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 her 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 erjoy 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 viewpoint-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 able 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 o
n 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.
Limbeck found himself hanging by his wrists from the rapidly defeathering wings, staring down at his feet. After the first moment of sickening panic subsided and Limbeck was fairly certain he wasn’t going to throw up, he noticed that his situation had improved. The fabric, now missing most of the feathers, billowed out above him, slowing his rate of descent, and though he was still getting tossed around considerably, the motion was more stable and less erratic.
The laws of aerodynamics were just beginning to emerge from Limbeck’s fertile mind when he saw, materializing out of the storm clouds below him, a darkish blob. Squinting, Limbeck ascertained at length that the blob was one of the islands of the Terrel Fen. It had seemed to him that when he was among the clouds, he was drifting down very slowly, and he was astonished to note that the isle appeared to be rising up to meet him at an alarming rate of speed. It was at this point that Limbeck discovered two laws simultaneously: the theory of relativity being one, the law of gravity being another.
Unfortunately, both laws were driven clean out of his head by the impact.
CHAPTER 14
SOMEWHERE, UYLANDIA CLUSTER, MID REALM
THE MORNING LIMBECK WAS GLIDING DOWNWARD INTO THE TERREL FEN, HUGH AND the prince were flying dragonback into the nightside somewhere over the Uylandia Cluster. The flight was cold and cheerless. Trian had given the dragon its directions, so that Hugh had nothing to do but sit in the saddle and think. He could not even tell what track they were flying, for a magical cloud accompanied them.
The dragon would occasionally dip down below the cloud to get its bearings, and then Hugh tried to glean, from the softly glowing coralite landscape moving smoothly beneath them, some idea of where he was and where he had been. Hugh had no doubt but that he’d been double-crossed, and he would have given half the money in his purse to know the whereabouts of Stephen’s hideout in case he decided to complain about his treatment in person. It was useless, however, and he soon gave up.
“I’m hungry-” began Bane, his childish high voice splitting the still night air.
“Hold your tongue!” snapped Hugh.
He heard a swift intake of breath. Glancing around, he saw the boy’s eyes widen and shimmer with tears. The kid had probably never been yelled at in his entire life.
“Sound carries clearly in the night air, Your Highness,” said the Hand softly. “If someone is following us, we don’t want to make it easy for him.”
“Is someone following us?” Bane was pale but undaunted, and Hugh gave the kid credit for courage.
“I think so, Your Highness. But don’t worry.”
The prince pressed his lips tightly together. Timidly he slid his arms around Hugh’s waist. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?” he whispered.
Small arms tightened around Hugh, he felt a warm body nestle against his, and the child’s head rested lightly on his strong back. “I’m not afraid,” Bane added stoutly, “it’s just nicer when you’re close.”
A strange sensation swept over the assassin. Hugh felt suddenly dark and empty and abhorrently evil. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the impulse to free himself of the kid’s touch by concentrating on their immediate danger.
Someone was following them. Whoever it was, he was good at it, too. Twisting around in the saddle, Hugh searched the sky, hoping that their shadow-fearful of losing sight of them-might grow careless and show himself. Hugh saw nothing, however. He couldn’t even have told exactly how he knew they had company. It was a prickling at the back of his neck, instinct reacting to a sound, a smell, something glimpsed from the corner of the eye. He quietly accepted the warning, his one thought: Who was trailing them and why?
Trian. There was that possibility, of course, but Hugh discounted it. The wizard knew their destination better than they did. He might have been following them to make certain the Hand didn’t attempt to subvert the dragon and make off with it. That would have been foolish in the extreme. Hugh was no wizard, he knew better than to meddle with a spell, especially one laid on a dragon. Ensorceled, dragons were obedient and tractable. Break the enchantment, and they regained their own will and intelligence and became totally erratic and unpredictable. They might continue to serve you, but they might also decide to make you their evening repast.
If it wasn’t Trian, who was it?
Someone from the queen, no doubt. Hugh cursed the wizard and his king long and hard beneath his breath. The bungling fools had let slip their plans. Now, undoubtedly, Hugh had to contend with some baron or earl attempting to rescue the child. The Hand would have to rid himself of this nuisance, which meant laying a trap, cutting a throat, hiding a body. The kid would probably recognize the man, know him to be a friend. He would grow suspicious. Hugh would have to convince the prince that the friend had been an enemy; that his enemy was truly his friend. It looked to be a lot of bother, and all because Trian and his guilt-ridden king had been careless.
Well, thought Hugh grimly, it’ll cost them.
The dragon began spiraling down, without guidance from Hugh, and the Hand guessed that they had reached their destination. The magical cloud disappeared and Hugh glimpsed a patch of forest, dark black against the blue-glowing coralite, and then a large cleared area and the sharply defined and delineated shapes that were never found in nature but were created by man.
It was a small village, nestled in a valley of coralite and surrounded by heavy forests. Hugh knew of many such towns that used the hills and trees to hide themselves from elven attack. They paid the penalty by being well off the major airlanes, but if it came to a question of living well or living at all, some people gladly chose poverty.
Hugh knew the value of life. Measuring it against good living, he considered them fools.
The dragon circled the sleeping village. Seeing a glade in the forest, Hugh guided the beast to a smooth landing. As he unpacked their gear from the dragon’s back, he wondered where their shadow had set down. He did not spend much time considering the question. The Hand had laid his snare. It required only baiting.
The dragon left them immediately after it was unloaded. Rising into the air, it disappeared above the treetops. Casually, taking his time, Hugh shouldered the packs. Motioning to the prince to follow, he was heading off into the woods when he felt a tug at his sleeve.
“What is it, Your Highness?”
“Can we talk out loud now?” The child’s eyes were wide.
Hugh nodded.
“I can carry my own pack. I’m stronger than I look. My father says someday I’m going to grow up to be as tall and strong as he is.”
Stephen said that, did he? To a kid he knew would never grow up. If I had that bastard in front of me, it’d be a pleasure to twist his neck.
Silently Hugh handed Bane the pack. They reached the edge of the forest and plunged into the deep shadows beneath the hargast trees. Soon they would be lost to sight and hearing, their feet making no sound on the thick carpet of fine dustlike crystals.
The Hand felt another tug at his sleeve.
“Sir Hugh,” said Bane, pointing, “who’s that?”
Startled, the Hand glanced around. “There’s no one there, Your Highness.”
“Yes, there is,” said the child. “Don’t you see him? It’s a Kir monk.”
Hugh halted and stared
at the boy.
“It’s all right if you don’t see him,” added Bane, shifting his pack to lie more comfortably across his small shoulders. “I see lots of things other people don’t. But I’ve never seen a Kir monk walk with anyone before. Why is he with you?”
“Let me carry it, Your Highness.” Hugh took the pack from the prince and, propelling the child in front of him with a firm grip of his hand, resumed walking.
Damn Trian! The blasted wizard must have let something else slip. The kid had picked up on it and now his imagination was running wild. He might even guess the truth. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. It only made the assassin’s job that much more difficult-and therefore that much more expensive.
The two spent what was left of the night in a water harvester’s warming shed. The sky was lightening; Hugh could see the faint glimmer of the firmament that presaged dawn. The edges of the Lords of Night glistened a fiery red. Now he could determine the direction in which they were moving and could at last orient himself. Inspecting the contents of his pack before leaving the monastery, he’d ascertained that he had all the proper navigational equipment-his own having been taken from him in Yreni prison. He removed a small leather-bound book and silver baton topped by a quartz sphere. The baton had a spike on the end and Hugh shoved it into the ground.
All such sextants are of elven make-humans possessing no mechanical magic skills. This one was practically new and he guessed it was a trophy of war. Hugh gave the baton a tap with his finger and the sphere rose into the air, much to the delight of Bane, who was watching in wide-eyed fascination.
Scarcity of water in the Mid Realm means that much of it must be harvested from plant life. Water farmers raise such water-producing plants; water harvesters go foraging for the liquid.
“What’s it doing?” he demanded.
“Look through it,” Hugh offered.
The prince hesitantly placed his eye level with the sphere. “I just see a bunch of numbers,” he said, disappointed.
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