Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  For a terrifying instant the ship seemed to be out of control and at the mercy of the swirling wind. It plunged down sickeningly, was caught by a gust, and nearly flipped over. An updraft swept it high, then dropped it again. The captain screamed curses and contradictory orders in the direction of the galley, but took care never to leave the safety of the bridge. The geir crouched on the deck and seemed, by the expression on his face, to wish he had gone into another line of work.

  At last the ship righted itself and sailed into the heart of the Maelstrom, where it was peaceful and calm and the sun shone, making the swirling clouds around it that much blacker and more threatening by contrast. Down below, on Drevlin, the Liftalofts winked brightly in the sunshine.

  Having been purposefully built by the Mangers to be always directly in the eye of the ever-raging storm, the Liftalofts were the one place on the continent where the Gegs could look up and see the sparkling firmament and feel the warmth of the sun. Small wonder that, to the Gegs, this was a sacred and holy place, made even holier by the monthly descent of the “Welves.”

  After a brief interval, during which breath came easier and color returned to pale faces, the lieutenant made his appearance on the bridge. The rash young midshipman actually had the temerity to let out a cheer, which brought a baleful look from the captain, letting the young elf know that he wasn’t likely to be a midshipman much longer.

  “Well, what havoc have you wreaked down there, besides nearly killing us all?” demanded the captain.

  Blood trickled down the lieutenant’s face, his fair hair was clotted and matted with red, and his cheeks were ashen, his eyes dark with pain. “One of the cables snapped, sir. The right wing slid out. We have jury-rigged a new cable now, sir, and all is under control.”

  Not a word said about being slammed down onto the deck, about standing side by side with a human slave, both fighting desperately to drag the wing back in and save all their lives. No words were needed. The experienced crew knew of the life-and-death struggle that had been waged below their feet. Perhaps the captain knew too, despite the fact that he had never previously commanded a ship, or perhaps he saw it reflected in the faces of his crew. He did not launch into a tirade against the lieutenant’s incompetence but said only, “Were any of the beasts [15] killed?”

  The lieutenant’s face darkened. “One human is very seriously injured, sir-the slave whose cable snapped. He was dragged off his feet and hurled into the hull. The cable wrapped around him, nearly cutting him in two before we could free him.”

  “But he’s not dead?” The captain raised a finely plucked eyebrow.

  “No, sir. The ship’s wizard is treating him now,”

  “Nonsense! Waste of time. Toss him overboard. There’s plenty more where he came from.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere to the left of his captain’s shoulder.

  Once again, the almond eyes of the elven crew slid glances at each other. In all honesty, it must be admitted that none of them had any love for their human slaves. There was a certain amount of grudging respect for the humans, however, not to mention the fact that the crew perversely decided to like anyone their captain didn’t. Everyone on the bridge-including Zankor’el himself-knew that the lieutenant had no intention of carrying out that order.

  The ship was nearing its point of rendezvous with the Lifeline. Captain Zankor’el did not have time to make an issue of this now, nor could he really do so except to go below and personally see to it that his order was obeyed. To do that would lessen his dignity, however, and he might get blood on his uniform.

  “That will be all, lieutenant. Return to your duties,” said the captain, and, spyglass in hand, he turned to look out the portals, gazing upward to see if the waterpipe was in sight. But he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the lieutenant.

  “I’ll have his head for this,” muttered Zankor’el to his geir, who merely nodded, closed his eyes, and thought about being violently ill.

  The waterpipe was at last descried, descending from the sky, and the elven ship took up its position as guide and escort. The pipe was ancient, having been built by the Sartan when they first brought the survivors of the Sundering to Arianus, whose water was plentiful in the Low Realm but lacking on the realms above. The pipe was made of metal that never rusted. The alloy remained a mystery to the elven alchemists, who had spent centuries trying to reproduce it. Operated by a gigantic mechanism, the pipe dropped down a shaft that ran through the continent of Aristagon. Once every month, automatically, the pipe descended through Deepsky to the continent of Drevlin.

  Although the pipe was capable of lowering itself, an elven ship was necessary to guide the waterpipe down to the Liftalofts, where it had to be connected to a huge waterspout. When the two were hooked up, the Kicksey-Winsey, receiving some sort of mysterious signal, automatically turned on the water. A combination of magical and mechanical forces sent the liquid shooting up the pipe. Up above, on Aristagon, elves guided the flow into vast holding tanks.

  Following the Sundering, elves and humans had dwelt in peace on Aristagon and the surrounding isles. Under the guidance of the Sartan, the races shared equally in the life-giving substance. But when the Sartan disappeared, their fond dream of peace shattered. The humans claimed the war was the fault of the elves, who had fallen increasingly under the control of a powerful faction of wizards. The elves claimed it was the fault of the humans, who were notoriously warlike and barbaric.

  The elves, with their longer livespans, larger population, and knowledge of magical mechanics, had proved the stronger. They drove the humans from Aristagon-the Mid Realm source for water. The humans, with the aid of the dragons, fought back, raiding elven towns and stealing water or attacking the elven waterships that ferried the precious liquid to neighboring elven-held isles.

  A watership such as the one flown by Captain Zankor’el carried on board eight huge casks made of rare oak (obtained from only the Sartan knew where) and bound by bands of steel. On an isle-run, the ship held the water in these casks. On this trip, however, the casks were filled with the junk that the elves gave as payment [16] to the Gegs.

  The elves cared nothing about the Gegs. Humans were beasts. The Gegs were insects.

  CHAPTER 39

  WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

  THE SARTAN BUILT THE KICKSEY-WINSEY; NO ONE KNOWS WHY OR HOW.

  Elven wizards did an intensive study on the machine years ago and came up with a lot of theories but no answers. The Kicksey-Winsey had something to do with the world, but what? The pumping of water to the higher realms was important, certainly, but it was obvious to the wizards that such a feat could have been accomplished by a much smaller and less complicated (albeit less marvelous) magical machine.

  Of all the constructions of the Sartan, the Liftalofts were the most impressive, mysterious, and inexplicable. Nine gigantic arms, made of brass and steel, thrust up out of the coralite-some of them soaring several menka into the air. Atop each arm was an enormous hand whose thumb and fingers were made of gold with brass hinges at each of the joints and at the wrist. The hands were visible to the descending elven ships and it was obvious to all who saw them that the wrists and fingers-which were large enough to have grasped one of the enormous waterships and held it in a golden palm-were movable.

  What were the hands designed to do? Had they done it? Would they do it still? It seemed unlikely. All but one of the hands drooped in limp stiffness, like those of a corpse. The only hand that possessed any life belonged to an arm shorter than all the rest. It stood in a vast circle of arms surrounding an open area corresponding roughly in size to the circumference of the eye of the storm. The short arm was located near the waterspout. Its hand was spread flat, the fingers together, the palm facing upward, forming a perfect platform on which any so inclined could stand. The interior of the arm was hollow with a shaft running up the center. A doorway at the base of the arm allowed entrance, and hundreds of stairs, spiraling upwa
rd around the center shaft, permitted those with long wind and strong legs to ascend to the top.

  Apart from the stairs, an ornately carved golden door led into the shaft within the arm, and the Gegs had a legend which told that any who entered this door would be whisked to the top with the speed and force of the water that shot up out of the geyser. Thus the Geg name for the contraptions-Liftaloft-though no Geg in current memory had ever been known to dare open the golden door.

  Here, on this arm, every month, the High Froman and the Head Clark and such other Gegs deemed worthy gathered to greet the Welves and receive their payment for services rendered. All the Gegs of the city of Wombe and those making pilgrimages from neighboring sectors in Drevlin ventured out into the raging storm to gather around the base of the arms, watching and waiting for the monna, as it was known, to fall from heaven. Gegs were frequently injured during this ceremony, for there was no telling what might drop out of the barrels of the Welf ships. (An overstuffed velvet sofa with claw legs had once wiped out an entire family.) But all the Gegs agreed it was worth the risk.

  This morning’s ceremony was particularly well-attended, word having gone out among the newssingers and over the squawky-talk that Limbeck and his gods-who-weren’t were going to be given to gods-who-were-the Welves. The High Froman, expecting trouble, was considerably disconcerted when there wasn’t any. The crowd that hastened across the coralite in a break during one of the storms was quiet and orderly-too quiet, thought the High Froman, slogging through the puddles.

  Beside him marched the Head Clark-his face a picture of self-righteous indignation. Behind him were the gods-who-weren’t, taking this rather well, considering. They, too, were silent, even the troublemaker Limbeck. At least he appeared subdued and grave, giving the High Froman the satisfaction of thinking that at last the rebellious youth had learned his lesson.

  The arms could just be seen through the break in the scudding clouds, the steel and brass gleaming in the sunlight that shone only on this one place in all of Drevlin. Haplo gazed at them in undisguised wonder.

  “What in the name of creation are those?”

  Bane, too, was staring at them openmouthed and wide-eyed. Briefly Hugh explained what he knew of them-which was what he’d heard from the elves and amounted to almost nothing.

  “You understand now why it’s so frustrating,” said Limbeck, roused out of his worries, staring almost angrily at the Liftaloft glistening on the horizon. “I know that if we Gegs put our minds together and analyzed the Kicksey-Winsey, we could understand the why and the how. But they won’t do it. They simply won’t do it.”

  He irritably kicked a bit of loose coralite and sent it spinning across the ground. The dog, in high spirits, went chasing after it, leaping and bounding gleefully through the puddles and causing the coppers surrounding the prisoners to cast it wary, nervous glances.

  “A ‘why’ is a dangerous thing,” said Haplo. “It challenges old, comfortable ways; forces people to think about what they do instead of just mindlessly doing it. No wonder your people are afraid of it.”

  “I think the danger is not so much in asking the ‘why’ as in believing you have come up with the only answer,” said Alfred, seeming almost to be talking to himself.

  Haplo heard him and thought it a strange statement to come from a human, but then, this Alfred was a strange human. The chamberlain’s gaze no longer darted to the Patryn’s bandaged hands. Instead, he seemed to avoid looking at them and to avoid looking at Haplo if at all possible. Alfred appeared to have aged during the night. Lines of anxiety had deepened, smudges of purple discolored the folds of puffy skin beneath his eyes. He obviously had not slept much, if at all. Not unusual, perhaps, for a man facing a battle for his life in the morning.

  Haplo tugged reflexively at the bandages, making certain the telltale sigla tattooed on his flesh were covered. But he was forced to wonder, as he did so, why it now seemed suddenly an empty, wasted gesture.

  “Don’t worry, Limbeck,” shouted Bane, forgetting that they were walking out of range of the thumping and bumping of the great machine. “When we get to my father, the mysteriarch, he’ll have all the answers!”

  Hugh didn’t know what the kid said, but he saw Limbeck wince and look around fearfully at the guards, and saw the guards stare suspiciously at the prince and his companions. Obviously His Highness had said something he shouldn’t. Where the hell was Alfred? He was supposed to be watching the kid.

  Turning, he thumped Alfred in the arm and, when the man looked up, Hugh gestured toward Bane. The chamberlain blinked at Hugh as if wondering for a moment who he was, then understood. Hurrying forward, slipping and stumbling, his feet going in directions one would not have thought humanly possible, Alfred reached Bane’s side and, to divert the boy’s attention, began answering His Highness’s questions about the steel arms.

  Unfortunately, Alfred’s mind was intent on last night’s horrendous discovery, not on what he was saying. Bane was intent on making a discovery of his own, and using the chamberlain’s unthinking answers, he was drawing very near it.

  Jarre and the WUPP’s marched behind the coppers, who marched behind the prisoners. Hidden beneath cloaks and shawls and long flowing beards were thunderers, jingers, a smattering of toots, and here and there a wheezy-wail [17]. At a meeting of the WUPP’s called hurriedly and in secret late last night, Jarre had taught the song. Being a musical race-the newssingers had been keeping the Gegs informed for centuries-the WUPP’s learned quickly and easily. They took it home and sang it to wives, children, and trustworthy neighbors, who also picked it up. No one was quite certain why they were singing this particular song. Jarre had been rather vague on this point, being uncertain herself.

  Rumor had it that this was the way Welves and humans fought-they sang and tooted and jingled at each other. When the Welves were defeated (and they could be defeated, since they weren’t immortal), they would be forced to grant the Gegs more treasure.

  Jarre, when she heard this rumor spreading among the WUPP’s, didn’t deny it. It was, after all, sort of the truth.

  Marching along toward the Lofts, the WUPP’s appeared so eager and excited that Jarre was certain the coppers must be able to see their plans gleaming brightly in the flashing eyes and smug smiles (to say nothing of the fact that those carrying instruments jingled and rattled and occasionally wailed in a most mysterious manner). There was, the Gegs felt, a certain amount of justice in disrupting this ceremony. These monthly rituals with the Welves were symbolic of their slavish treatment of the Gegs. Those Gegs who lived in Drevlin (mostly of the High Froman’s own scrift) were the ones who consistently received the monthly monna, and though the High Froman insisted that all Gegs could come and share in it, he knew as well as the rest of Drevlin that the Gegs were bound to the Kicksey-Winsey and that only a few-and then mostly clarks-could leave their servitude long enough to bask in the Welven eyes and share in the Welven monna. The Gegs, highly elated, marched to battle, their weapons jangling and ringing and wheezing in their hands.

  Marching along, Jarre recalled the instructions she had given them.

  “When the humans begin to sing, we swarm up the stairs, singing at the top of our lungs. Limbeck will make a speech-“

  Scattered applause.

  “-then he and the gods-who-aren’t will enter the ship-“

  “We want the ship!” cried several WUPP’s.

  “No, you don’t,” answered Jarre crossly. “You want the reward. We’re going to get the monna this time. All of it.”

  Tumultuous applause.

  “The High Froman won’t come back with so much as a hand-knit doily! Limbeck is going to take the ship and sail away to upper worlds, where he will learn the Truth, and come back to proclaim it and free his people!”

  No applause. After the promise of treasure (particularly knit doilies, currently much in demand), no one cared about Truth. Jarre understood this and it saddened her, because she knew it would sadden Limbeck if he ever found
out.

  Thinking about Limbeck, she had gradually moved forward through the crowd until she was walking right behind him. Her shawl thrown over her head so that no one would recognize her, she kept her eyes and her thoughts fixed on Limbeck.

  Jarre wanted to go with him-at least she told herself she did. But she hadn’t argued very hard and had fallen silent completely when Limbeck told her she must stay behind and lead the movement in his absence.

  In reality, Jarre was afraid. She had, it seemed, peeked through a crack and caught a glimpse of Truth down there in the tunnels with Alfred. Truth wasn’t something you went out and found. It was wide and vast and deep and unending, and all you could hope to see was a tiny part of it. And to see that part and to mistake it for the whole was to make of Truth a lie.

  But Jarre had promised. She couldn’t let Limbeck down, not when this meant so much to him. And then there were her people-living a lie. Surely even a little of the Truth would help and not hurt them.

  The Gegs marching around Jarre talked about what they would do with their share of the reward. Jarre was silent, her eyes on Limbeck, wondering if she was hoping they’d succeed or fail.

  The High Froman reached the door at the base of the arm. Turning to the Head Clark, he formally accepted a large key, nearly as big as his hand, which he used to open the opener.

  “Bring the prisoners,” he called, and the coppers herded everyone forward.

  “Mind that dog!” snapped the Head Clark, kicking at the animal sniffing with intense interest at his feet.

  Haplo called the dog to his side. The High Froman, the Head Clark, several of the High Froman’s personal guard, and the prisoners crowded into the Liftaloft. At the last moment, Limbeck halted in the door and turned, his eyes scanning the crowd. Catching sight of Jarre, he looked at her long and earnestly. His expression was calm and resolute. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, but she had the feeling he could see her quite clearly.

  Jarre, blinking back her tears, raised one hand in loving farewell. Her other hand, hidden beneath her cloak, clutched her weapon-a tambourine.