Read Online Dragon's Ring by Dave Freer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dave Freer
Tags: Science-Fiction
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scavenging boys had long gone, having disappeared rather like the barrows had earlier. "A fine sight," he said, pointing to a two-story building across the square. It was lit by a series of lamps, each in its neat little sconce.
"Yes," agreed Meb, impressed. "What is it?"
"Zuamar's tax hall. Let's burn it down."
Chapter 8
Meb looked at the gleeman in horror. He couldn't be serious. "You can't set fire to a building!" she said, shocked.
He looked quizzically down at her. "But it won't burn unless I set fire to it, Scrap. And getting into it unless it's burning is too much like hard work. Besides, the fire will warm you up nicely. You've started shivering again."
Meb shut her mouth by force of will. It had fallen open involuntarily at the gleeman's crazy idea. She took a deep breath and shook her head. "You can't set fire to buildings," she said firmly. "People will get burned and hurt."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "But there is no one in the tax hall at night. They only extort during daylight hours. So no one gets burned. In fact, even the tax-men will be grateful. They'll get a few days holiday while Zuamar organizes another place for them to work."
Meb had sworn vengeance against dragonkind—no matter how ludicrous the idea. But a lifetime's ingrained deference came pounding at the doors of her conscience. "You should call him 'Lord,' " she said firmly.
The jester snorted. "Why? He's no lord of mine. I'm no one's vassal. A lord has a duty to give his a vassal a living, and my pouch is empty tonight. A lord has a duty to protect his vassals, and your home is ash."
Deep inside, Meb knew that this was dangerous talk. But she found that it did make a peculiar kind of sense. A very appealing kind of sense. The very idea that there should be some form of duty imposed on lords, just as there were taxes imposed on the lesser people! The logical part of her mind said, "I bet the lords will just love that idea . . . and anyone who comes up with it." But she nodded all the same. "We can't, though. Fires spread. It's not right that others should be hurt," she said sanctimoniously, hating herself for saying it, but knowing that she must do so.
The jester laughed. "You're a good little scrap aren't you? No wonder you make such a dismal thief. Look, it's raining. The tax-hall stands well away from other buildings. I'll probably have the merry devil of a time getting it to burn, let alone anything else. Anyway, all you have to do is yell 'fire, fire!' which is exactly what a public spirited young fellow like you would do anyway. Then we help to put it out. Good citizens!" he said loftily. "We just charge a little tax money for our services! It is our money, after all, eh? You get dry, and we go off and find a nice inn for a spot of supper and a couple of warm beds, eh. Besides, it's an ugly building. Burning it down would be a public service," he said in a tone just as sanctimonious as hers had been earlier.
She found that she had to laugh a little. Uneasily, but still she was laughing. "You're sure that there is nobody in it? You're sure that it won't spread?"
"Sure as death," he said cheerfully, flicking his cloak over to hide the bold motley. It was a drab grey on the inside. "Now, you stay here. As soon as you see the flames, you sing out. Yell 'fire' at the top of those fine lungs of yours. Then let a few people arrive, before you come and join me. I'll be with the bucket carriers."
Meb waited back in the shadows, as the jester walked across to the building. The logical part of her mind said: "Run. NOW." But it was outweighed by a horrified fascination. He couldn't really mean to set the building on fire, could he? It was made of brick and surely bricks didn't burn? She saw him walk up to next to one of the urn-like lamps. It went out abruptly. Next thing she saw someone moving up on the roof cornices. There was just a dark, spidery, rain-hazed figure, but
"Yes," agreed Meb, impressed. "What is it?"
"Zuamar's tax hall. Let's burn it down."
Chapter 8
Meb looked at the gleeman in horror. He couldn't be serious. "You can't set fire to a building!" she said, shocked.
He looked quizzically down at her. "But it won't burn unless I set fire to it, Scrap. And getting into it unless it's burning is too much like hard work. Besides, the fire will warm you up nicely. You've started shivering again."
Meb shut her mouth by force of will. It had fallen open involuntarily at the gleeman's crazy idea. She took a deep breath and shook her head. "You can't set fire to buildings," she said firmly. "People will get burned and hurt."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "But there is no one in the tax hall at night. They only extort during daylight hours. So no one gets burned. In fact, even the tax-men will be grateful. They'll get a few days holiday while Zuamar organizes another place for them to work."
Meb had sworn vengeance against dragonkind—no matter how ludicrous the idea. But a lifetime's ingrained deference came pounding at the doors of her conscience. "You should call him 'Lord,' " she said firmly.
The jester snorted. "Why? He's no lord of mine. I'm no one's vassal. A lord has a duty to give his a vassal a living, and my pouch is empty tonight. A lord has a duty to protect his vassals, and your home is ash."
Deep inside, Meb knew that this was dangerous talk. But she found that it did make a peculiar kind of sense. A very appealing kind of sense. The very idea that there should be some form of duty imposed on lords, just as there were taxes imposed on the lesser people! The logical part of her mind said, "I bet the lords will just love that idea . . . and anyone who comes up with it." But she nodded all the same. "We can't, though. Fires spread. It's not right that others should be hurt," she said sanctimoniously, hating herself for saying it, but knowing that she must do so.
The jester laughed. "You're a good little scrap aren't you? No wonder you make such a dismal thief. Look, it's raining. The tax-hall stands well away from other buildings. I'll probably have the merry devil of a time getting it to burn, let alone anything else. Anyway, all you have to do is yell 'fire, fire!' which is exactly what a public spirited young fellow like you would do anyway. Then we help to put it out. Good citizens!" he said loftily. "We just charge a little tax money for our services! It is our money, after all, eh? You get dry, and we go off and find a nice inn for a spot of supper and a couple of warm beds, eh. Besides, it's an ugly building. Burning it down would be a public service," he said in a tone just as sanctimonious as hers had been earlier.
She found that she had to laugh a little. Uneasily, but still she was laughing. "You're sure that there is nobody in it? You're sure that it won't spread?"
"Sure as death," he said cheerfully, flicking his cloak over to hide the bold motley. It was a drab grey on the inside. "Now, you stay here. As soon as you see the flames, you sing out. Yell 'fire' at the top of those fine lungs of yours. Then let a few people arrive, before you come and join me. I'll be with the bucket carriers."
Meb waited back in the shadows, as the jester walked across to the building. The logical part of her mind said: "Run. NOW." But it was outweighed by a horrified fascination. He couldn't really mean to set the building on fire, could he? It was made of brick and surely bricks didn't burn? She saw him walk up to next to one of the urn-like lamps. It went out abruptly. Next thing she saw someone moving up on the roof cornices. There was just a dark, spidery, rain-hazed figure, but
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