Dragonwing

by Margaret Weis

  “No. It’s to their advantage to keep the Gegs quiet and hard at work. But there’s nothing we can do, I guess, except to go to this rally tonight and hear what this god has to say.”

  “Yes,” said Alfred absently.

  Hugh glanced at the man. The high domed forehead glistened with sweat, and his eyes had acquired a fevered luster. His skin was ashen, his lips gray. He hadn’t, it occurred to Hugh suddenly, fallen over anything in the last hour.

  “You don’t look good. Are you all right?”

  “I… I’m not feeling very well, Sir Hugh. Nothing serious. Just a reaction from the crash. I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry about me. Your Highness understands the serious nature of tonight’s encounter?”

  Bane gave Alfred a thoughtful, considering look. “Yes, I understand. I’ll do my best to help, although I’m not certain what it is I’m supposed to do.”

  The boy appeared to be sincere, but Hugh could still see that innocent smile as the child fed him poison. Was Bane, in truth, playing the game with them? Or was he merely moving them ahead one more square?

  CHAPTER 33

  WOMBE, DREVLIN

  LOW REALM

  A COMMOTION OUTSIDE THE HOLE IN THE WALL ATTRACTED JARRE’S attention. She had just put the finishing touches on Limbeck’s speech. Laying it down, she went to what served as the door and peered out the curtain. The crowds in the street had grown larger, she saw with satisfaction. But the WUPP’s assigned to guard the door were arguing loudly with several other Gegs attempting to enter.

  At the sight of Jarre, their clamor increased.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  The Gegs began shouting at once, and it took her some time to quiet them down. When she had done so and had heard what they had to say, she gave instructions and reentered WUPP Headquarters.

  “What’s going on?” Haplo was standing on the stairs, the dog at his side.

  “I’m sorry the commotion woke you,” Jarre apologized. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “I wasn’t asleep. What is it?”

  Jarre shrugged. “The high froman’s come up with his own god. I might have expected something like this of Darral Longshoreman. Well, it won’t work, that’s all.”

  “His own god?” Haplo descended the stairs with a step swift and light as a cat’s. “Tell me.”

  “Surely you can’t take this seriously? You know there are no such things as gods. Darral probably told the Welves we were threatening them, and they’ve sent someone down here to try to convince my people that, ‘Yes, we Welves really are gods.’”

  “If this god and … a Welf?”

  “I don’t know. Most of our people have never seen a Welf. I don’t suppose anyone knows what they look like. All I know is that it seems this god is a child and he’s been telling everyone he’s come to judge us and he’s going to do so at the rally tonight and prove that we’re wrong. Of course, you can deal with him.”

  “Of course,” murmured Haplo.

  Jarre was bustling about. “I’ve got to go make certain everything’s arranged at the Together Hall.” She threw a shawl around her shoulders. On her way out the hole in the wall, she paused and looked back. “Don’t tell Limbeck about this. He’ll get himself all worked up. It’ll be better to take him completely by surprise. That way, he won’t have time to think.”

  Thrusting aside the curtain, she stepped outside, to the sound of loud cheers.

  Left alone, Haplo threw himself in a chair. The dog, sensing his master’s mood, thrust his muzzle comfortingly into the man’s hand.

  “The Sartan, do you think, boy?” mused Haplo, absently scratching the dog beneath the chin. “They’re as close to a god as these people are likely to find in a godless universe. And what do I do if it is? I can’t challenge this ‘god’ and reveal to him my own powers. The Sartan must not be alerted to our escape from their prison. Not yet, not until my lord is fully prepared.”

  He sat in thoughtful, brooding silence. The hand stroking the animal slowed in its caress and soon ceased altogether. The dog, knowing itself no longer needed, settled down at the man’s feet, chin on its paws, its liquid eyes reflecting the concern in the eyes of its master.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” said Haplo, and at the voice the dog’s ears pricked and it glanced up at him, one white eyebrow slightly raised. “Me with the powers of a god and unable to use them.” Drawing back the bandage that swathed his hand, he ran a finger over the blue-and-red spiderweb lines of the sigla whose fantastic whorls and patterns decorated his skin. “I could build a ship in a day. Fly out of here tomorrow if I so chose. I could show these dwarves power they’ve never imagined. I could become a god for them. Lead them to war against the humans and the ‘Welves.’” Haplo smiled, but his face grew immediately sober. “Why not? What would it matter?”

  A strong desire to use his power came over him. Not only to use the magic, but to use it to conquer, to control, to lead. The Gegs were peaceful, but Haplo knew that wasn’t the true nature of dwarves. Somehow the Sartan had managed to beat it out of them, reduce them to the mindless machine-serving “Gegs” that they had become. It should be easy to uncover the fierce pride, the legendary courage of the dwarves. The ashes appeared cold, but surely a flame must flicker somewhere!

  “I could raise an army, build ships. No! What has gotten into me!” Haplo angrily jerked the cloth back over his hand. The dog, cringing at the sharp tone, looked up apologetically, thinking, perhaps, that it had been at fault. “It’s my true nature, the nature of the Patryns, and it will lead me into disaster! My lord warned me of this. I must move slowly. The Gegs are not ready. And I’m not the one who should lead them. Their own. Limbeck. Somehow, I must blow on the spark that is Limbeck.

  “As for this child-god, there’s nothing to be done but wait and see and trust in myself. If it is a Sartan, then that might be all for the better. Right, boy?” Leaning down, Haplo thumped the animal on its flank. The dog, pleased at the return of its master’s good humor, closed its eyes and sighed deeply.

  “And if it is a Sartan,” muttered Haplo beneath his breath, leaning back in the small uncomfortable chair and stretching his legs, “may my lord keep me from ripping out the bastard’s heart!”

  By the time Jarre had come back, Limbeck was awake and anxiously perusing his speech, and Haplo had made a decision.

  “Well,” said Jarre brightly, unwinding her shawl from around her ample shoulders, “everything is all ready for tonight. I think, my dear, that this will be the biggest rally yet—”

  “We need to talk to the god,” interrupted Haplo in his quiet voice.

  Jarre flashed him a look, reminding him that this subject was not to be mentioned in front of Limbeck.

  “God?” Limbeck peered at them from behind the spectacles perched precariously on his nose. “What god? What’s going on?”

  “He had to know,” Haplo mollified an angry Jarre. “It’s best to always know as much as you can about the enemy.”

  “Enemy! What enemy!” Limbeck, pale but calm, had risen to his feet.

  “You don’t seriously believe that they are what they claim—Mangers—do you?” demanded Jarre, staring at Haplo with narrowed eyes, arms akimbo.

  “No, and that is what we must prove. You said yourself this was undoubtedly a plot by the high froman to discredit your movement. If we can capture this being who calls himself a god and can prove publicly that he’s not—”

  “—then we can cast down the high froman!” cried Jarre, clapping her hands together eagerly.

  Haplo, pretending to scratch the dog, lowered his head to hide his smile. The animal gazed up at his master with a wistful, uneasy aspect.

  “Certainly there’s that possibility, but we must take this one step at a time,” said Haplo after a pause, seeming to give the matter grave consideration. “First, it’s essential that we find out who this god really is and why he’s here.”

  “Who who is? Why who is here?” Limbeck’s spectacles slid down
his nose. He pushed them back and raised his voice. “Tell me—”

  “I’m sorry, my dear. It all happened while you were asleep.” Jarre informed him of the arrival of the high froman’s god and how he had paraded the child through the city streets and what the people were saying and doing and how some of them believed the child was a god and some believed he wasn’t and—

  “—and there’s going to be trouble, that’s what you mean, don’t you?” concluded Limbeck. Sinking down into his chair, he stared bleakly at her. “What if they really are the Mangers! What if I’ve been wrong and they’ve come to … to pass judgment on the people? They’ll be offended and they might abandon us again!” He twisted the speech in his hands. “I might have brought great harm to all our people!”

  Jarre, looking exasperated, opened her mouth, but Haplo shook his head at her.

  “Limbeck, that is why we need to talk to them. If they are the Sar … Mangers,” he corrected himself, “then we can explain and they’ll understand, I’m sure.”

  “I was so certain!” Limbeck cried woefully.

  “And you are right, my dear!” Jarre knelt beside him and, putting her hands on his face, turned it so that he was forced to look at her. “Believe in yourself! This is an impostor, brought by the high froman! We’ll prove that and we’ll prove that he and the clarks have been in league with those who have enslaved us! This could be our great chance, our chance to change our world!”

  Limbeck did not reply. Gently removing Jarre’s hands, he held them fast, thanking her silently for her comfort. But he lifted his head and fixed a troubled gaze on Haplo.

  “You’ve gone too far to back out now, my friend,” said the Patryn. “Your people trust you, believe in you. You can’t let them down.”

  “But what if I’m wrong?”

  “You’re not,” said Haplo with conviction. “Even if this is a Manger, the Mangers are not gods and never were. They are human, like myself. They were endowed with great magical power, but they were mortal. If the high froman claims the Manger is a god, just ask the Manger. If he really is one, he will tell you the truth.”

  The Mangers always told the truth. They had gone throughout the world protesting that they were not divine, yet taking upon themselves the responsibilities of the divine. False humility to mask pride and ambition. If this was a true Sartan, he would refute his own godhood. If not, Haplo would know he was lying, and exposing him would be easy.

  “Can we get in to see them?” he asked Jarre.

  “They’re being held in the Factree,” she said, pondering. “I don’t know much about it, but we have those in our group who do. I’ll ask them.”

  “We should hurry. It’s almost dark and the meeting is supposed to commence in two hours’ time. We should see them before that.”

  Jarre was on her feet and heading for the hole in the wall. Limbeck, sighing, leaned his head on his hand. His spectacles slid down his nose and dropped into his lap, where they lay unnoticed.

  The woman has the energy and determination, mused Haplo. Jarre knows her limitations. She can make the vision reality, but it is Limbeck who has the eyes—half-blind that they are—to see. I must show him the vision.

  Jarre returned with several eager, grim-looking Gegs. “There’s a way in. Tunnels run underneath the floor and come up near the statue of the Manger.”

  Haplo nodded his head toward Limbeck. Jarre understood.

  “Did you hear me, my dear? We can get inside the Factree and talk to this so-called god. Do we go?”

  Limbeck raised his head. His face beneath the beard was pale, but there was an expression of determination. “Yes.” He raised a hand, stopping her from interrupting. “I’ve realized it doesn’t matter if I’m right or if I’m wrong. All that matters is to discover the truth.”

  CHAPTER 34

  WOMBE, DREVLIN,

  LOW REALM

  TWO GUIDE GEGS, LIMBECK, JARRE, HAPLO, AND, OF COURSE, THE dog navigated a series of twisting, winding tunnels that intersected, bisected, and dissected the ground below the Kicksey-winsey. The tunnels were old and marvelous in their construction, lined with stone that appeared, from its regular shape, to have been made either by the hand of man or the metal hands of the Kicksey-winsey. Here and there, carved into the stones, were curious symbols. Limbeck was absolutely fascinated with these, and it was with some difficulty and a few tugs on his beard that Jarre managed to persuade him that there was a need for hurry.

  Haplo could have told him much about these symbols. He could have told him they were in reality sigla—the runes of the Sartan—and that it was the sigla carved upon the stones that kept the tunnels dry despite the almost constant flow of rainwater dripping through the porous coralite. It was the sigla that maintained the tunnels centuries after those who built them had left them.

  The Patryn was nearly as interested in the tunnels as Limbeck. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that the Sartan had abandoned their work. Not only that, but they had left it unfinished … and that was not at all like these humans who had attained the power and the status of demigods. The great machine, which, even far below ground, they could still feel throbbing and pulsing and pounding, was, Haplo had observed, running on its own, at its own whim, by its own design.

  And it was doing nothing. Nothing creative, that Haplo could see. He had traveled the length and breadth of Drevlin with Limbeck and the WUPPers, and everywhere he had gone he had inspected the great machine. It knocked over buildings, it dug holes, it built new buildings, it filled in holes, it roared and steamed and tooted and hummed and did what it did with a wondrous amount of energy. But what it was doing was nothing.

  Once a month, so Haplo had heard, the “Welves” came down from above in their iron suits and their flying ships and picked up the precious substance—water. The Welves had been doing this for centuries and the Gegs had come to believe that this was the ultimate purpose of their beloved and sacred machine—to produce water for these godlike Welves. But Haplo saw that the water was merely a by-product of the Kicksey-winsey, perhaps even a waste product. The function of the fabulous machine was something grander, something far more magnificent than spitting out water to slake the thirst of the elven nation. But what that purpose was, and why the Sartan had left before it could be accomplished, was something Haplo could not begin to fathom.

  There was no answer for him in the tunnels. Possibly it lay ahead. He had learned, as had all the Patryns, that impatience—any slip from the tightly held reins of control imposed upon themselves—could lead to disaster. The Labyrinth was not kind to those with flaws. Patience, endless patience—that was one of the gifts the Patryns had received from the Labyrinth, though it came to them covered with their own blood.

  The Gegs were excited, noisy, and eager. Haplo walked through the tunnels after them, making no more noise than did his shadow cast by the light of Geg glimmerglamps. The dog trotted along behind, silent and watchful as his master.

  “Are you certain this is the right way?” Jarre asked more than once, when it seemed that they must be walking in endless circles.

  The guide Gegs assured her it was. It seemed that several years ago, the Kicksey-winsey had taken it into its mechanical head that it should open the tunnels. It had done so, punching through the ground with its iron fists and feet. Gegs swarmed below, shoring up the walls and providing the machine support. Then, just as suddenly, the Kicksey-winsey changed its mind and launched off in a completely new direction. These particular Gegs had been part of the tunnel scrift and knew them as well as they knew their own houses.

  Unfortunately, the tunnels were not deserted, as Haplo had hoped. The Gegs now used them to get from one place to another, and the WUPPers on their way to the Factree ran into large numbers of Gegs. The sight of Haplo created excitement, the guide Gegs felt called upon to tell everyone who he was and who Limbeck was, and almost all the Gegs that didn’t have other, more pressing business, decided to follow along.

  Soon there was a
parade of Gegs tromping through the tunnels, heading for the Factree. So much for secrecy and surprise. Haplo comforted himself with the knowledge that an army of Gegs mounted on shrieking dragons could have flown through the tunnel and, due to the noise of the machine, no one topside would be the wiser.

  “Here we are,” shouted one Geg in a booming voice, pointing to a metal ladder leading up a shaft and into darkness. Glancing further down the tunnel, Haplo could see numerous other ladders, placed at intervals—the first time they had come across such a phenomenon—and he calculated that the Geg was correct. These ladders obviously led somewhere. He just hoped it was the Factree.

  Haplo motioned the guide Gegs, Jarre, and Limbeck to draw near him. Jarre kept the numerous other Gegs back with a wave of her hand.

  “What’s up the ladder? How do we get into the Factree?”

  There was a hole in the floor, explained the Gegs, covered with a metal plate. Moving the plate allowed access to the main floor of the Factree.

  “This Factree is a huge place,” said Haplo. “What part of it will I come up in? What part have they given over to the god?”

  There was some lengthy discussion and argument over this. One Geg had heard that the god was in the Manger’s room two floors up over the main floor of the Factree. The other Geg had heard that the god was, by orders of the high froman, being kept in the Bored Room.

  “What’s that?” Haplo asked patiently.

  “It’s where my trial was held,” said Limbeck, his face brightening at the memory of his moment of supreme importance. “There’s a statue of a Manger there, and the chair where the high froman sits in judgment.”

  “Where is this place from here?”

  The Gegs thought it was about two more ladders down, and they all trooped in that direction, the two guide Gegs arguing among themselves until Jarre, with an embarrassed glance at Haplo, ordered them sharply to hold their tongues.

  “They think this is it,” she said, placing her hand upon the ladder’s steel rungs.