somewhere, too. If you look hard you might find it and me, before Jakarin molts."
"Bah. Your hoard!" snorted the now-hoardless Jakarin. "You wouldn't have two bits of gold to rub together."
Fionn grinned. "Actually, I have a hoard far bigger than any other dragon. I've been collecting for a long time. A long, long time. All you've got to do is find it. Here." He tossed a coin at the startled Jakarin. "A start for your new hoard. A small thing, but of great age. It's a ducat from lost Earth."
The dragon caught it. No dragon could resist gold, no matter what. They needed it, come molt, and they could never have enough. No dragon gave it away. Not ever. Not even one coin. Fionn's action shocked the surrounding dragons nearly as much as it did the catcher.
"Of course, if you still want to fight, you can step outside the conclave," said Fionn, cheerily.
"Right," said Myrcupa firmly, turning immediately. "I'll see you there. Come, Jakarin." Together the two stumped towards the entry, and went out.
The large Vorlian looked at Fionn, who was sitting watching them leave. "Are you going?" he asked, eventually.
Fionn regarded him with some amusement. A chief, or a king of dragons, was a ridiculous concept. But Vorlian would have been one among the alvar or the humans, had he been born among them. "And why should I go out there?" asked Fionn, in mock puzzlement. "I don't want to fight. Would I fight here in the conclave?" he said, loudly and sanctimoniously.
This was too much even for Vorlian. "But you said . . ."
"I said if they wanted to fight they could go outside. They obviously do."
"But they wanted to fight you!" Vorlian shook his huge head in exasperation.
Fionn spread his wings against the vents, enjoying the warmth. And laughed. "Ah well. You know what they say: 'You can't always have quite what you want.' I don't want to fight, and I'm not there. They'll have to make do with each other."
Many of those present considered laughter beneath their dignity. Some of them lowered that dignity.
Fionn knew himself to be reasonably safe. Even a dragon couldn't remain in the thin bare traces of air out there for too long. Dragons had been designed to survive all the conditions that the planes of existence could throw at them. But vacuum was strictly something they could only cope with merely passing through. Myrcupa and Jakarin had slim choices. Come in again, or fly off down to the thicker air. If they thought to wait lower down where they could breathe, the spill of dragons leaving from the conclave flying hither and yon to their lairs would see the two of them doing a fair amount of exercise before morning. They'd be lucky to have breath to fly, let alone fight. If they came in again . . . he doubted that they'd be as good at keeping their tempers twice, even with Vorlian's intervention. And given the events of the evening, the other dragons, as little as some might like Fionn, would have no choice but to act. They could act. Dragon could kill dragon. Fionn had no such luxury. It was awkward that he could not simply directly eliminate his dragonish problems, but those were the constraints he worked within.
One of the joys of being the dragon of no fixed abode was that Jakarin and Myrcupa couldn't go and wait around his lair for him. And Fionn never told anyone where he planned on going next.
As it happened, it was a place called Tarport on the island of Yenfar, in the dragon Zuamar's demesne, where he had some unfinished business.
Chapter 5
Meb lay on top of the dune, shivering again. Night had fallen, and in the moonlight the raiders could be seen moving down to their war-craft. It was going to be interesting to see how they got over the bar at the mouth of the bay, thought Meb, vengefully. Unfortunately it looked as if they were just readying their vessels, waiting for the tide. The raider ships probably didn't have the draft of the
"Bah. Your hoard!" snorted the now-hoardless Jakarin. "You wouldn't have two bits of gold to rub together."
Fionn grinned. "Actually, I have a hoard far bigger than any other dragon. I've been collecting for a long time. A long, long time. All you've got to do is find it. Here." He tossed a coin at the startled Jakarin. "A start for your new hoard. A small thing, but of great age. It's a ducat from lost Earth."
The dragon caught it. No dragon could resist gold, no matter what. They needed it, come molt, and they could never have enough. No dragon gave it away. Not ever. Not even one coin. Fionn's action shocked the surrounding dragons nearly as much as it did the catcher.
"Of course, if you still want to fight, you can step outside the conclave," said Fionn, cheerily.
"Right," said Myrcupa firmly, turning immediately. "I'll see you there. Come, Jakarin." Together the two stumped towards the entry, and went out.
The large Vorlian looked at Fionn, who was sitting watching them leave. "Are you going?" he asked, eventually.
Fionn regarded him with some amusement. A chief, or a king of dragons, was a ridiculous concept. But Vorlian would have been one among the alvar or the humans, had he been born among them. "And why should I go out there?" asked Fionn, in mock puzzlement. "I don't want to fight. Would I fight here in the conclave?" he said, loudly and sanctimoniously.
This was too much even for Vorlian. "But you said . . ."
"I said if they wanted to fight they could go outside. They obviously do."
"But they wanted to fight you!" Vorlian shook his huge head in exasperation.
Fionn spread his wings against the vents, enjoying the warmth. And laughed. "Ah well. You know what they say: 'You can't always have quite what you want.' I don't want to fight, and I'm not there. They'll have to make do with each other."
Many of those present considered laughter beneath their dignity. Some of them lowered that dignity.
Fionn knew himself to be reasonably safe. Even a dragon couldn't remain in the thin bare traces of air out there for too long. Dragons had been designed to survive all the conditions that the planes of existence could throw at them. But vacuum was strictly something they could only cope with merely passing through. Myrcupa and Jakarin had slim choices. Come in again, or fly off down to the thicker air. If they thought to wait lower down where they could breathe, the spill of dragons leaving from the conclave flying hither and yon to their lairs would see the two of them doing a fair amount of exercise before morning. They'd be lucky to have breath to fly, let alone fight. If they came in again . . . he doubted that they'd be as good at keeping their tempers twice, even with Vorlian's intervention. And given the events of the evening, the other dragons, as little as some might like Fionn, would have no choice but to act. They could act. Dragon could kill dragon. Fionn had no such luxury. It was awkward that he could not simply directly eliminate his dragonish problems, but those were the constraints he worked within.
One of the joys of being the dragon of no fixed abode was that Jakarin and Myrcupa couldn't go and wait around his lair for him. And Fionn never told anyone where he planned on going next.
As it happened, it was a place called Tarport on the island of Yenfar, in the dragon Zuamar's demesne, where he had some unfinished business.
Chapter 5
Meb lay on top of the dune, shivering again. Night had fallen, and in the moonlight the raiders could be seen moving down to their war-craft. It was going to be interesting to see how they got over the bar at the mouth of the bay, thought Meb, vengefully. Unfortunately it looked as if they were just readying their vessels, waiting for the tide. The raider ships probably didn't have the draft of the
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