In his hand, the High Froman held a long stick from which dangled a long, pronged tail. At a signal from Darral, one of the warders took the end of this tail and inserted it reverently and with muttered words of prayer to the Manger into the base of the statue. A bulbous glass ball affixed on top of the stick hissed and sputtered alarmingly for an instant, then sullenly began to glow with a bluish-white light. The Gegs murmured appreciatively, many parents drawing the attention of children in the audience to similar glimmerglamps that hung upside-down like bats from the ceiling and lit the Gegs’ storm-ridden darkness.
After the murmurs again died down, there was a brief wait for a particularly violent whoosh-whang from the Kicksey-Winsey to subside; then the High Froman launched into his speech.
Facing the statue of the Manger, he raised his flashglamp. “I call upon the Mangers to descend from their lofty realm and guide us with their wisdom as we sit in judgment this day.”
Needless to say, the Mangers did not respond to the call of the High Froman. Not particularly surprised at the silence-the Gegs would have been tremendously astounded if anyone had answered-High Froman Darral Longshoreman determined that it was his duty by default to sit in judgment, and this he did, clambering up into the seat with the assistance of the two warders and a footstool.
Once he was wedged into the extremely uncomfortable chair, the High Froman gestured for the prisoner to be led forward, inwardly hoping-for the sake of his squeezed posterior and his already aching head-that the trial would be a short one.
A young Geg of about twenty-five seasons who wore thick bits of glass perched on his nose and carried a large sheaf of papers, stepped respectfully into the presence of the High Froman. Darral stared-narrow-eyed and suspicious-at the pieces of glass covering the young Geg’s eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what the samhill they were, but then it occurred to him that Fromans were supposed to know everything. Irritated, the High Froman took out his frustration on the warders.
“Where’s the prisoner?” he roared. “What’s the delay?”
“Begging the Froman’s pardon, but I am the prisoner,” said Limbeck, flushing in embarrassment.
“You?” The High Froman scowled. “Where’s your Voice?”
“If the Froman pleases, I am my own Voice, Yonor,” said Limbeck modestly.
“This is highly irregular. Isn’t it?” asked Darral of the warders, who appeared perplexed at being thus addressed and could only shrug their shoulders and look-in their face paint-incredibly stupid. The Froman snorted and sought help in another direction.
“Where’s the Voice for the Offense?”
“I have the honor of being the Offensive Voice, Yonor,” said a middle-aged Geg, her shrill tones carrying clearly over the distant whumping of the Kicksey-Winsey.
“Is this sort of thing-” the Froman, lacking words, waved a hand at Limbeck-“done?”
“It is irregular, Yonor,” answered the Geg, coming forward and fixing Limbeck with a grim, disapproving stare. “But it will have to do. To be honest, Yonor, we couldn’t find anyone willing to defend the prisoner.”
“Ah?” The High Froman brightened. He felt immensely cheered. It was likely to be a very short trial. “Then carry on.”
The Geg bowed and returned to her seat behind a desk made out of a rusting iron drum. The Voice of the Offense was dressed in a long skirt, and a smock tucked in tightly at the waist [7]. Her iron-gray hair was coiled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and was held in place with several long, formidable-appearing hairpins. She was stiff-backed, stiff-necked, stiff-lipped, and reminded Limbeck-much to his discomfiture-of his mother.
Subsiding into his seat behind another iron drum, Limbeck felt his confidence oozing from him and was suddenly conscious that he was tracking mud all over the floor.
The Voice of the Offense called the High Froman’s attention to a male Geg seated beside her. “The Head Clark will be representing the church in this matter, Yonor,” said the Offensive Voice.
The Head Clark wore a frayed white shirt with a starched collar, sleeves whose arms were too long, breeches tied by rusty ribbons at the knees, long stockings, and shoes instead of boots. He rose to his feet and bowed with dignity.
The High Froman ducked his head and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. It was not often that the church sat in on trials, rarer still for them to be part and parcel of the Offense. Darral might have known his self-righteous brother-in-law would be in on this, since it was a blasphemous crime to attack the Kicksey-Winsey. The High Froman was wary and suspicious of the church in general and his brother-in-law in particular. He knew that his brother-in-law thought that he himself could do a better job running the nation than he-Darral. Well, he wouldn’t give them an opportunity to say that about this case! The High Froman fixed Limbeck with a cold stare, then smiled benignly at the Prosecution.
“Present your evidence.”
The Offensive Voice stated that for several years the Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity-she pronounced the name in severe and disapproving tones-had been making a nuisance of themselves in various small towns among the northern and eastern scrifts.
“Their leader, Limbeck Bolttightner, is a well-known troublemaker. From childhood, he has been a source of grief, sorrow, and disappointment to his parents. For example, with the aid of a misguided elderly clark, young Limbeck actually learned to read and to write.”
The High Froman took advantage of the opportunity to cast a reproachful glance at the Head Clark. “Taught him to read! A clark!” said Darral, shocked. Only clarks learned to read and write, in order that they could pass the Word of the Mangers in the form of the Struction Manal on to the people. No other Gegs, it was assumed, had time to bother with such nonsense. There were murmurs in the courtroom, parents pointing out the unfortunate Limbeck to any children who might be tempted to follow his thorny path.
The Head Clark flushed, appearing deeply chagrined at this sin committed by a fellow. Darral, grinning despite his pounding head, shifted his pinched bottom in the chair. He did not succeed in making himself comfortable, but he felt better, having the satisfactory knowledge that in the contest between himself and his brother-in-law he was ahead one to nothing.
Limbeck gazed around with a smile of faint pleasure, as if finding it entertaining to relive the days of his childhood.
“His next act broke his parents’ heart,” continued the Offensive Voice sternly. “He was enrolled in Prentice School for Bolttightners and one infamous day, during class, Limbeck, the accused”-she pointed a quivering finger at him-“actually stood up and demanded to know why.”
Darral’s left foot had gone numb. He was endeavoring to work some feeling into it by wriggling his toes when he heard that tremendous why shouted by the Voice of the Offense and came back to the trial with a guilty start.
“Why what?” asked the High Froman.
The Offense, considering she had made her point, appeared taken aback and uncertain how to proceed. The Head Clark rose to his feet with a supercilious sneer that promptly evened the score between church and state. “Just ‘why,’ Yonor. A word that calls into question all our most cherished beliefs. A word that is radical and dangerous and could, if carried far enough, lead to a disruption of government, the downfall of society, and very possibly the end of life as we know it.”
“Oh, that why” said the High Froman knowingly, frowning at Limbeck and cursing him for having given the Head Clark an opportunity to score a point.
“The accused was thrown out of school. He then upset the town of Het by disappearing for an entire day. It was necessary to send out search parties, at great expense. One can imagine,” said the Voice feelingly, “the anguish of his parents. When he wasn’t found, it was believed that he had fallen into the Kicksey-Winsey. There were some who said at the time that the Kicksey-Winsey, angered at the ‘why,’ had seen fit to deal with him itself. Just when everyone believed he was dead and all were busy planning a memorial, the
accused had the audacity to turn up alive.”
Limbeck smiled deprecatingly, and appeared embarrassed. The Froman, after an indignant snort, returned his attention to the Offense.
“He said he had been Outside,” said the Voice in hushed and awe-filled horror that carried well over the squawky-talk.
The assembled Gegs gasped.
“I didn’t mean to be gone that long,” Limbeck put in mildly. “I got lost.”
“Silence!” roared the Froman, and instantly regretted yelling. The pounding in his head increased. He turned the flashglamp on Limbeck, nearly blinding him. “You’ll get your chance to speak, young man. Until then you’ll sit quietly or you’ll be taken from the court. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Yonor,” Limbeck answered meekly, and subsided.
“Anything else?” the High Froman asked the Offense peevishly. He couldn’t feel his left foot at all, and the right one was beginning to tingle strangely.
“It was after Limbeck’s return that the accused formed the aforementioned organization known as WUPP. This so-called union advocates, among other things: the free and equal distribution of the Welves’ payment, that all worshipers get together and pool their knowledge about the Kicksey-Winsey and so learn ‘how’ and ‘why-‘ “
“Blasphemy!” cried the shuddering Head Clark in hollow tones.
“And that all Gegs cease to wait for the Judgment day and work to improve their lives themselves-“
“Yonor!” The Head Clark leapt to his feet. “I ask that the court be cleared of children! It is appalling that young and impressionable minds should be subjected to such profane and dangerous notions.”
“They’re not dangerous!” protested Limbeck.
“Hush up!” The Froman scowled and gave the matter some thought. He hated to concede another point to his brother-in-law, but this did offer an ideal way to escape from his chair. “Court recessed. No children under the age of eighteen will be allowed back in. We’ll break for lunch and return in an hour.”
With help from the warders-who had to literally pull him free-the High Froman heaved his bulk out of his chair. He removed the iron crown from his head, rubbed life back into his tortured posterior, stomped on his foot until he could feel it again, and breathed a sigh of relief.
CHAPTER 11
WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM
COURT RESUMED, MINUS CHILDREN AND THOSE PARENTS WHO WERE FORCE TO STAY home and take care of them. The High Froman, with a resigned and martyred expression, put on his crown and once more wedged himself into the torturous chair. The prisoner was brought in, and the Voice of the Offense concluded her case.
“These dangerous ideas, so seductive to impressionable minds, actually swayed a group of young people as rebellious and discontented as the accused. The local Froman and the clarks-knowing, Yonor, that young people are by nature somewhat rebellious, and hoping that this was just a phase through which they were passing-“
“Like pimples?” suggested the High Froman. This brought the desired laugh from the crowd, although they seemed somewhat uncertain about chuckling in the presence of the frowning Head Clark, and the laughter ended in a sudden spate of nervous coughing.
“Er … yes, Yonor,” said the Voice, resenting the interruption. The Head Clark smiled with the patient air of one who tolerates a dullard in his presence. The High Froman, seized with the sudden urge to throttle the Head Clark, missed a considerable portion of the Offensive Voice’s speech.
“-incited a riot during which the Kicksey-Winsey, Sector Y-362, sustained minor damage. Fortunately, the Kicksey-Winsey was able to heal itself almost immediately and so no lasting harm was done. At least to our revered idol!” The Offensive Voice rose to a screech. “What harm may have been done to those who dared do such a thing cannot be calculated. It is, therefore, our demand that the accused-Limbeck Bolttightner-be removed from this society so that he can never again lead our young people down this path that can only take them to doom and destruction!”
The Voice of the Offense, having rested her case, retired behind the iron drum. Thunderous applause reverberated throughout the Factree. Here and there, however, came hisses and a boo, which caused the High Froman to look stern and brought the Head Clark to his feet.
“Yonor, this outburst only goes to prove that the poison is spreading. We can do one thing to eradicate it.” The Head Clark pointed at Limbeck. “Remove the source! I fear that if we do not, the Day of judgment that many of us feel to be at last close to hand will be postponed, perhaps indefinitely! I would urge you, in fact, Yonor, to prohibit the accused from speaking in this assembly!”
“I don’t consider four hisses and a boo an outburst,” said Darral testily, glaring at the Head Clark. “Accused, you may speak in your own defense. But take care, young man, I’ll tolerate no blasphemous harangues in this court.”
Limbeck rose slowly to his feet. He paused, as if pondering a course of action, and finally, after profound deliberation, laid the sheaf of papers down on the iron drum and removed his spectacles.
“Yonor,” said Limbeck with deep respect. “All I ask is that I be allowed to relate what happened to me the day that I was lost. It was a most remarkable occurrence and it will, I hope, serve to explain why I have felt the need to do what I have done. I have never told this to anyone before,” he added solemnly, “not my parents, not even the person I hold most dear in all the world.”
“Will this take long?” asked the Froman, putting his hands on the arms of the chair and endeavoring to find a certain amount of relief from his cramped situation by leaning to one side.
“No, Yonor,” said Limbeck gravely.
“Then proceed.”
“Thank you, Yonor. It happened the day I was thrown out of school. I had to get away, to do a lot of thinking. You see, I didn’t consider that my ‘why’ had been blasphemous or dangerous. I don’t hate the Kicksey-Winsey. I revere it, truly. It fascinates me! It’s so wonderful, so big, so powerful.” Limbeck waved his arms, his face lit by the holy radiance. “It draws its source of energy from the storm and does it with incredible efficiency. It can even take raw iron from the Terrel Fen below and turn that iron into steel and mold that steel into parts so that it is continually expanding. It can heal itself when it is injured.
“It accepts our help gladly. We are its hands, its feet, its eyes. We go where it can’t, help it when it gets into trouble. If a claw gets stuck on Terrel Fen, we have to go down and shake it loose. We push bleepers and turn whirly-wheels and raise the raisers and lower the lowers and everything runs smoothly. Or seems to. But I can’t help,” added Limbeck softly, “wondering why.”
The Head Clark, scowling, rose to his feet, but the High Froman, pleased to have an opportunity to gain one on the church, regarded him with a stern air. “I have given this young man permission to speak. I trust our people are strong enough to hear what he has to say without losing their faith. Don’t you? Or has the church been derelict in its duties?”
Biting his lip, the Head Clark sat back down and glared at the High Froman, who smiled complacently.
“The accused may proceed.”
“Thank you, Yonor. You see, I’ve always wondered why there are parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are dead. In some sectors it sits idle, rusting away or getting covered over with coralite. Some parts haven’t moved in centuries. Yet the Mangers must have put them there for a reason. Why? What were they supposed to do and why aren’t they doing it? And it occurred to me that if we knew why the parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are alive are alive, and if we knew how they were doing it, then we might be able to understand the Kicksey-Winsey and its true purpose!
“And that’s one reason that I think all the scrifts should get together and pool their knowledge-“
“Is this leading somewhere?” asked the High Froman irritably. His headache was starting to make him nauseous.
“Er, yes.” Limbeck nervously put his spectacles back on. “I was thinking these thoughts and wonderi
ng how I could make people understand, and I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going, and when I looked around, I discovered I had wandered completely outside of the Het town limits. Quite by accident, I assure you!
“There weren’t any fierce storms in the area just then, and I thought I’d take a little look around, sort of distract myself from my trouble. It was difficult walking and I guess I was concentrating on keeping my footing, because suddenly a storm struck. I needed shelter and I saw a large object lying on the ground, so I ran for it.
“You can imagine my surprise, Yonor,” said Limbeck, blinking at the High Froman from behind the thick glass lenses, “when I discovered that it was one of the Welves’ dragonships.”
The words, echoing from the squawky-talk, resounded in the Factree. Gegs stirred and muttered among themselves.
“On the ground? Impossible! The Welves never land on Drevlin!” The Head Clark was pious, smug, and self-satisfied. The High Froman appeared uneasy, but knew-from the reaction of the crowd-that he had allowed this to proceed too far to stop now.
“They hadn’t landed,” Limbeck explained. “The ship had crashed-“
This created a sensation in the court. The Head Clark leapt to his feet. The Gegs were talking in excited voices, many shouting, “Shut him up!” and others answering, “You shut up! Let him talk!” The High Froman gestured to the warders, who shook the “thunder,” and order was resumed.
“I demand that this travesty of Justick stop!” boomed the Head Clark.
Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1) Page 9