Dragonwing

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Dragonwing Page 11

by Margaret Weis


  “Odwin Screwloosener has a brother-in-law who serves on one of the flashraft runs. He got me on. Didn’t it make you furious,” she said, releasing her grip on Limbeck, “to see the enslavement of our people exhibited before your eyes?”

  “Yes, it did,” answered Limbeck. He was not surprised to hear that Jarre had experienced the same sensations and thought the same thoughts he had during the flashraft journey across Drevlin. The two often did this.

  She turned away from him, slowly unwinding the heavy scarf from around her head. Limbeck wasn’t certain—Jarre’s face was pretty much a blur to him without his spectacles—but he had the feeling that her expression was troubled. It might be, of course, the fact that he was sentenced to be executed, but Limbeck doubted it. Jarre tended to take things like that in stride. This was something different, something deeper.

  “How is the Union getting along?” Limbeck asked.

  Jarre heaved a sigh. Now, Limbeck thought, we’re getting somewhere.

  “Oh, Limbeck,” Jarre said, half-irritable, half-sorrowful, “why did you have to go and tell those ridiculous stories during the trial?”

  “Stories?” Limbeck’s bushy eyebrows shot up into the roots of his curly hair. “What stories?”

  “You know—the ones about the Welves being dead and books with pictures of heaven in them—”

  “Then the newssingers sang them?” Limbeck’s face glowed with pleasure.

  “Sang them!” Jarre wrung her hands. “They shouted them at every scrift change! Those stories were all we heard—”

  “Why do you keep calling them stories?” Then, suddenly, Limbeck understood. “You don’t believe them! What I said in court was true, Jarre! I swear by—”

  “Don’t swear by anything,” Jarre interrupted coldly. “We don’t believe in gods, remember?”

  “I swear by my love for you, my dear,” said Limbeck, “that all I said was true. All those things really happened to me. It was that sight and the knowledge it brought—the knowledge that these Welves aren’t gods at all, but mortals just like us—that gave me the inspiration to start our Union. It’s the memory of that sight which gives me the courage to face what I am facing now,” he said with a quiet dignity that touched Jarre to the heart.

  Weeping, she threw herself into his arms again.

  Patting her comfortingly on her broad back, Limbeck asked gently, “Have I hurt the cause a great deal?”

  “No-o-o,” hedged Jarre in a muffled voice, keeping her face buried in Limbeck’s now-tear-sodden tunic. “Actually, uh … You see, my dear, we let it … um … be known that the torture and hardship you suffered at the hands of the brutal imperialist—”

  “But they haven’t tortured me. They’ve really been very nice to me, my dear.”

  “Oh, Limbeck!” cried Jarre, pushing away from him in exasperation.” You’re hopeless!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Limbeck.

  “Now, listen to me,” Jarre continued briskly, wiping her eyes. “We don’t have much time. The most important thing we’ve got going for us right now is this execution of yours. So don’t mess that up! Don’t”—she raised a warning finger—“say anything more about dead Welves and suchlike.”

  Limbeck sighed. “I won’t,” he promised.

  “You’re a martyr for the cause. Don’t forget that. And for our cause’s sake, try to look the part.” She cast a disapproving eye over his stout figure. “I believe you’ve actually gained weight!”

  “The prison food is really quite—”

  “Think of someone besides yourself at a time like this, Limbeck,” Jarre scolded. “You’ve got only tonight left. You can’t look emaciated by that time, I suppose, but do the best you can. Could you manage to bloody yourself up?”

  “I don’t think so,” Limbeck said abjectly, aware of his limitations.

  “Well, we’ll have to make the best of it.” Jarre sighed. “Whatever you do, try to at least look martyred.”

  “I’m not sure how.”

  “Oh, you know—brave, dignified, defiant, forgiving.”

  “All at once?”

  “The forgiving part is very important. You might even say something along those lines as they’re strapping you onto the lightning bird.”

  “Forgiveness,” muttered Limbeck, committing it to memory.

  “And a final defiant shout when they shove you off the edge. Something about ‘WUPP forever … they’ll never defeat us.’ And you returning, of course.”

  “Defiance. WUPP forever. Me returning.” Limbeck peered at her myopically. “Am I? Returning?”

  “Well, of course. I said we’d get you out and I meant it. You didn’t think we’d let them execute you, did you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “You’re such a druskh,” Jarre said, playfully ruffling up his hair. “Now, you know how this bird thing works—”

  The whistle-toot went off, its blast resounding through the city.

  “Time!” shouted the turnkey. His fat face pressed against the iron bars of the door to the visitors’ vat. He began to rattle the opener in the closer.

  Jarre, a look of annoyance on her face, walked over to the door and peered through the bars. “Five more tocks.”

  The turnkey frowned.

  “Remember,” said Jarre, holding up a formidable-looking fist, “that you’ll be letting me out.”

  The turnkey, muttering something unintelligible, walked away.

  “Now,” said Jarre, turning around again, “where was I? Oh, yes. This bird contraption. According to Lof Lectric—”

  “What does he know about it?” demanded Limbeck jealously.

  “He’s with the Lectriczinger scrift,” replied Jarre in lofty tones. “They fly the lightning birds to harvest lectric for the Kicksey-winsey. Lof says that they’ll put you on top of what looks like two giant wings made out of wood and tier feathers with a cable attached. They strap you to this thing and then shove you off above the Steps of Terrel Fen. You float around in the storm and get hit by hail and driving rain and sleet—”

  “Not lightning?” asked Limbeck nervously.

  “No.” Jarre was reassuring.

  “But it’s called a lightning bird.”

  “It’s only a name.”

  “But with my weight on it, won’t it sink instead of fly up into the air?”

  “Of course! Will you stop interrupting me?”

  “Yes,” said Limbeck meekly.

  “The contraption will begin to fall, snapping the cable. The lightning bird will eventually crash into one of the isles of the Terrel Fen.”

  “It will?” Limbeck was pale.

  “But don’t worry. Lof says that the main frame is almost certain to withstand the impact. It’s very strong. The Kicksey-winsey produces the wooden sticks—”

  “Why, I wonder?” mused Limbeck. “Why should the Kicksey-winsey make wooden sticks?”

  “How would I know!” Jarre shouted. “And what does it matter anyway! Now, listen to me.” She put both hands on his beard and tugged until she saw tears in his eyes, long experience having taught her that this was one sure way of getting his mind off its latest tangent. “You’ll land on one of the islands of the Terrel Fen. These islands are being mined by the Kicksey-winsey. When the dig-claws come down to dig up the ore, you must put a mark on one of them. Our people will be watching for it, and when the dig-claw comes back up, we’ll see your mark and know which island you’re on.”

  “That’s a very good plan, my dear!” Limbeck smiled at her in admiration.

  “Thank you.” Jarre flushed with pleasure. “All you have to do is stay away from the dig-claws so that you won’t get mined yourself.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  “The next time the dig-claws come down, we’ll make certain that a help-hand is lowered.” Seeing Limbeck look puzzled, Jarre patiently explained. “You know—one of the claws with a bubble clutched in it that carries a Geg down to the isle to free a stuck claw.”

 
“Is that how they do it?” Limbeck marveled.

  “I wish you’d served the Kicksey-winsey!” Jarre said, tugging on his beard in irritation. “There, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” She kissed him and rubbed his cheeks to erase the pain. “You’re going to be all right. Just remember that. When we bring you up, we’ll put it out that you were judged innocent. It will be obvious that Mangers support you, and that therefore they support our cause. We’ll have Gegs flocking to join us! The day of revolution will dawn!” Jarre’s eyes gleamed.

  “Yes! Wonderful!” Limbeck was caught up in her enthusiasm.

  The turnkey, nose thrust between the bars, coughed meaningfully.

  “All right, I’m coming!” Jarre wound her scarf back around her head. With some difficulty, muffled by the scarf, she kissed Limbeck a final time, leaving fuzz in his mouth. The turnkey opened the door. “Remember,” Jarre said mysteriously, “martyred.”

  “Martyred,” Limbeck agreed good-naturedly.

  “And no more stories about dead gods!” The last was said in a piercing whisper as the turnkey hustled her away. “They’re not”—Limbeck began—“stories.” He said the last with a sigh. Jarre was gone.

  CHAPTER 13

  WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

  THE GEGS, A VERY GENTLE AND GOOD-NATURED PEOPLE, HAD NEVER, in their entire history (that they could remember), been to war. Taking another Geg’s life was unheard-of, undreamt-of, unthinkable. Only the Kicksey-winsey had the right to kill a Geg, and that was generally by accident. And, although the Gegs had execution down on their lawbooks as a punishment for certain terrible crimes, they couldn’t ever bring themselves to actually put another one of their fellows to death. Therefore they dumped it in the laps of the Mangers, who weren’t around to protest. If the Mangers wanted the condemned to live, they’d see to it that he lived. If they didn’t, he didn’t.

  Walking the Steps of Terrel Fen was the Gegs’ term for this method of ridding themselves of undesirables. The Terrel Fen are a series of small islands that float beneath Drevlin, revolving downward in a never-ending spiral until they eventually vanish into the swirling clouds of the All-dark. It was said that in the ancient days, just after the Sundering, it was actually possible to “walk” the Terrel Fen, the islands being close enough to Drevlin that a Geg could leap from one to the other. The ancient Gegs presumably forced their criminals to do this very thing.

  Over the centuries, however, the islands had gradually been pulled deeper and deeper into the Maelstrom, so that now one could—during pauses in the storm—only vaguely make out the shape of the nearest island drifting down below. As one of their more ingenuous high fromen pointed out, a Geg would have to sprout wings in order to survive long enough for the Mangers to judge him on the way down. This led, quite naturally, to the Gegs thoughtfully providing wings for the condemned, which led to the development of the “bird contraption” that Jarre had described.

  The “Feathers of Justick” was its formal appellation. It was made of the finely shaped and neatly trimmed wood pieces spit out by the Kicksey-winsey for use in the lectriczingers.

  The wooden frame, four feet wide, had a wingspan of about fourteen feet. The frame was covered with a woven material (another product of the Kicksey-winsey) that was then decorated with tier feathers, held in place by a sticky substance made of flour and water. Ordinarily, a strong cable attached to the lectriczinger allowed it to zoom up into the heart of the storm and harvest lightning. But, of course, it couldn’t very well do this with a two-hundred-rock Geg weighing it down.

  During a lull in the storms, the offending Geg was taken to the edge of Drevlin and placed in the center of the Feathers of Justick. His wrists were strapped securely to the wooden frame, his feet dangled out over the back end. Six clarks lifted the contraption and, at the order of the high froman, ran with it to the edge of the isle and cast it off.

  The only Gegs present to witness the execution were the high froman, the head clark, and six minor clarks necessary to send the Wings of Justick into the air. Long ago, all Gegs not serving the Kicksey-winsey had attended executions. But then had come the sensational “walking” of the notorious Dirk Screw. Drunk on the job, Dirk fell asleep, and didn’t notice the tiny hand on the whistle-toot attached to the bubble-boiler waving at him wildly. The resultant explosion parboiled several Gegs and—what was worse—seriously damaged the Kicksey-winsey, which was obliged to shut itself down for a day and a half to effect repairs.

  Dirk, though severely steam-burned, was taken alive and was sentenced to Walking the Steps. Crowds of Gegs came to witness the execution. Those at the back, complaining that they couldn’t see, began to push and shove their way to the front, with the tragic result that numerous Gegs standing on the edge of the isle took unexpected “walks.” The high froman banned all further public viewing of executions from that time forward.

  On this occasion, the public didn’t miss much. Limbeck was so fascinated by the proceedings that he completely forgot to look martyred, and highly annoyed the clarks, who were strapping his hands to the wooden frame, with his endless string of questions.

  “What is this stuff made from?” Referring to the paste.

  “What holds the frame together? How big are the sheets of fabric wrapped around the frame? Do they come that big? Really? Why does the Kicksey-winsey make fabric?”

  Finally the head clark, in the interests of protecting the innocent, decreed that a gag be placed in Limbeck’s mouth. This was done, and the Feathers of Justick was ready to be cast off into the air without ceremony at the hurried command of the high froman, who—crown on his head—had a splitting headache and wasn’t able to enjoy the execution in the slightest.

  Six stout clarks grasped the main-frame section of the Feathers and hoisted it up over their heads. At the signal from the head clark, they broke into a lumbering run, dashing down a ramp, heading for the edge of the isle. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a gust of wind caught the Feathers, snatched it from their hands, and lifted it into the air. The Feathers bucked and lurched, spun around three times, then crashed down to the ground.

  “What the samhill are you doing out there?” shouted the high froman. “What the samhill are they doing out there?” he demanded of his brother-in-law, who—looking harassed—ran to the edge to find out.

  The clarks extricated Limbeck from the broken lectriczinger and brought him, dizzy and spitting feathers out of his mouth, back to the starting platform. Another Feathers of Justick was procured—the high froman fuming at the delay—and Limbeck was strapped on. The clarks received a stern lecture from their superior about the need to hold on tightly to the frame, and then they were off.

  The wind lifted the Feathers at just the right moment and Limbeck sailed gracefully into the air. The cable snapped. The clarks, the head clark, and the high froman stood at the edge of the isle watching the feathered contraption glide slowly outward and sink slowly downward.

  Somehow or other, Limbeck must have managed to yank the gag from his mouth, because Darral Longshoreman could have sworn that he heard a last “Whyyyyy?” trail off into the heart of the Maelstrom. Removing the iron crown off his head, he fought back an impulse to hurl it over the edge of the isle, and—heaving a vast sigh of relief—returned to his home in the holding tank.

  Limbeck, floating on the air currents swirling him gently round and round, twisted his neck to look at the isle of Drevlin above him. For many moments he enjoyed the sensation of flying, circling lazily beneath the isle, peering up at the coralite formations that appeared unique from this view point—much different than when seen from up above. Limbeck wasn’t wearing his spectacles (he had them wrapped in a handkerchief tucked safely away in a pocket of his trousers), but having been caught in an updraft, he found himself swept quite close to the bottom of the isle and therefore had an excellent view.

  Millions and millions of holes bored up into the interior. Some were extremely large—Limbeck could easily have sailed into one if he had been abl
e to manage the wings. He was quite startled to see thousands of bubbles drifting out of these holes. They burst almost immediately when they hit the open air, and Limbeck realized in a flash that he had happened on a remarkable discovery.

  “The coralite must produce some sort of gas that is lighter than air and so keeps the island afloat.” His mind went to the picture he’d seen on the Eyeball. “Why would some islands float higher than others? Why would the island that the Welves live on, for example, be higher than ours? Their island must weigh less, that’s logical. But why? Ah, of course.” Limbeck didn’t notice, but he was rapidly descending in a spiral that would have made him dizzy if he had thought about it. “Mineral deposits. That would account for the difference in weight. We must have more mineral deposits—such as iron and so forth—on our island than the Welves do on theirs. Which is probably why the Mangers built the Kicksey-winsey down here instead of up there. But that still doesn’t explain why it was built in the first place.”

  Moved to write down his latest observation, Limbeck was irritated to find that his hands were tied to something. Looking to see what, he was recalled to his current interesting, if desperate, situation. The sky around him was growing rapidly darker. He could no longer see anything of Drevlin. The wind was blowing harder and had taken on a distinct circular motion; the ride was growing considerably more bumpy and erratic. He was tossed this way and that way, upward and downward and around and around. Rain began to pelt down on him, and Limbeck made another discovery. Although not as momentous as the first, this one had rather more impact.

  The paste solution holding the feathers to the fabric dissolved in water. Limbeck watched in growing alarm as, one by one and then in clumps, the tier feathers began sliding off. Limbeck’s first impulse was to loosen his hands, although what he would do when his hands were loose wasn’t exactly obvious. He gave a violent tug at his right wrist. This had the effect—and a startling effect it was—of causing the contraption to flip completely over in midair.

 

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