Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  “Are you one?” Hugh asked bluntly.

  “No.” Bane clasped the feather tightly as he spoke, and repeated more loudly, “No, I’m not! I’ll work with you. I promise, so long as you don’t betray me. If you do, either of you, then I’ll make you regret it.” The blue eyes gleamed with a most unchildlike shrewdness.

  “Fair enough. I give you each the same promise. Alfred?”

  The chamberlain looked at them in despair and sighed. “Must it be like this? Trusting only because each of us holds a knife in the other’s back?”

  “You lied about speaking Geg. You didn’t tell me the truth about the kid until it was almost too late. What else have you lied about, Alfred?” Hugh demanded.

  The chamberlain went white. His mouth worked, but he couldn’t answer. Finally he managed to squeeze out, “I promise.”

  “All right. That’s done. Now, we’ve got to find out about this other god. He could be our way off this rock. Chances are, it’s an elf whose ship got caught in the storm and sucked down.”

  “I could tell the High Froman that I want to meet this god.” Bane was swift to see and understand the possibilities. “I’ll tell him that I can’t judge the Gegs until I find out what this fellow ‘god’ of mine thinks about the matter.” The boy smiled sweetly. “Who knows, it could take us days to come up with the answer! But would an elf help us?”

  “If he’s in as much trouble down here as we are, he would. My ship’s wrecked. His probably is too. But we might be able to use parts of one to fix the other. Shhh. We’ve got company.”

  The High Froman joined them, the Head Clark bustling importantly along behind. “When would Your Wurship like to commence the Judgment?”

  Bane drew himself up to his full height and managed to look offended. “I heard the people shouting something about another god being present in your land. Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  “Because, Your Wurship,” said the High Froman, casting a reproachful glance at the Head Clark, “this is a god who claims he isn’t a god. He claims that none of you are gods, but says you are mortals who have enslaved us.”

  Hugh contained himself patiently during this conversation that he couldn’t understand. Alfred was listening to the Gegs with close attention, and the Hand kept close watch on Alfred’s face. He did not miss the man’s dismayed reaction over what was being said. The assassin ground his teeth, frustrated nearly to the point of madness. Their lives were dependent on a ten-cycle kid who, at this point, looked like he might very well burst into tears!

  Prince Bane got a grip on himself, however. Pointed chin in the air, he made some answer that apparently eased the situation, for Hugh saw Alfred’s face relax. The chamberlain even nodded slightly, before he caught himself, aware that he shouldn’t be reacting.

  The kid has nerve, he’s quick-thinking. Hugh twisted his beard. And perhaps I’m “enthralled,” he reminded himself.

  “Bring this god to me,” said Bane with an imperious air that made him, for a brief moment, resemble King Stephen.

  “If Your Wurship wishes to see him, he and the Geg who brought him here are speaking at a rally tonight. You could confront him publicly.”

  “Very well,” said Bane, not liking it but not knowing what other response to make.

  “Now, perhaps Your Wurship would care to rest. I notice that one member of your party is injured.” The Geg’s glance went to Hugh’s torn and bloodstained shirt sleeve. “I could send for a healer.”

  Hugh saw the glance, understood, and made a negating gesture.

  “Thank you, his injury isn’t serious,” said Bane, “but you could send us food and water.”

  The High Froman bowed. “Is that all I can do for Your Wurship?”

  “Yes, thank you. That will be all,” said Bane, failing to conceal the relief in his voice.

  The gods were shown to chairs placed at the feet of the Manger, possibly to provide inspiration. The Head Clark would have liked very much to stay and visit, but Darral nabbed his brother-in-law by the velvet sleeve and dragged him-protesting volubly-away.

  “What are you doing?” raved the Head Clark. “How could you risk insulting His Wurship by saying such a thing? Implying that he isn’t a god! And that talk about slaves!”

  “Shut up and listen to me,” snapped Darral Longshoreman. He’d had his fill of gods. One more “Your Wurship” and he thought he’d gag. “Either these folk are gods or they’re not. If they’re not, and this Limbeck turns out to be right, what do you think will happen to us, who’ve spent our lives telling our people that we were serving gods?”

  The Head Clark stared at his brother-in-law. Slowly his face drained of all its ruddy color. He gulped.

  “Exactly.” Darral nodded emphatically, his beard wagging. “Now, suppose they are gods, do you really want to be judged and taken up into heaven? Or do you like it down here, the way things used to be before all this hullabaloo started?”

  The Head Clark considered. He was very fond of being Head Clark. He lived well. Gegs respected him, bowed and took off their hats when he walked down the street. He didn’t have to serve the Kicksey-Winsey, except when and where he chose to put in an appearance. He got invited to all the best parties. When you came right down to it, what more did heaven have to offer?

  “You’re right,” he was forced to admit, though it galled him to do so. “What do we do?”

  “I’m working on it,” said the High Froman. “Just leave it to me.

  “I’d give a hundred barls to know what those two are talking about.” Hugh watched the two Gegs walk off in close conversation.

  “I don’t like this at all,” said Alfred. “This other god, whoever it is, is fomenting rebellion and chaos down here. I wonder why. The elves wouldn’t have any reason to upset things in the Low Realm, would they?”

  “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 L
ongshoreman. 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.’ “

  “Is this god an el … 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 w
orld 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.