Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  The High Froman considered doing just that. Ending the trial now accomplished three things: it would rid him of this mad Geg, end his headache, and restore the circulation in his lower extremities. Unfortunately, however, it would appear to his constituents as if he had caved in to the church, plus, his brother-in-law would never let him forget it. No, better to let this Limbeck fellow go ahead and speak his piece. He would undoubtedly string together enough rope to hang himself before long.

  “I have made my ruling,” said the High Froman in a terrible voice, glaring at the crowd and the Head Clark. “It stands!” He transferred the glare to Limbeck. “Proceed.”

  “I admit that I don’t know for certain the ship had crashed,” amended Limbeck, “but I guessed that it had, for it was lying broken and damaged among the rocks. There was nowhere to go for shelter except inside the ship. A large hole had been torn in the skin, so I entered.”

  “If what you say is true, you were fortunate that the Welves did not strike you down for your boldness!” cried the Head Clark.

  “The Welves weren’t in much position to strike anyone down,” returned Limbeck. “These immortal Welves-as you call them-were dead.”

  Shouts of outrage, cries of horror and alarm, and a muffled cheer rang through the Factree. The Head Clark fell back into his seat, stricken. The Offense fanned him with her handkerchief and called for water. The High Froman sat bolt upright in shock and managed to wedge himself firmly and inextricably in his chair. Unable to rise to his feet to restore order, he could only wriggle and fume and wave the flashglamp, half-blinding the warders, who were attempting to pull him free.

  “Listen to me!” Limbeck shouted in the voice that had quelled multitudes. No other speaker in WUPP, Jarre included, could be as compelling and charismatic as Limbeck when he was inspired. This speech was the reason he had allowed himself to be arrested. This was, perhaps, his last chance to bring his message to his people. He would make the most of it.

  Jumping onto the iron drum, scattering his papers beneath his feet, Limbeck waved his hands to attract the crowd’s attention.

  “These Welves from the realms above are not gods, as they would have us believe! They are not immortal, but are made of flesh and blood and bone like ourselves! I know, because I saw that flesh rotting away. I saw their corpses in that twisted wreckage.

  “And I saw their world! I saw your ‘glorious heavens.’ They had brought books with them, and I looked at some of them. And truly, it is heaven! They live in a world of wealth and magnificence. A world of beauty that we can only begin to imagine. A world of ease that is supported by our sweat and our labor! And let me tell you! They have no intention of ever ‘taking us up to that world’ as the clarks keep telling us they will, ‘if we are worthy’! Why should they? They have us to use as willing slaves down here! We live in squalor, we serve the Kicksey-Winsey so that they can have the water they need to survive. We battle the storm every day of our miserable lives! So that they can live in luxury off our tears!

  “And that is why I say,” shouted Limbeck over the rising tumult, “that we should learn all we can about the Kicksey-Winsey, take control of it, and force these Welves, who are not gods at all, but mortals, just like us, to give us our proper due!”

  Chaos broke out. Gegs were yelling, screaming, shoving, and pushing. Appalled at the monster he’d unwittingly unleashed.

  The Froman-finally freed from his chair-stomped his feet and pounded the butt-end of his flashglamp on the concrete with such ferocity that he yanked the tail free of the statue and doused the light.

  “Clear the court! Clear the court!”

  Coppers charged in, but it was some time before the excited Gegs could be made to leave the Factree. Then they milled around in the corridors for a while, but fortunately for the High Froman, the whistle-toot signaled a scrift change and the crowds dispersed-either going to perform their service for the Kicksey-Winsey or returning home.

  The High Froman, the Head Clark, the Offensive Voice, Limbeck, and the two warders with smeared face paint were left alone in the Factree.

  “You are a dangerous young man,” said the High Froman. “These lies-“

  “They’re not lies! They’re the truth! I swear-“

  “These lies would, of course, never be believed by the people, but as we have seen this day when you recite them, they lead to turmoil and unrest! You have doomed yourself. Your fate is now in the hands of the Manger. Hold on to the prisoner and keep him quiet!” the High Froman ordered the warders, who latched on to Limbeck firmly, if reluctantly, as though his touch might contaminate them.

  The Head Clark had recovered sufficiently from his shock to appear smug and pious again, this expression mingling with righteous indignation and the certain conviction that sin was about to be punished, retribution exacted.

  The High Froman, walking somewhat unsteadily on feet to which the circulation was only now returning, made his way with aching head over to the statue of the Manger. Led along by the warders, Limbeck followed. Despite the danger, he was, as usual, deeply curious and far more interested in the statue of the Manger itself than in whatever verdict it might hand down. The Head Clark and the Voice crowded close to see. The High Froman, with many bowings and scrapings and mumbled prayers that were echoed reverently by the Head Clark, reached out, grasped the left hand of the Manger, and pulled on it.

  The eyeball that the Manger held in the right hand suddenly blinked and came to life. A light shone, and moving pictures began to flit across the eyeball. The High Froman cast a triumphant glance at the Head Clark and the Voice. Limbeck was absolutely fascinated.

  “The Manger speaks to us!” cried the Head Clark, falling to his knees.

  “A magic lantern!” said Limbeck excitedly, peering into the eyeball. “Only it isn’t really magic, not like the magic of the Welves. It’s mechanical magic! I found one on another part of the Kicksey-Winsey and I took it apart. Those pictures that seem to move are frames revolving around a light so fast that it fools the eyes-“

  “Silence, heretic!” thundered the High Froman. “Sentence has been passed. The Mangers say that you shall be given into their hands.”

  “I don’t think they’re saying any such thing, Yonor,” protested Limbeck. “In fact, I’m not certain what they’re saying. I wonder why-“

  “Why? Why! You will have a lot of time to ask yourself why as you are falling into the heart of the storm!” shouted Darral.

  Limbeck was watching the magic lantern that was repeating the same thing over and over and did not clearly hear what the High Froman had said. “Heart of the storm, Yonor?” The thick lenses magnified his eyes and gave him a buglike appearance that the Froman found particularly disgusting.

  “Yes, so the Mangers have sentenced you.” The High Froman pulled the hand and the eyeball blinked and went out.

  “What? In that picture? No, they didn’t, Yonor,” Limbeck argued. “I’m not certain what it is, but if you’d only give me a chance to study-“

  “Tomorrow morning,” interrupted the High Froman, “you will be made to walk the Steps of Terrel Fen. May the Mangers have mercy on your soul!” Limping, one hand rubbing his numb backside and the other his pounding head, Darral Longshoreman turned on his heel and stalked out of the Factree.

  CHAPTER 12

  XOMBE, LOW REALM

  “VISITOR” SAID THE TURNKEY THROUGH THE IRON BARS.

  “What?” Limbeck sat up on his cot.

  “Visitor. Your sister. Come along.”

  Keys jangled. The closer clicked and the door swung open. Limbeck, considerably startled and extremely confused, rose from the cot and followed the turnkey to the visitors’ vat. As far as he knew, Limbeck didn’t have a sister. Admittedly, he’d been gone from home a number of years, and he didn’t know all that much about rearing children, but he had the vague impression that it took a considerable length of time for a child to be born, then be up walking about, visiting brothers in jail.

  Limbeck
was just performing the necessary calculations when he entered the visitors’ vat. A young woman flung herself at him with such force that she nearly knocked him down.

  “My dear brother!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with more attachment than is generally displayed between siblings.

  “You’ve got till the whistle-toot blows the next scrift change,” said the turnkey in bored tones as he slammed shut and locked the closer behind him.

  “Jarre?” said Limbeck, blinking at her. He’d left his spectacles in the cell.

  “Well, of course!” she said, hugging him fiercely. “Who else did you think it would be?”

  “I… I wasn’t sure’ Limbeck stammered. He was extremely pleased to see Jarre, but he couldn’t help experiencing a slight twinge of disappointment at the loss of a sister. It seemed that family might be a comfort at a time like this. “How did you get here?”

  “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, slowjy 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 … urn … 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 myopicalty. “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