The inn extended a warm welcome to those who had silver. And Fionn was, here, making no pretense that he did not have that. It wasn't gold, so it was easier to part with. Yes, enough silver would buy gold. But it wasn't quite the same as handing out gold.
He hadn't been joking when he said that the inn was in an auspicious place, although there were many who might have been a little puzzled by what he meant, including the innkeeper. They were less aware of the great dyke of ironstone that ran behind it to the sea, that drew lightning and even lodestones. It was a place, Fionn knew, that played hob with many forms of divination and augury, where the forces of nature put out signs which could be confused with powerful magic. He would put what protections he could around her, but the Scrap was radiating magical force in such a way as to make her too easy to trace. Her brush with the Angmarad had left her even more charged with potential. He was going to have to explain this to her sometime. And possibly explain who was hunting her, and why. But first, tonight hopefully, Fionn needed some time with his gold.
They ate—the innkeeper soothed about having a scruffy young dog called Díleas in his inn, watching them at table, by the passing of some silver. After the innkeeper's pretty young daughter had served a good meal of rabbit and pearl onions cooked in cider, with a rhubarb tart with egg custard for afters, Fionn pushed his chair back. "Baths and bed, Scrap. We'll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow."
* * *
Washing all over in hot water was something that hadn't come Meb's way much before. Not that they hadn't washed in the village at least every year . . . but all that water, hot, all to herself? The problem, the innkeeper's daughter assured her, was cold water. There was a hot spring—one of many, just up the slope from the inn. Hot water was piped from there.
Díleas regarded it with extreme suspicion too—as well he might, because Meb decided that if she was going to wash he could be washed too. She discovered that it was a wonderful, relaxing luxury.
He did not.
Sleep, warm, dry and comfortable with Díleas looking like a black and white fluff-ball with sharp-pointed ears next to her, was like a deep well that swallowed her down into its stillness. Somewhere in its depths she dreamed of dragons.
Fionn had no time for dreaming. Instead he'd slipped away up the hill across frost-hard fields to change into his true form and launch across the ironstone. Here the warmth that the dark rock had absorbed during the day lent lift to his wings as he beat his way upward toward the sliver of moon sailing in the dark sky. He took the hammer with him. Tonight was no time for the conclave. Instead he headed to his gold-store and lay for as long as he felt he could afford to, before launching down toward Yenfar. Things were considerably simpler without a human in tow. He worried about her, naturally. He'd taken what precautions he could, and laid protections about her. And even on the dog. He was beginning to wonder if it would be worth getting her to raise a horse from a foal . . . but there probably wouldn't be the time, let alone a place.
He'd become fond of Díleas, he had to admit. The young animal's trust was disarming. And dogs were peculiarly sensitive to creatures of energy. He'd serve as a warning for the creatures of smokeless flame. The pup had of course been shaped by her and that dratted dvergar device, becoming what she wanted him to be—yet remaining himself. She had good material to work on. Sheepdogs were known to be smart.
A little later, refreshed, he set off for Yenfar, heading for a stream from which a dverg artificer had just taken a fish. Breshy-Dvalinn was so absorbed in it that he did not notice a dragon. Fionn decided he'd better have words with Motsognir about that, so they'd at least send a minder out with him. The tweak her magical interference had made in the place was a minor one. Adjusting the water energies of it—he could no more pass it by than he could do without gold—took a few moments. It was fortunate that many things simply re-aligned themselves, or it would take him months to cover a hundred yards, he thought.
He waited until the black-haired dverg had his salmon safe in the coracle before he called out. The dverg-artificer was undoubtably a genius with metalwork but he was also quite simple-minded in other respects. It sometimes seemed to be like that with the greatest. He could get very upset if he lost his fish. Upset enough to refuse to help, even if it was in his best interest. "A splendid fish," said Finn, as the dverg admired it.
"You nearly made me drop it!" he said fiercely. "Oh. It's you again. What do you want this time? How is the human-girl?"
"I've come to return some property," said Fionn. "And she's still pretending to be a boy. Quite successfully, thanks to you. I wasn't really prepared for some of the side-effects of such a powerful piece of magery, though."
"It was a good piece of work, wasn't it," Breshy said, pleased. "And she's given me great pleasure with the gift of the fish. So what did you steal that you're bringing back to us this time? We did an inventory after you left. Didn't notice anything gone."
Fionn smiled. "A hammer. I didn't personally relieve the dvergar of it."
The dverg exhaled slowly, his breath whistling between his teeth as he nodded. Then he said: "Well, you'd better come and see Motsognir. I'll take you down. It was his before it passed into my use. We've made others, you know."
"I thought as much," said Fionn as they slipped under the lip.
"It is still nice to have it back. The merrow were good custodians, though. We ended up doing a lot of business with them."
"A situation they'd prefer to see continue. They weren't too happy to give it up, but they needed the Angmarad."
"Ah. They have that back?" They walked on, down tunnels that Fionn had not even known existed. He was able to sense tunnels from above . . . but these must be very deep. They were warm enough. And with dvergar, you never knew quite what they hid. They were clever enough and understood enough to hide even from him.
Fionn shook his head. "They wisely let it go. It has returned to being part of the primal magic of the oceans. Theirs to draw on, but not to try to constrain."
"No wonder the alvar are spitting mad," said the dvergar.
"My heart pumps soggy curds for them," said Fionn as they reached a step and door, and he helped the dverg pull his fish up and through.
"Which heart? You have several," asked the dverg.
"You know too much," said Fionn with a wry grin.
"Yes. We do. Only the centaurs know more. The sea will be in their debt for returning its power."
"Indeed. But they didn't. The little human did," said Fionn, slyly. "So if there is a debt, that's where it lies."
"Your doing, Fionn? Clever," said his guide, as they came to huge chamber where many of the dvergar were happily at work—including their king.
"I have my moments. Ah, Motsognir."
The dvergar king looked up at him from the anvil. "And now?"
"Just this," said Fionn, producing the blueish silver hammer. It generated a suitable number of amazed comments and exclamations as he handed it to the dvergar king.
Motsognir held it. Felt its weight. Stood up and hefted it at the anvil—which broke in two. "To make sometimes you have to break," he said wryly. "It was never the easiest of tools, this one. But much thanks, Fionn. And to what do we owe its return? And what do we owe for its return?"
"The people beneath the waves have the Angmarad returned to the waters. It was not right that you should no longer have your treasure back."
"We've made several more, you know," said Motsognir, echoing his son's words.
"So I've just been told. But this is an old one."
Motsognir smiled. "Dragon logic. You like old things. We like to make things. We'll melt old things down to make new and better. Old things have worth only if the artifice of making them has been lost. We still know all of those arts. Still, it's a very rare alloy, and we appreciate the gesture. So what can we do for you?"
"There is the matter of the dragon treasure," said Fionn.
He was prepared to meet resistance. He was prepared to exercise his persuasiveness. The dvergar were intrinsically honorable, though . . . they'd agree in the end.
He wasn't prepared for the smirks and snickers that gave way to outright laughter.
"All right. What's the joke?" he asked, smiling back. There was no point in doing otherwise. Getting upset with dvergar was an exercise in futility.
Motsognir wiped his eyes. "What was the treasure of the dragons, Fionn?"
"A dragon. Made of gold."
"Very precise and lifelike it was," said Motsognir. "Who made it, with you dragons not being known for artifice?"
"The dvergar . . ." Fionn looked suspiciously at him. "Are you saying it was another of your tricks? You got every dragon in whole of the new Tasmarin to give gold and a small part of their magic to it. Even me."
"Their virtue went to the dragon statuette? The thing was not very large. Dragons hate giving away gold. You were one of the more generous, as I recall. A half-ducat."
"I've got rather a lot of those," Fionn admitted. "But I didn't want to draw attention to that fact. So I kept it small."
"It was all melted down, and blended together. Some of the gold went into stabilizing the plane. I believe you also had something to do with that," Motsognir said pointedly.
Fionn shrugged. "It's what I do. And seeing as I was stuck here, at first I thought it might be a good idea. I've changed my mind."
"So have we. But there was a very little gold left over. Enough for a hollow statuette."
"We all saw it."
"There was no virtue, no magic in the statuette."
"There was a great deal of magical power in it!" Fionn was starting to get a little irritated now. He remembered it perfectly, of course. He remembered everything.
"Oh yes. But the statuette was just a lost-wax casting. For pretty. We put no dvergar magic into it. The magic was in the gold itself, not the object."
Fionn blinked. He'd never fully understood dvergar magic, but it was in making of things, not just in the nature of the material. The Angmarad . . . both the raw stuff and the structure of it, had been full of ocean magic. But the dvergar could take plain iron ore, and in their making, make it powerful. "So just what have you done with it?" he asked suspiciously as they watched and waited, with little twinkles showing in those dvergar eyes. They were enjoying every moment of this. And he'd hardly ever played any practical jokes on them!
"We gave it to you. Or at least we gave it to her. The little human mage you had in your care. It seemed right that humans had one of the great treasures."
Realization dawned on Fionn. "You reworked it?"
"Yes. We put a great deal of our own magic and some of hers into it this time. And the gold still has all its own magic. It is now a great deal more powerful than it was," said Dvalinn earnestly.
"You are a bunch of lunatics," said Fionn, as the entire shaggy black-haired bunch of reprobates laughed themselves into near apoplexy.
Eventually Motsognir had a coughing fit and managed to stop. "It serves our purpose. We think the towers need to come down. We wish it could be otherwise, Fionn."
"I think I'll have that drink you were about to offer me. You need one too, you devious old . . ."
"Friend, I think," said Motsognir. "Let's have some mead. What have you done with her, by the way? We liked her."
"She's on Starsey," said Fionn. "Safe, I hope. I put enough protection around her, and it's not an easy place to find. But I want to be back there by morning."
Motsognir handed him a tankard of mead. "Then you'd better drink up and get going. It is not long until the dawn."