Plummeting out of the skies where it had no business being, since it wasn’t time for the monthly festival yet, the dragonship had landed in the Outland some distance away from an outer sector of Wombe known as Stomak. The high froman had seen it from his bedroom window and his heart had sunk. More gods—just what he needed!
At first Darral thought he might have been the only one to see it and that he could pretend he hadn’t. No such luck. A number of other Gegs saw it, including the head clark. Worse still, one of his sharp-eyed, no-brains coppers had reported seeing Something Alive come out of it. The copper, as punishment, was now stumbling along after his chief on their way to investigate.
“I guess this’ll teach you!” Darral rounded on the unfortunate copper. “It’s because of you we’re being forced to come out here. If you’d kept your lips from flapping! But, no! You have to go and see one of ’em! Not only that, but you have to shout it out to half the realm!”
“I only said it to the head clark,” protested the copper.
“It’s the same thing,” Darral muttered.
“Well, but I think it’s only right that we have our own god now, High Froman,” persisted the copper. “’Tisn’t fair, to my mind, those clods in Het having a god and us going without. I reckon this’ll show ’em!”
The head clark raised an eyebrow. Anger forgotten, he sidled over to the high froman. “He does have a point,” murmured the clark in Darral’s ear. “If we have our own god, we can use him to counter Limbeck’s god.”
Stumbling along over the cracked and gouged coralite, the high froman had to admit that his brother-in-law had, for once in his life, come up with something that sounded halfway intelligent. My own god, mused Darral Longshoreman, squelching through the puddles, heading for the dragonship. There’s got to be some way to work this to my advantage.
Seeing that they were nearing the wrecked dragonship, the High Froman slowed his march, raising his hand to warn those behind him to slow theirs—something that was not necessary. The coppers had already come to a standstill about ten feet behind their leader.
The high froman glared at his men in exasperation and started to curse them all for cowards, but on second thought, he considered that it was probably just as well his men remained behind. It would look better if he treated with the gods alone. He cast a sidelong glance at the head clark.
“I think you should stay here,” said Darral. “It might be dangerous.”
Since Darral Longshoreman had never in his entire life been concerned about his welfare, the head clark was very rightly suspicious at this sudden consideration and promptly and unequivocally refused. “It’s only proper that a churchman greet these immortal beings,” said the head clark loftily. “I suggest, in fact, that you allow me to do the talking.”
The storm had cleared, but there was another coming (on Drevlin there was always another coming!), and Darral didn’t have time to argue. Contenting himself with muttering that the head clark could talk all he wanted through a split lip, the high froman and his cohort turned and marched—with a remarkable courage that would later be celebrated in story and song—right up to the battered hull of the downed ship. (The courage exhibited by the two Gegs should not, after all, be considered that remarkable, the copper having reported that the Creature he had seen emerge from the ship was small and puny-looking. Their true courage would be tested shortly.)
Standing next to the damaged hull, the high froman was momentarily at a loss. He’d never spoken to a god before. At the monthly sacred docking ceremonies, the Welves appeared in their huge winged ships, sucked up the water, threw down their reward, and departed. Not a bad way of doing things, the high froman thought regretfully. He was just opening his mouth to announce to the small, puny-looking god inside the ship that his servants were here when there emerged a god who was anything but small and puny-looking.
The god was tall and dark, with a black beard that hung in two braids from his chin and long black hair that flowed over his shoulders. His face was hard, his eyes as sharp and cold as the coralite on which the Geg stood. The god carried in his hand a weapon of bright, glittering steel.
At the sight of this formidable, frightening creature, the head clark, forgetting completely about church protocol, turned and fled. Most of the coppers, seeing the church abandoning the field, figured doom had descended and took to their heels. Only one stalwart copper remained—the one who had sighted the god and had reported it to be small and puny. Perhaps he thought he had nothing to lose.
“Humpf! Good riddance,” muttered Darral. Turning to the god, he bowed so low his long beard dragged the wet ground. “Your Wurship,” said the high froman humbly, “we welcome you to our realm. Have you come for the Judgment?”
The god stared at him, then turned to another god (the froman inwardly groaned—how many of these were there?) and spoke something to this second god in words that were a meaningless babble to the high froman. The second god—a bald, weak, soft-looking god, if you asked Darral Longshoreman—shook his head, a blank expression on his face.
And it occurred to the high froman that these gods hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
In that instant, Darral Longshoreman realized that Mad Limbeck wasn’t mad after all. These weren’t gods. Gods would have understood him. These were mortal men. They had come in a dragonship, which meant that the Welves in their dragonships were most likely mortal. If the Kicksey-winsey had suddenly ceased to function, if every whirly had stopped whirling, every gear stopped grinding, every whistle stopped tooting, the high froman could not have been more appalled. Mad Limbeck was right! There would be no Judgment! They would never be lifted up to Geg’s Hope. Glowering at the gods and at their wrecked ship, Darral realized that the gods themselves couldn’t even get off Drevlin!
A low rumble of thunder warned the high froman that he and these “gods” didn’t have time to stand around and stare at one another. Disillusioned, angry, needing time to think, the high froman turned his back on the “gods” and started to head for his city.
“Wait!” came a voice. “Where are you going?” Startled, Darral whirled around. A third god had appeared. This must have been the one the copper had seen, for this god was small and frail-looking. This god was a child! And had Darral only imagined it, or had the child spoken to him in words he understood?
“Greetings. I am Prince Bane,” said the child in excellent but halting Geg, sounding almost as if he were being prompted. One hand was clasped tightly around a feather amulet he wore on his breast. He held out his other hand, palm open, in the ritual Geg gesture of friendship. “My father is Sinistrad, Mysteriarch of the Seventh House, Ruler of the High Realm.”
Darral Longshoreman drew in a deep, shivering breath. Never in his life had he seen such a beautiful being as this. Bright golden hair, bright blue eyes—the child glistened like the shining metal of the Kicksey-winsey.
Perhaps I’ve been mistaken. Mad Limbeck is wrong, after all. Surely this being is immortal! Somewhere from deep within the Geg, buried beneath centuries of Sundering, holocaust, and rupture, came a phrase to Darral’s mind, “And a little child shall lead them.”
“Greetings, Prince B-Bane,” returned the high froman, stumbling over the name that held, in his language, no meaning. “Have you come to pass Judgment on us at last?”
The child’s eyelids flickered; then he said coolly, “Yes, I have come to judge you. Where is your king?”
“I am the high froman, Your Wurship, ruler of my people. It would be a great honor if you would deign to visit our city, Your Wurship.” The high froman’s gaze strayed nervously to the approaching storm. Gods probably weren’t bothered by bolts of lightning sizzling down from the heavens, and Darral found it somewhat embarrassing to hint that high fromen were. However, the child appeared to be cognizant of the Geg’s plight and to take pity on it. Casting a glance back at his two companions, whom Darral now took for the god’s servants or guards, Prince Bane indicated he was ready to travel and glanced about
for the conveyance.
“I’m sorry, Your Wurship,” muttered the high froman, flushing warmly, “but we have to … er … walk.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the god, and jumped gleefully into a puddle.
CHAPTER 30
WOMBE, DREVLIN,
LOW REALM
LIMBECK WAS SITTING IN THE DRAFTY HEADQUARTERS OF WUPP WRITING the speech he would deliver at the rally tonight. His spectacles perched precariously on his head, the Geg scribbled his words onto the paper, happily spattering ink over everything and completely oblivious of the chaos erupting around him. Haplo sat near him, the dog at his feet.
Quiet, taciturn, unobtrusive—indeed, going almost unnoticed—the Patryn lounged in a Geg chair that was too short for him. His long legs extending out in front of him, he idly watched the organized confusion. His cloth-wound hand dropped occasionally to scratch the dog on the head or to pat it reassuringly in the event that something startled it.
WUPP Headquarters in the Geg capital city of Wombe was—literally—a hole in the wall. The Kicksey-winsey had once decided it needed to expand in a certain direction, knocked a hole in the wall of a Geg dwelling, then had apparently decided, for some unknown reason, that it didn’t want to go that way after all. The hole in the wall remained and the twenty or so Geg families who had occupied the dwelling had moved, since one could never be certain but that the Kicksey-winsey might change its mind again.
Beyond a few minor inconveniences—such as the perpetual draft—it was, however, ideal for the establishment of WUPP Headquarters. There had been no WUPP Headquarters in the capital of Drevlin. The high froman and the church both held crushing power here. But after Limbeck’s triumphant return from the dead—bringing with him a god who claimed he wasn’t a god—reached Wombe via the newssingers, the Gegs clamored to know more about WUPP and its leader. Jarre herself traveled to Wombe to establish the Union, distribute pamphlets, and find a suitable building to serve both as center of operations and a place to live. Her primary, secret goal, however, was to discover if the high froman and/or the church was going to give them trouble.
Jarre hoped they would. She could almost hear the newssingers across the land warbling, “Coppers Crush Converts!” Nothing of the sort had occurred, much to Jarre’s disappointment, and Limbeck and Haplo (and the dog) were met by cheering crowds when they entered the city. Jarre hinted that this was undoubtedly a dark and subtle plot by the high froman to ensnare them all, but Limbeck said it simply proved that Darral Longshoreman was fair and open-minded.
Now crowds of Gegs stood outside the hole in the wall, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the famous Limbeck or of his god-who-wasn’t. WUPP members rushed importantly in and out, bearing messages to or from Jarre, who was so busy running things that she didn’t have time to make speeches anymore.
Jarre was in her element. She led WUPP with ruthless efficiency. Her skills in organization, her inherent knowledge of the Gegs, and her management of Limbeck had been responsible for setting the Gegs’ world aflame with anger and the call for revolution. She poked, prodded, and pummeled Limbeck into shape, shoved him forth to issue words of genius, and hauled him back when it was time to quit. Her awe of Haplo soon faded and she began to treat him the same way she treated Limbeck, telling him what to say and how long to say it.
Haplo submitted to her in everything with easy, casual pliability. He was, Jarre discovered, a man of few words, but those words had a way of searing into the heart, leaving a mark that burned long after the iron had grown cool.
“Is your speech ready for tonight, Haplo?” She paused in the act of drafting a reply to an attack that the church had made on them—an attack so simpleminded that to answer it was to give it more credence than it deserved.
“I will say what I always say, if that is agreeable to you, madam,” he replied with the quiet respect that marked all his dealings with the Gegs.
“Yes,” said Jarre, brushing her chin with the end of the feather quill. “I think that will be most satisfactory. You know that we are likely to draw our biggest crowd yet. They say that some scrifts are even talking of walking off the jor—a thing absolutely unprecedented in the history of Drevlin!”
Limbeck was startled enough by the tone of her voice to lift his myopic gaze from his paper and stare vaguely in her general direction. In reality, all he could see of her was a squarish blur surmounted by a lump that was her head. He couldn’t see her eyes but he knew her well enough to envision them sparkling with pleasure.
“My dear, is that wise?” he said, holding his pen poised above the paper and unconsciously allowing a large drop of ink to splat right in the center of his text. “It’s certain to anger the high froman and the clarks—”
“I hope it does!” Jarre stated emphatically, much to Limbeck’s consternation. Nervously he set his elbow in the ink splot.
“Let him send his coppers to break up our meeting,” Jarre continued. “We’ll gain hundreds more followers!”
“But there could be trouble!” Limbeck was aghast. “Someone could get hurt!”
“All in the name of the cause.” Jarre shrugged and returned to her work.
Limbeck dropped another ink blot. “But my cause has always been peace. I never meant for people to get hurt!”
Rising to her feet, Jarre cast a swift meaningful glance at Haplo, reminding Limbeck that the god-who-wasn’t was listening. Limbeck flushed and bit his lip, but shook his head stubbornly, and Jarre moved over to his side. Lifting up a rag, she wiped away a particularly large ink spot on the end of his nose.
“My dear,” she said, not unkindly, “you’ve always talked about the need for change. How did you think it would happen?”
“Gradually,” said Limbeck. “Gradually and slowly, so that everyone has time to get used to it and comes to see that it is for the best.”
“That is so like you!” sighed Jarre.
A WUPPer stuck his head through the hole in the wall, seeking to attract Jarre’s attention. She frowned at him severely and the Geg appeared slightly daunted but held his ground, waiting. Turning her back on the WUPPer, Jarre smoothed Limbeck’s wrinkled brow with a hand rough and callused from hard work.
“You want change to come about nicely and pleasantly. You want to see it just soft of slip up on people so that they don’t notice it until they wake up one morning and realize that they’re happier than they were before. Isn’t that true, Limbeck?”
Jarre answered her own question. “Of course it is. And it’s very wonderful and very thoughtful of you and it’s also very naive and very stupid.” Leaning down, she kissed him on the crown of the head, to rob her words of their sting. “And it’s just what I love about you, my dear. But haven’t you been listening to Haplo, Limbeck? Give part of your speech now, Haplo.”
The WUPPer who had been waiting to see Jarre turned to shout to the crowd, “Haplo’s going to give his speech!”
The Gegs standing in the street broke into rousing cheers and as many as could possibly fit squeezed heads, arms, legs, and other body parts in through the hole in the wall. This somewhat alarming sight caused the dog to leap to its feet. Haplo patted the dog down and obligingly began to orate, speaking loudly in order to be heard above the crunch, whiz, bang of the Kicksey-winsey.
“You Gegs know your history. You were brought here by those you call the ‘Mangers.’ In my world, they are known as the Sartan and they treated us as they did you. They enslaved you, forced you to work on this thing that you know as the Kicksey-winsey. You consider it to be a living entity, but I tell you that it’s a machine! Nothing more! A machine kept running by your brains, your brawn, your blood!
“And where are the Sartan? Where are these so-called gods who claimed that they brought you—a gentle, peaceful people—here to protect you from the Welves? They brought you here because they knew they could take advantage of you!
“Where are the Sartan? Where are the Mangers? That is the question we must ask! No one, it
seems, knows the answer. They were here and now they’re gone and they’ve left you to the mercy of the minions of the Sartan, those Welves you were taught to believe were gods! But they’re not gods, either, any more than I am a god—except for the fact that they live like gods. Live like gods because you are their slaves! And that’s how the Welves think of you!
“It’s time to rise up, throw off your chains, and take what is rightfully yours! Take what has been denied you for centuries!”
Wild applause from the Gegs peering through the hole cut him off. Jarre, eyes shining, stood with clasped hands, her lips moving to the sound of the words, which she had memorized. Limbeck listened, but his eyes were downcast, his expression troubled. Though he, too, had heard Haplo’s speech often, it seemed that only now was he really hearing it for the first time. Words such as “blood,” “rise up,” “throw off,” “take,” leapt up, growling, like the dog at Haplo’s feet. He had heard them, perhaps even said them himself, but they had been only words. Now he saw them as sticks and clubs and rocks, he saw Gegs lying in the streets or being herded off to prison or being made to walk the Steps of Terrel Fen.
“I never meant this!” he cried. “Any of this!”
Jarre, her lips pressed tightly together, strode over and, with a vicious jerk, flung down the blanket that had been hung up over the hole in the wall. There were disappointed murmurings from the crowd whose view inside was cut off.
“Whether you did or you didn’t, Limbeck, it’s gone too far now for you to stop it!” she snapped. Seeing the harried expression on her beloved’s face, she softened her voice. “There are pain and blood and tears at every birth, my dear. The baby always cries when it leaves its safe, quiet prison. Yet if it stayed in the womb, it would never grow, never mature. It would be a parasite, feeding off another body. That’s what we are. That’s what we’ve become! Don’t you see? Can’t you understand?”
“No, my dear,” said Limbeck. The hand holding the pen was shaking. Ink drops were flying everywhere. He laid it down across the paper on which he’d been writing and slowly rose to his feet. “I think I’ll go out for a walk.”
Dragonwing Page 25