In this, Limbeck established the major difference between himself and the majority of his people. They looked only within. Limbeck liked to look without-even if looking without only brought visions of slashing rain and hail and lightning or (during those brief periods when the storms subsided) the vat-things and hummer coils and blazing bluezuzts of the Kicksey-Winsey.
One other feature of Limbeck’s dwelling made it positively unique. On the front door, which faced the interior of the mound and its interconnecting streets, was a sign with the letters WUPP painted in red, marching along boldly at a definite uphill slant.
In all other aspects, the dwelling was a typical Geg dwelling-the furniture was functional and made out of whatever material the Gegs could find, there were no frivolous decorations. None could be found that would stay put. The walls and floors and ceiling of the snug cavern shook and quivered with the thumping, throbbing, whumping, zizzt, crackle, and clanging of the Kicksey-Winsey-the dominant feature, the dominant force on Drevlin.
Limbeck, the august leader of WUPP, did not mind the noise. He took comfort in it, having listened to it, albeit somewhat muffled, in his mother’s womb. The Gegs revered the noise, just as they revered the Kicksey-Winsey. They knew that if the noise ceased their world would come to an end. Death was known among the Gegs as the Endless Hear Nothing.
Wrapped in the comforting banging and drumming, Limbeck struggled with his speech. Words came easily to him. Writing them down did not. What sounded fine and grand and noble when it came out of his mouth looked trite and pretentious when he saw it on paper. At least it did to Limbeck. Jarre always told him he was far too critical of himself, that his speeches read just as well as they sounded. But, as Limbeck always replied with a fond kiss on her cheek, Jarre was prejudiced.
Limbeck talked aloud as he wrote, in order to hear his words spoken. Being extremely nearsighted and finding it difficult to focus properly when he wore his spectacles, Limbeck invariably took them off when writing. His face pressed close to the paper, his quill scratching away, he got nearly as much ink up his nose and down his beard as he did on his speech.
“It is therefore our purpose, as Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity, to bring to our people a time of good living now, not sometime in a future that may never come!” Limbeck, carried away, banged his fist on the table, sloshing ink out of the inkwell. A small river of blue crept toward the paper, threatening to inundate the speech. Limbeck stemmed the tide with his elbow; his frayed tunic soaked up the ink thirstily. Since the tunic had long ago lost any color it might have once possessed, the purple splotch on the sleeve was a cheerful improvement.
“For centuries we have been told by our leaders that we were placed in this realm of Storm and Chaos because we were not deemed worthy to take our place with the Welves above. We who are flesh and blood and bone could not hope to live in the land of the immortals. When we are worthy, our leaders tell us, then the Welves will come from Above and pass judgment on us and we shall rise up into the heavens. In the meantime, it is our duty to serve the Kicksey-Winsey and wait for that great day. I say”-here Limbeck raised a clenched and inky fist above his head-“I say that day will never come!
“I say that we have been lied to! Our leaders deluded! It is easy enough for the High Froman and the people of his scrift to talk of waiting for change until Judgment comes. They do not need a better life. They receive the God’s payment. But do they disperse it equally among us? No, they make us pay, and pay dearly, for our share that we have already earned by the sweat of our brow!”
(I must pause here for cheering, Limbeck decided, and put a blot that was supposed to be a star to mark the place.)
“It is time to rise up and-” Limbeck hushed, thinking he heard a strange sound. Now, how anyone could hear anything in this land, other than the noise of the Kicksey-Winsey and the buffeting and roaring of the storms that swept daily over Drevlin, was a mystery to the Welves who came monthly for their shipment of water. But the Gegs, accustomed to the deafening noises, minded them no more than the rush of air through the leaves of a tree would bother an elflord of Tribus. A Geg could sleep soundly through a ferocious thunderstorm and start bolt upright at the rustle of a mouse in his pantry.
It was the sound of distant shouting that aroused Limbeck’s attention and, stricken by sudden consciousness, he peered up at a timekeeping device (his own invention) set in a hollow of the wall. A complex combination of whirly-wheels and spokey-spikes, the device dropped one bean every hour on the hour into a jar below. Each morning, Limbeck emptied the jar of beans into the funnel above, and the measuring of the day began again.
Leaping to his feet, Limbeck peered nearsightedly into the jar, hastily counting up the beans. He groaned. He was late. Grabbing a coat, he was heading out the door when, at that moment, the next line in his speech occurred to him. He decided to take just a second to record it and sat back down. All thoughts of his appointment went clean out of his mind. Ink-bedaubed and happy, he once more lost himself in his rhetoric.
“We, the Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity, advocate three tenets: The first, all of the scrifts should come together and pool their knowledge of the Kicksey-Winsey and learn how it operates so that we become its masters, not its slaves. [Blot for cheering.] The second, worshipers quit waiting for a day of Judgment and start to work now to better the quality of their own lives. [Another blot.] The third, worshipers should go to the Froman and demand a fair share in the Welves’ payment. [Two blots and a scribble.]”
At this juncture. Limbeck sighed. He knew, from past experience, that his third tenet would be the most popular with the young Gegs impatient over serving long hours for inadequate pay. But of the three, Limbeck himself knew it to be the least important.
“If only they had seen what I saw!” Limbeck mourned. “If only they knew what I know. If only I could tell them!”
The sound of shouting broke in on his thoughts again. Raising his head, Limbeck smiled with fond pride. Jarre’s speech was having its usual effect. She doesn’t need me, Limbeck reflected, not sadly but with the pleasure of a teacher who takes pride in seeing a promising student blossom. She’s doing fine without me. I’ll just go ahead and finish.
During the next hour, Limbeck-smeared with ink and inspiration-was so absorbed in his project that he no longer heard the shouts and therefore did not notice that they changed in tone from cheers of approval to roars of anger. When a sound other than the monotonous whump and whuzzle of the Kicksey-Winsey did finally attract his attention, it was only because it was the sound of a door banging. Occurring some three feet away from him, it startled him immensely.
“Is that you, my dear?” he said, seeing a dark and shapeless blur that he assumed was Jarre.
She was panting as if from an undue amount of exertion. Limbeck patted his pocket for his glasses, couldn’t find them, and groped with his hand over the table. “I heard the cheers. Your speech went well tonight, I gather. I’m sorry I wasn’t there as I promised, but I got involved …” He waved a vague and ink-splattered hand at his work.
Jarre pounced on him. The Gegs are small in stature, but wide of girth, with large strong hands and a tendency to square jaws and square shoulders that give a general overall impression of squareness. Male and female Gegs are equally strong, since all serve the Kicksey-Winsey until the marrying age of about forty years, when both are required to retire and stay home to bear and raise the next generation of Kicksey-Winsey worshipers. Jarre was stronger even than most young women, having served the Kicksey-Winsey since she was twelve. Limbeck, not having served it at all, was rather weak. Consequently, when Jarre pounced on him, she nearly carried him out of his chair.
“My dear, what is the matter?” Limbeck said, gazing at her myopically, aware for the first time that something was the matter. “Didn’t your speech go well?”
“Yes, it went well. Very well!” Jarre said, digging her hands into his tattered and ink-stained tunic and attempting to drag
him to his feet. “Come on, we’ve got to get you out of here!”
“Now?” Limbeck blinked at her. “But my speech-“
“Yes, that’s a good idea. We shouldn’t leave it behind for evidence.” Letting loose of Limbeck, Jarre hastily caught up the sheets of paper that were a by-product (no one knew why) of the Kicksey-Winsey and began stuffing them down the front of her gown. “Hurry, we haven’t much time!” She glanced around the dwelling hastily. “Is there anything else lying around that we should take?”
“Evidence?” questioned Limbeck, bewildered, searching for his glasses. “Evidence of what?”
“Of our Union,” said Jarre impatiently. Cocking an ear, she listened and ran over to peer fearfully out one of the windows.
“But, my dear, this is Union Headquarters,” began Limbeck when she shushed him.
“There! Hear that? They’re coming.” Reaching down, she picked up his glasses and stuck them hastily and at a precarious slant on his nose. “I can see their lanterns. The coppers. No, not the front. The back door, the way I came in.” She began to push and hustle Limbeck along.
Limbeck stopped, and when a Geg stops dead in his tracks, it is almost impossible to shift or budge him. “I’m not going anywhere, my dear, until you tell me what’s happened.” He calmly adjusted his spectacles.
Jarre wrung her hands, but she knew the Geg she loved. Limbeck had a stubborn streak in him that not even the Kicksey-Winsey could have knocked out. She had learned to overcome this on former occasions by moving fast and not giving him time to think, but, seemingly, that wasn’t going to work tonight.
“Oh, very well,” she said in exasperation, her eyes darting constantly to the front door. “We had a big crowd at the rally. Bigger than anything we’d expected-“
“That’s marvel-“
“Don’t interrupt. There isn’t time. They listened to my words and-oh, Limbeck, it was so wonderful!” Despite her impatience and fear, Jarre’s eyes shone. “It was like setting a match to saltpeter. They flared up and exploded!”
“Exploded?” Limbeck began to get uneasy. “My dear, we don’t want them to explode-“
“You don’t!” she said scornfully. “But now it’s too late. The fire’s burning and it’s up to us to guide it, not try to put it out again.” Her fist clenched, her square chin jutted forward. “Tonight we attacked the Kicksey-Winsey!”
“No!” Limbeck stared, aghast. So shaken was he by this news that he sat down quite suddenly and unexpectedly.
“Yes, and I think we damaged it permanently.” Jarre shook her thick mane of short-cut curly brown hair. “The coppers and some of the clarks rushed us, but all of our people escaped. The coppers’ll be coming to the Union Headquarters in search of you, my dear, and so I came to take you away. Listen!” Sounds of blows could be heard hammering on the front door; hoarse voices were shouting to open up. “They’re here! Quickly! They probably don’t know about the back-“
“They’re here to take me into custody?” Limbeck said, pondering.
Jarre, not liking the expression on his face, frowned and tugged at him, trying to pull him back up on his feet. “Yes, now come-“
“I’ll stand trial, won’t I?” he said slowly. “Most likely before the High Froman himself!”
“Limbeck, what are you thinking?” Jarre had no need to ask. She knew all too well. “Punishment for hurting the Kicksey-Winsey is death!”
Limbeck brushed this aside as a minor consideration. The voices grew louder and more persistent. Someone called for a chopper-cutter.
“My dear,” said Limbeck, a look of almost holy radiance illuminating his face, “at last I’ll have the audience I’ve sought all my life! This is our golden opportunity! Just think, I’ll be able to present our cause to the High Froman and the Council of the Clans! There’ll be hundreds present. The newssingers and the squawky-talk-“
The blade of the chopper-cutter smashed through the wooden door. Jarre turned pale. “Oh, Limbeck! This is no time to play at being a martyr! Please come with me now!”
The chopper-cutter wrenched itself free, disappeared, then smashed through the wood again.
“No, you go ahead, my dear,” said Limbeck, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll stay. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Then I’ll stay too!” Jarre said fiercely, entwining her hand around his.
The chopper-cutter crashed into the door, and splinters flew across the room.
“No, no!” Limbeck shook his head. “You must carry on in my absence! When my words and my example inflame the worshipers, you must be there to lead the revolution!”
“Oh, Limbeck”-Jarre wavered-“are you sure?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Then I’ll go! But we’ll spring you!” She hastened to the doorway, but could not forbear pausing for one final glance behind her. “Be careful,” she pleaded.
“I will, my dear. Now, go!” Limbeck made a playful shooing motion with his hand.
Blowing him a kiss, Jarre disappeared through the back door just as the coppers crashed through the splintered door in the front.
“We’re looking for one Limbeck Bolttightner,” said a copper, whose dignity was somewhat marred by the fact that he was plucking splinters of wood out of his beard.
“You have found him,” said Limbeck majestically. Thrusting out his hands, wrists together, he continued, “As a champion of my people, I will gladly suffer any torture or indignity in their names! Take me to your foul-smelling, blood-encrusted, rat-infested dungeon.”
“Foul-smelling?” The copper was highly incensed. “I’ll have you know we clean our jail regular. And as for rats, there ain’t been one seen there in twenty years, has there, Fred?” He appealed to a fellow copper, who was crashing through the broken door. “Ever since we brought in the cat. And we washed up the blood from last night when Durkin Wrenchwielder come in with a split lip on account of a fight with Mrs. Wrenchwielder. You’ve no call,” added the copper testily, “to go insultin’ my jail.”
“I … I’m very sorry,” stammered Limbeck, taken aback. “I had no idea.”
“Now, come along with you,” said the copper. “What have you got your hands stuck in my face for?”
“Aren’t you going to shackle me? Bind me hand and foot?”
“And how would you walk? I suppose you’d expect us to carry you!” The copper sniffed. “A pretty sight we’d look, haulin’ you through the streets! And you’re no lightweight, neither. Put your hands down. The only pair of manacles we had busted some thirty years ago. We keep ‘em for use when the young’uns get outta hand. Sometimes parents like to borrow ‘em to throw a scare into the little urchins.”
Having been threatened with those manacles often in his own turbulent urchinhood, Limbeck was crushed.
“Another illusion of youth fled,” he said to himself sadly as he allowed himself to be led away to a prosaic, cat-patrolled prison.
Martyrdom was not starting out well.
CHAPTER 9
HEX TO WOMBE DREVLIN, LOW REALM
LIMBECK WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO THE FLASHRAFT RIDE ACROSS DREVLIN TO THE capital city of Wombe. He had never ridden a flashraft before. Nobody in his scrift had, and there were more than a few mutterings among the crowd about common criminals getting privileges to which ordinary citizens weren’t entitled.
Somewhat hurt at being referred to as a common criminal, Limbeck climbed up the steps and entered what resembled a gleaming brass box fitted with windows and perched on numerous metal wheels that ran along a metal track. Taking his spectacles from his pocket, Limbeck hooked the frail wire stems over his ears and peered at the crowd. He easily located Jarre among the throng, though her head and face were hidden in the shadows of a voluminous cloak. It was too dangerous for any sort of sign to pass between them, but Limbeck did not think it would hurt if he brought his thick fingers to his lips and blew her a small kiss.
A couple standing alone at the far end of the platform caught his attention and h
e was astounded to recognize his parents. At first it touched him that they would come to see him off. However, a glimpse of his father’s smiling face, half-hidden by a gigantic muffler he had wound around his neck to ensure that no one knew him, made Limbeck understand that his parents had not come out of filial devotion but probably to make certain they were actually seeing the last of a son who had brought them nothing but turmoil and disgrace. Sighing, Limbeck settled back in the wooden seat.
The flashraft’s driver, commonly known as a flasher, glared back at his two passengers, Limbeck and the copper who accompanied him, in the only compartment on the vehicle. This unusual stop in the station of Het had put the flasher way behind schedule and he didn’t want to waste any more time. Seeing Limbeck start to stand up-the Geg thought he saw his old teacher in the crowd-the flasher threw both sections of his carefully parted beard over his shoulders, grasped two of the many tin hands before him, and pulled. Several metal hands sticking up from the compartment’s roof reached out and grabbed hold of a cable suspended above them. An arc of blue lightning flared, a whistle-toot shrilled loudly, and, amidst crackling zuzts of electricity, the flashraft jolted forward.
The brass box rocked and swayed back and forth, the hands above them that clung to the cable sparked alarmingly, but the flasher never seemed to notice. Grasping another tin hand, he pushed it clear to the wall and the vehicle picked up speed. Limbeck thought he had never in his life experienced anything so marvelous.
The flashraft was created long ago by the Mangers for the benefit of the Kicksey-Winsey. When the Mangers mysteriously disappeared, the Kicksey-Winsey took over the operation and kept the flashraft alive just as it kept itself alive. The Gegs lived to serve both.
Each Geg belonged to a scrift-a clan that had lived in the same city and had worshiped the same part of the Kicksey-Winsey since the Mangers first brought the Gegs to this realm. Each Geg performed the same task his father performed before him and his grandfather before him and his grandfather before him.
Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1) Page 7