Fionn wondered if the merrow had had any idea how complex the process of leading him—and of course the rest of them—safely to the sea had been. The black dragon's knowledge of Tasmarin was encyclopedic—the charts were merely a way of helping to work out the enormously complex relationships between the energies when he wasn't precisely on site to feel or see the effects. He could see deep into the infrared, so, circling in, he'd pinpointed the checkpoints.
That had been all very well but there were still patrols to be avoided. He could smell and hear and sense the moving mass of metals—they caused tiny gravitational changes. It had still been difficult and stressful getting them to this hidey-hole, and down the cliff. That had been unstable and therefore even the local cockle-pickers avoided the place. Fionn had had to resort to unnatural means to get them down in one piece. If anyone else tried it they'd not be so lucky.
The tricky part was going to be getting a boat away from the island. Normally this bay was popular with little fishing cobles, with men working handlines for reef-fish, and Fionn had thought they'd hail one, and get it to take them to something larger, for a suitable bribe.
Only there seemed to be no fishing boats about. Fionn could think of only one reason, and that was that they were being stopped from putting out to sea. The artisanal fishermen who scraped a living from the sea couldn't afford to do that for very long. But then, Zuamar didn't really care if they starved to death. The alvar were less merciless, but also somewhat distant from the suffering of the peasantry. Fionn suspected that many of them were rather enjoying galloping about the countryside, making a pain in the nether end of themselves. It made them feel important or something. That was a need Fionn had never felt.
On the other hand the conjugation of events and forces said that, pleasant as the damp seaweed-reeking cave might be, it was time to move along to see to those forces. Besides, he couldn't leave the Scrap and her puppy here. The pup was an odd thing. Dogs instinctively shied away from Fionn, along with horses. But, because the small dog's god did not run away from the dragon smell, and Fionn still had some cold mutton . . . the little beast was wagging its disreputable feather of a tail at him, and looking at him and edging forward tentatively. It was—despite being a victim, something of a rogue, and probably going to prove more trouble than it was worth. But he still fed it.
"Come dusk we're going to have to go and look for a boat," he said to Meb, who was hypnotizing the dog with her juggling. The dog might just unscrew its own head if it kept following the balls like that.
"Yes, Finn." She paused. And then thought better of whatever she'd been about to say, and started to turn away.
"Spit it out," he said.
"It's just . . . we can't be more than a few miles from Cliff Cove. They . . . the raiders, wrecked all the boats. And most likely they'll have taken all the small-craft away. So not much use going back there," she said.
"Are there other boats likely to be on fishing grounds between here and there?" asked Fionn. Fishing boats were not rocks or features of geography. Those he knew intimately.
She shrugged. "Don't know, Finn. We had good banks. I think the men used to fish here too, by the way they talked about it. I'm sure they mentioned that double-spike rock on the point . . . There was another place further along the coast from here going west. I never went to sea with them of course. And then there's Tarport's fishermen. They'd come this far if there were no fish closer. It's far enough overland, but not so bad with a good following breeze."
"Well, we'll be going toward Tarport. So you might get to see your old village—in the dark. There is probably nothing much left, Scrap."
She nodded. "There wasn't much left by the time they'd finished with it. And people took what they could, I suppose. It was nothing like as bad as my scrap's"—she patted the dog—"home. Only a few people died."
There was something about the way she said it that told Fionn that those few people had still been far too many.
They made their way up the treacherous cliff again that evening just after dark. The cloud had broken up enough to allow them shreds of moonlight. It was still tricky. And made trickier by a guard on the headland. It would have been worse if he had been watching the sea instead of the land. It could have been better if Finn had been leading the way. The startled guard tried to draw his sword from under his cloak. Meb simply dropped her head and cannoned into his stomach. They fell in a scuffle of two and a puppy.
Finn rapped the alvar warrior on the head, and hauled him off the two of them. "You really have to stop fighting with everyone you meet, Scrap," he said with mock severity. "Now we'd better tie this fellow up and leave him somewhere. It does mean that we only have tonight to get away."
They bound and gagged the guard and Finn hoisted him onto his shoulder, and carried him inland to behind a little hummock and dumped him into the gorse bushes.
"Well, let's walk. Hope there are not too many of those. Eventually something will go wrong."
They walked on through the dark for a good hour. Meb was glad to quietly take hold of Finn's cloak again, as he did not stop or slow down when the moon was hidden by the clouds.
"Looks like your little village has people in it, Scrap."
Meb had not even known that they'd arrived there. But now she could see a thread of light through a crack.
"Let's walk a little closer. It sounds like a few fishermen," said Finn.
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Not many other people talk of salt cod with enthusiasm," he said dryly.
They walked closer. Meb realized that she too knew that they were fishermen—because she knew exactly who they were, and not just because they were arguing about which bank to fish in this weather. Her step-brothers had mostly been carelessly kind to her.
"Er. I think I know them," said Meb wondering how she was going to explain her appearance to them. They'd surely recognize her and give her away.
"Good." Finn pulled out a handful of silver. "You go in there and talk them into taking us to Starsey. Or Pallin. We'll pay them that much again when we get there."
Meb felt the weight of the silver in her hand. "We want them to take us there. Not buy their boat!"
"I'll leave you to bargain. But don't be mean. It'll mean putting to sea tonight, and maybe staying away for a while. I'm going to check on the headland. There was something moving there. If you have a problem, yell. I'll hear."
Swallowing, Meb walked toward the little bit of light. Knocked on the door.
There was a sudden silence from within. "Who is there?" asked Mikka nervously from within.
"It's just me," said Meb.
"Meb?" said Hrolf incredulously. He pulled open the door. "Come in. Come in! There's supposed to be a curfew, idiot. Where have you been? We thought you had been killed or captured!"
"Close to both," said Meb, going into the small croft. Half a dozen familiar young men's faces stared at her. Several had boar-spears at the ready. "Hush."
The sight of her and her puppy made the points drop.
The two of Hallgerd's older boys—men now, hugged her. She was surprised. Touched. "What happened to your hair!" demanded Hrolf, the older brother.
Meb realized she'd actually forgotten all about it. And giving it to a merrow would not impress them. They'd call her an idiot . . . "It's a long story. Have you got a boat?"
Hrolf nodded. "Not much of a one. We pay the owner half the catch. But it was better than staying on in Tarport."
They all looked thin. And there were no women here, although at least two were married. Mikka bit his lip looking at her. "That's . . . a gleeman's cloak. Why are you wearing trousers?"
Meb hugged him . . . and whispered in his ear. "You just forget I am Meb. I'll forget about telling Morin what you were up to with his wife on the dunes." Then louder, she said, "I'm an apprentice gleeman. I need you all to pretend that I am a boy to my master . . . or I will be out of a job."
Hrolf put his calloused hand on her shoulder. "We could feed you. The ban on putting to sea has made things tough. But you're my little sister."
Well, Finn had said that she could be generous. She put some silver on the table, more than most of them had likely seen in their lives. Fishermen earned coppers, not silver. "I need you to pretend that I'm not your sister, and I need a boat. Tonight."
They stared at the silver. That was a couple of years' worth of hard fishing on the table. Enough for a boat, probably. "We dare not. Lord Zuamar has stopped any vessels sailing. And not at night!" said weak-chinned Morin.
"So you'll just sit here and starve." She added some coins. "Count them. My master has offered the same again for him to be taken to Pallin. But we must sail tonight. They're looking for us. And they won't pay anything like this if you turn us over to them. More than likely they'll just kill you."
"They've been killing and burning already. Lord Zuamar's gone mad, I think," said Hrolf.
"Stark raving," said Mikka. He had started splitting the silver up into piles. "That's twenty-one marks each and the same for the boat."
Meb took out another few coins. "And the same for the skipper. I haven't got much more, here. But deliver us to Pallin Isle and we'll double it. Every man's share, and the boat and the skipper."
She was speaking their language—the shares by which the fishermen worked—one for the skipper, one for the boat, and one for you. A straight offer of money, they might have balked from. But not a fisherman's share. She was one of them.
"There's a good wind blowing. And the tide's near full, too," said Mikka.
"We could stay away a week or two," said another one of the men. "Let things blow over."
Morin shook his head. "It's not safe. Lord Zuamar has gone mad. He's burned whole villages for less."
"What's left here to burn?" asked Mikka. "That's enough money for a boat of our own and we can be a long way from the shore by dawn. Where is this master of yours, Meb? Or is he disguised as the dog?"
"Just here," said Finn from the doorway. "Come and look out there. I think you need to put to sea as fast as you can."
There was a fire on the distant hills.
"He's burning out a village up there, for no reason at all. Ask the Scrap. We've seen what is happening. He's killing everything alive."
Hrolf stood up. "Come, lads," he said. "Get your oilskins. There is rain on that wind. That'll make it hard for any dragon to see us, but it'll make it a wet, wild night out there." He scooped up his share of the silver, and another two shares.
Meb's eyes widened slightly. So he was the skipper now. The skipper saw to the finances of keeping the vessel intact and seaworthy—hence he got the boat share too. And once the skipper had made up his mind, the rest of the boat crew would go along with him.
A few minutes later they were clambering on board a fish-reeking small two-masted vessel. Meb looked rather disdainfully at it. It might be better than being a crewman and living back in Tarport. Maybe. She could see that the fat-bottomed yawl—even in the broken moonlight—had plainly seen better days. On the other hand, it was quite adequate for taking them across to Pallin. "Look lively, lads, let's get her out of here, and into the open water," said Hrolf.
It was only when they were out, over the bar, that someone said, "Where's Morin?"
"Dunno. He went to pick up his sou'wester . . ."
Mikka spat. "He wasn't keen on this anyway. Likely he's taken your silver and run to tell the guard on long hill, gleeman."
"What can we do? We'll never catch him," said one of the fishermen in a panicky voice.
"And he won't find anyone sitting on long hill either," said Finn. "I . . . paid them a visit. It seemed they'd see the sail with you putting out to sea. They're tied up and not watching anything. So I'd say make sail. Let's run as fast as your noble vessel will manage."
Hrolf snorted. "Without half a gale to fill her sails, she's not much faster than a spavined donkey on a steep uphill. But there is no turning back, anyway."
They continued to draw away into the darkness, with only a betraying sparkle of phosphorescence in the fishing-boat's wake, and, when the cloud did not hide the moon, the darkness of the old patched sail against the sky.
The wind carried the sound of a horn from the shore.
"He's found someone," said Finn.
"Aye," said Hrolf from the tiller. "It's a question of if they can find us. I'm shifting course, gleeman. We'll make for Starsey. Morin knew were going to Pallin, and we can run more directly before the wind."
Meb knew her half-brother well enough to pick up the fear in his voice.
Fionn watched the sky. The alvar might have a few of their own vessels—much faster than this little scow—stationed at Tarport. But it would take them an hour's sailing just to get to Cliff Cove. Starsey, Pallin and Morth Islands lay on the edges of the huge ancient underwater caldera that he was heading toward. The shortest route was between the cliffs of Morth and the reef at Pallin—but there was a vicious tide-race with a maelstrom. So they'd have had to take the route around between Pallin and the lesser islands and Starsey. That was a good ten hours sail at the best speed the little yawl could manage. The alvar swan-ships were capable of twice that speed, but they'd have to put to sea and find them first, and rain-squalls and the false assumption that they'd headed for Pallin could make that a tight chase. But once Zuamar began the chase, it would be over all too quickly. There were times when Fionn could become severely irritated with the limitations he had to operate under. But they were as much part of him as his black scales.
Vorlian of Starsey—Fionn suspected—would not take kindly to Zuamar flying too close. Of the other two dragon-overlords he was less certain. If they got to land, well, Zuamar could ask for the fugitives to be returned to him. But to actually trespass would almost certainly lead to a fight.
So now it was down to a wet night and plowing steadily through the ocean's billows.
Meb and the pup sat against the tiller-house. It was there or in the crowded fo'c'sle, and this at least had fresh if wet air. She had time now to ask after the rest of the village, and just how they'd ended up back at Cliff Cove.
"It all came down to Wulfstan," said Hrolf. "You know he used to do the dickering for our fish?"
"Yes. He drove a hard bargain," said Meb, remembering the shouting and performance.
"Huh, hard bargain, my futtering left toe up a mackerel's arse. Turns out he and Roff had a scheme going. The buyer was Roff's cousin. Roff would go to Tarport and they'd agree a price. Then the buyer would show up and Wulfstan and him would put on a good show for us. And he'd get our fish at half the going rate. Wulfstan and Roff got a good cut. So when we went to town after the raid, Wulfstan got us sites on some boats and we were all going to stay together. Stick together in the big town, see. Most of us got a day's fishing as soon as we got there. Only Maric got hired to carry stockfish to the same dealer. And he saw what was being paid. You know Maric. Could never keep a still tongue in his head. He came back and told Wulfstan in front of everyone what an idiot he'd been. Of course Wulfstan held he'd been cheated by that rogue of a trader. Anyway, Roff was missing. Hadn't come to town. We didn't like the fellow much—but you were missing too. All the others were accounted for, either in Tarport or dead. So Mikka and me, we put two and two together. I'd had words with the bastard piece of shark-shit before about him pestering you, and we thought we'd go and have another look. Maric and Tam came along. We found him—and a sack of money. Not you."
He took a deep breath. "He'd been cut up real bad. Kept telling us he swore he didn't know where you'd gone. He didn't even know who we were. He was dying, see. Frightened us witless. Kept asking for his cousin—the fish dealer. And offering us the money to stop hurting him. We weren't doing anything to him. He was just delirious. But bits came out that didn't add up. We carted him back—and Wulfstan got the idea we'd done it to him. And then the entire mess came out—with half the village still standing by Wulfstan." He spat. "They were all for having us hanged. Except that someone pointed out that wounds don't turn pus-filled in one night, and Roff was going rotten already. The Tarport Councilors got one of the alvar involved, and they laid a truthspell on us, which worked out well for us. But Wulfstan and the fish-buyer got leaning on people, saying that they weren't to hire us." He grinned, teeth white in the darkness. "There wasn't much work there anyway, and the town was all in an uproar about the burning of the tax hall. Have you heard about that? My word, it had them behaving like mad hornets, and it was hard for everyone, especially newcomers. Lord Zuamar was even searching ships himself."
Meb blushed in the darkness. "Go on."
"Not much more to tell. See, we had Roff's bag of coins. We figured Wulfstan had the rest—so that might, fairly, be ours. This old tub was laid up, and even if we did not have enough money to buy her, we got a working share. We weren't much welcome in Tarport, so we came back here. It was good place for most of my life, until the raiders came. And we know the fishing banks here. Don't around Tarport. A few of the others came along later, because Tarport is no easy place to live. The fishing wasn't bad, and it beat paying to live in town, even if we do have to carry water."