Free Dragon's Ring by Dave Freer

she'd swear there was an urn with him. A little later he climbed back down.
     
    There was a sudden gush of flames from the little alcove where the lamp had been. The flames ran hungrily up the wall, following a gleaming trail of lamp-oil. Next moment the flames were at the roof.
     
    "Fire!" yelled Meb. What else could she do? Just let it burn? "Fire!" She yelled again.
     
    Shutters began opening across the square. Smoke and flames were rushing out of the tax hall roof by now. People with buckets began pouring out into the street. Joining in was the easiest thing, armed with someone's spare bucket, Meb found herself with those filling at the square's central fountain. "We need to get inside," bawled the gleeman, pushing against the door. "Help me here, all of you!" Several watchmen, their quarterstaves forgotten, joined him, and the doors gave way. "Buckets!" yelled a watchman. "Bring buckets, boys."
     
    Meb was among those who responded. And there in the smoke and darkness was a cheerful gleeman's voice. "Come on," he said, taking her by the elbow. "It's not even burning in here, but there is plenty of smoke. Let's break down a door or two. Make a little confusion for everyone."
     
    He suited action to his words and a wooden door cracked open. He was certainly very strong. And, it seemed, quite able to see in the dark. "Nothing here, except a lot of paper. Frightfully flammable stuff." And a flame licked at it.
     
    "Time to go," he said. "Tch! Don't use that bucket on something I've just lit, Scrap!"
     
    He kicked another door. By the time she got through there, a kist was burning merrily. And the gleeman was pouring a handful of coins into his pockets and then a second handful into hers. "Right," he said, cheerfully. "Time we got out of here. That lot'll be a fine mess of melted gold in with the silver coin. Take them a while to figure out what's missing, if they ever do. And it sounds as if the guard and the fire-watch are getting here. It's definitely time we left."
     
    She followed him, coughing. He was yelling, "Everybody out! The roof's coming down," which was a chorus the others took up loudly.
     
    And somehow, in the smoke and darkness, Meb took a wrong turn.
     
    She ran down a passage . . . and realized that he wasn't ahead of her any more. There was just a closed door. She tried kicking it, as he had. All it did was hurt her toes. And now there were flames behind her too. Even the clangor of yells predominated by "Out, out!" were more distant.
     
    Desperately she went back to the door, about to kick it again. They'd broken when the gleeman kicked them! In the firelight she could see a handle. She tried that and the door swung open. There was a flight of stairs beyond it and she raced up them. This led onto another corridor. Looking back she saw that flames were burning up the stairwell. There was no way back down there. The air was hot and smoke-filled. She could not hear voices any longer. Just the hungry cackle of flames. She wished desperately for the sound of one voice, any voice. But Meb, poor, tired, confused Meb, wasn't ready to give up yet. There was another door. She must find a way down or at least get to a window. This door—a large one, with a bright-polished handle, was locked. But there was a bench—narrow, plain, sturdy and well-worn, in the corridor. Meb picked it up.
     
    She wasn't very big, but a girl from a small fishing village had to be strong. There were always loads to carry, work to be done. She backed off, going as close to flames as she dared and then charged the door with her bench-ram.
     
    It didn't break. But she rammed it again . . . and then again. This time the wood cracked and let her crawl into some high panjandrum's sanctum . . . with shuttered windows. She wrenched them open. Cool, blessedly wet night air rushed in.
     
    She peered out of the window. It seemed a fairly long way down. "Tch," said a voice behind her. "You can't even manage to burn down a