Rather a case of he knows mine. They have the gift of tongues, those ones. All the better to lie to you with. So I told him a truth, and made him very unhappy.”

  “And what was that? You have a spell against them?”

  “I wish. But they have a dislik
e for water. The merrows could sell you a few charms, if you had goods they were interested in. I’ve a protection I bought from them for a song and some entertainment. The Beng tried me, and the merrow spell has brought a counter to the demon. I pointed out to the creature that water is wet. Wet, and cooling down, and spreading out. It didn’t like that and has probably gone to consult with its master. We’d best be away before the master comes here too. They can put powerful compulsions on people, and the bigger they are, the stronger they are. We’ll have to contrive a bridge of some kind, but we’ll be able to cross it. The dog and I can swim it if need be. By now it’ll be like a very hot bath.”

  Díleas growled and shook himself. Looked suspiciously at the water.

  “He doesn’t like baths,” said Fionn, grinning.

  The traveler burst out laughing. “Same as most dogs. Usually when the Beng find us here, they torment us. Send their creatures to attack us. We’ve got the bells and other protections on the carts, but the best we can do is to stay in them and keep moving until we get out of the local lordling’s territory. Never seen anyone chase one off before.”

  “I wish I could chase them off. It was just the merrow spell doing it, and a lucky happenstance. But the chances are next time I won’t be near a lot of hidden water, and the merrow spells need water. You don’t happen to have a plank about those carts of yours? And maybe a rope? I could get you a start on a way across the water. It’s cooling, but I wouldn’t swim it for a while.”

  “Plank?” asked one of the other travelers, curiously.

  “Yes,” said Fionn, pointing. “There is a rock there, see. I could put the plank out to it, and then another—or maybe a long jump and I’ll be over. I can take a rope over and tie it off for you. There is some rock on the other side you might make something of a bridge with. Or you could take a cart apart and make one. But you probably don’t want to hang about here too long. The Beng will come back.”