Dragon's Ring by Dave Freer Page B

superstitiously, and not just from the cold. Next thing he was back, without Finn. Cautiously . . . nervous, but not knowing where to run to, Meb got into the small round boat. The dverg never actually took his paddle out of the water, he just flicked and turned the handle, sending them wriggling upstream. Meb wondered if it—and the disappearance—were magic; maybe there was a huge fish on the end of the paddle-shaft. Maybe it wasn't a shaft, but its fin-spine. Now, in the overhang shadow, Meb saw a low lip, maybe three hand-spans above the water level—a dark opening below it.
     
    "Get your head down," said the gravel-voiced Breshy.
     
    So Meb ducked. Breshy tossed the paddle into the boat, grabbed the lip and pushed the coracle down into the water so a little slopped over the edge—and the boat went under the edge. Next the dverg dropped down into the bottom of the boat, gave a quick shove on the roof . . . and they popped back up again. In darkness. All Meb could see was the tiny slit of light where they'd come under the rock, which they moved swiftly and silently away from. The coracle bumped against something. A strong hand hauled her out of the craft, up onto cold rock.
     
    "Give us some light, will you," said Finn.
     
    "Ach. In a moment. I seem to have a fish on my paddle blade," said the dverg.
     
    So the jester made a flame himself. He must have had flint and a steel, because there was a spark and a flare of a fire. He lit a wick—one of a bunch in a clay bowl. The black-haired dverg was wrestling with a fish.
     
    "A nice salmon," said Finn. "A change from frogs."
     
    "Give us a hand," said Breshy, beaming, square teeth showing in the bearded face. "Pull the boat close to the quay. The current will suck it away to the mill otherwise. What a bit of luck! I must have hit it with the paddle."
     
    So Finn and Meb pulled the coracle up—the dverg was not letting go of the fish. "Otr will be green with envy," said the dwarf, cheerfully. "Follow me."
     
    So they did, along the rock-cut passage next to the water, past the slow turning waterwheel and down another passage. More of the simple lanterns lit the way down. "Where are we going?" whispered Meb.
     
    "Under the stream. They mine and work gravels from it. Living directly under the water keeps them safe from dragons."
     
    Meb could—right now—see the value of that. But . . . this was Lord Zuamar's land. He protected it . . . or was supposed to. "Er . . . why?"
     
    The gleeman chuckled. "They mine gold. Dragons are uncanny about finding it. The black dvergar don't like parting with it. Not without payment."
     
    A few days ago that would have seemed very wrong. Then Lord Zuamar was their overlord, entitled to take whatever he saw fit to take. Now Meb saw their point. The passage curved yet again, and now the sounds of hammering metal—almost lost in the splashing of the waterwheel earlier, came echoing loudly. The passage opened into a cave, in which a forge-fire burned and several more of the small hairy dvergar were working. They looked up as Breshy bounded in with his fish.
     
    "Look!" he said, triumphantly.
     
    It was plain that it was a welcome sight. "How did you get that!" demanded one of the bellows-men.
     
    "I think it was one of his tricks," said Breshy, jerking his head at Finn. "But a good one this time."
     
    "Better than frogs," said Finn, with a sly grin.
     
    The dverg was not used to being teased, and the comment simply went over his head. "Frogs are good eating, but it's a change," he said, seriously. "Otr has caught everything that isn't a small trout by now. It's not the biggest of streams."
     
    Up to then Meb had not been too sure if the frogs had been a complicated joke that she wasn't party to. Now she realized it hadn't been. Maybe . . . eating frogs was normal, away from a fishing village? She didn't think that she wanted to find out, even though, right now, she felt as if she might just fall