“Ah!” Hugh nodded in sudden understanding. “And so they decide to get rid of one heir, now that there’s another on the way. What about the enchantment?”
“Trian broke it. Ten years of study it took him, but he managed at last. Now Stephen was able to”-Alfred halted, stammering in confusion-“to …”
“… hire an assassin to kill him. How long have you known?”
“From the first.” Alfred flushed. “It was why I followed you.”
“And you would have tried to stop me?”
“I’m not certain.” Alfred’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head confusedly. “I … don’t know.”
A dark seed fell into Hugh’s mind and took root. It grew fast, twisting around his brain, flowering and bearing a noxious fruit. I decided to break the contract. Why? Because the boy is more valuable alive than dead. But so were a number of men I contracted to kill. I never before broke faith. I never before broke a contract, though sometimes I could have made ten times the fee paid me. Why now? I risked my own life to rescue the bastard! I couldn’t kill him after he tried to kill me!
What if the enchantment isn’t broken? What if Bane is still manipulating all of us, beginning with King Stephen?
Hugh looked intently at Alfred. “And what’s the truth about you, chamberlain?”
“You see it before you, sir, I am afraid,” said Alfred humbly, spreading his hands. “I have been in service all my life. I was with Her Royal Highness’s family at their castle in Uylandia. When Her Majesty became queen, she was kind enough to bring me with her.” A slow flush spread over Alfred’s face. His eyes sought the deck. He plucked nervously at the shabby clothing with his clumsy fingers.
Lying does not come easily for this man, not like it does for the child, thought Hugh. Yet, like the child, Alfred is, seemingly, living a lie.
The assassin let it drop, closing his eyes. His shoulder pained him, he felt queasy and lethargic, effects of both the poison and the heavy air pressure. Thinking of all that had passed, he twisted his lips into a bitter smile. Worst of all, his hands smeared red with the blood of countless men, he who had proudly believed himself to be masterless had been mastered-by a child.
Prince Bane poked his head back through the shattered side of the ship. “I think I see it. The great machine! It’s off in the distance, that direction. You can’t see it now, because the clouds have covered it. But I remember the way. Let’s go there now! After all, how can it be dangerous? It’s only rain-“
A bolt of lightning sizzled from sky to ground, blasting a hole in the coralite. The thunderclap shook the ground and nearly knocked the boy over.
“That’s why,” said Hugh.
Another lightning bolt struck with shattering force. Bane shot across the deck and crouched down beside Alfred. Rain pounded on the hull. Hail beat on it with deafening ferocity. Soon, water began pouring in through the cracks in the smashed timber. Bane’s eyes were wide, his face pale, but he didn’t cry out. When he saw his hands were trembling, he clasped them together tightly. Looking at the boy, Hugh saw himself long ago, battling fear with pride-the only weapon in his arsenal.
And it occurred to him that perhaps this was just what Bane wanted him to see.
The assassin fingered the hilt of his sword. It would take only a few seconds. Grasp it, wield it, thrust it deep into the boy’s body. If he was going to be stopped by magic, then he wanted to see it act, know for certain.
Or perhaps he had seen it already.
Hugh moved his hand away from the sword. Lifting his pipe, he saw Bane watching him. The boy’s lips curved in a sweet, charming smile.
CHAPTER 29
WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM
THE HIGH FROMAN WAS HAVING A SAD TIME OF IT. HE WAS BEING PLAGUED BY GODS. Literally dropping from the skies, gods rained down on his defenseless head. Nothing was going right. His once-peaceful realm that had not known a whisper of trouble in the last several centuries was now running amok.
Trudging across the coralite, his band of coppers marching along reluctantly behind him, the Head Clark marching righteously at his side, the Froman thought long and hard about gods and decided that he hadn’t much use for them. First, instead of neatly getting rid of Mad Limbeck, the gods had actually had the audacity to send him back alive. Not only that, but they came with him! Well, one of them did-a god who called himself Haplo. And though confused reports had reached the ears of the High Froman that the god didn’t consider himself a god, Darral Longshoreman didn’t believe it for a flicker.
Unfortunately, whether this Haplo was or he wasn’t, he was stirring up trouble wherever he went-and that was pretty nearly everywhere, including, now, the Gegs’ capital city of Wombe. Mad Limbeck and his wild WUPP’s were dragging the god across the countryside, making speeches, telling the people that they were being misused, ill-treated, enslaved, and the Mangers knew what else. Of course, Mad Limbeck had been ranting and raving about this for some considerable length of time, but now, with the god standing at his side, the Gegs were beginning to listen to him!
Half the clarks had been completely won over. The Head Clark, seeing his church falling apart around him, was demanding that the High Froman do something.
“And what am I supposed to do?” Darral asked sourly. “Arrest this Haplo, this god who says he isn’t a god? That won’t do anything except convince the people who do believe in him that they’ve been right all along and convince the rest who don’t that they should!”
“Bosh!” sniffed the Head Clark, who hadn’t understood a thing the High Froman said but who knew he didn’t agree with it.
“Bosh! That’s all you’ve got to say! It’s all your fault, anyhow!” the High Froman shouted, working himself into a rage. “Let the Mangers take care of Mad Limbeck, you said. Well, they took care of him, all right! Sent him back to destroy us!”
The Head Clark had stormed off in a huff. But he’d been back quick enough when the ship was sighted.
Plummeting out of the skies where it had no business being, since it wasn’t time for the monthly festival yet, the dragonship had landed in the Outland some distance away from an outer sector of Wombe known as Stomak. The High Froman had seen it from his bedroom window and his heart had sunk. More gods-just what he needed!
At first Darral thought he might have been the only one to see it and that he could pretend he hadn’t. No such luck. A number of other Gegs saw it, including the Head Clark. Worse still, one of his sharp-eyed, no-brains coppers had reported seeing Something Alive come out of it. The copper, as punishment, was now stumbling along after his chief on their way to investigate.
“I guess this’ll teach you!” Darral rounded on the unfortunate copper. “It’s because of you we’re being forced to come out here. If you’d kept your lips from flapping! But, no! You have to go and see one of ‘em! Not only that, but you have to shout it out to half the realm!”
“I only said it to the Head Clark,” protested the copper.
“It’s the same thing,” Darral muttered.
“Well, but I think it’s only right that we have our own god now, High Froman,” persisted the copper. ” ‘Tisn’t fair, to my mind, those clods in Met having a god and us going without. I reckon this’ll show ‘em!”
The Head Clark raised an eyebrow. Anger forgotten, he sidled over to the High Froman. “He does have a point,” murmured the clark in Darral’s ear. “If we have our own god, we can use him to counter Limbeck’s god.”
Stumbling along over the cracked and gouged coralite, the High Froman had to admit that his brother-in-law had, for once in his life, come up with something that sounded halfway intelligent. My own god, mused Darral Longshoreman, squelching through the puddles, heading for the dragonship. There’s got to be some way to work this to my advantage.
Seeing that they were nearing the wrecked dragonship, the High Froman slowed his march, raising his hand to warn those behind him to slow theirs-something that was not necessary. The coppers had already come to
a standstill about ten feet behind their leader.
The High Froman glared at his men in exasperation and started to curse them all for cowards, but on second thought, he considered that it was probably just as well his men remained behind. It would look better if he treated with the gods alone. He cast a sidelong glance at the Head Clark.
“I think you should stay here,” said Darral. “It might be dangerous.”
Since Darral Longshoreman had never in his entire life been concerned about his welfare, the Head Clark was very rightly suspicious at this sudden consideration and promptly and unequivocally refused. “It’s only proper that a churchman greet these immortal beings,” said the Head Clark loftily. “I suggest, in fact, that you allow me to do the talking.”
The storm had cleared, but there was another coming (on Drevlin there was always another coming!), and Darral didn’t have time to argue. Contenting himself with muttering that the Head Clark could talk all he wanted through a split lip, the High Froman and his cohort turned and marched-with a remarkable courage that would later be celebrated in story and song-right up to the battered hull of the downed ship. (The courage exhibited by the two Gegs should not, after all, be considered that remarkable, the copper having reported that the Creature he had seen emerge from the ship was small and puny-looking. Their true courage would be tested shortly.)
Standing next to the damaged hull, the High Froman was momentarily at a loss. He’d never spoken to a god before. At the monthly sacred docking ceremonies, the Welves appeared in their huge winged ships, sucked up the water, threw down their reward, and departed. Not a bad way of doing things, the High Froman thought regretfully. He was just opening his mouth to announce to the small, puny-looking god inside the ship that his servants were here when there emerged a god who was anything but small and puny-looking.
The god was tall and dark, with a black beard that hung in two braids from his chin and long black hair that flowed over his shoulders. His face was hard, his eyes as sharp and cold as the coralite on which the Geg stood. The god carried in his hand a weapon of bright, glittering steel.
At the sight of this formidable, frightening creature, the Head Clark, forgetting completely about church protocol, turned and fled. Most of the coppers, seeing the church abandoning the field, figured doom had descended and took to their heels. Only one stalwart copper remained-the one who had sighted the god and had reported it to be small and puny. Perhaps he thought he had nothing to lose.
“Humpf! Good riddance,” muttered Darral. Turning to the god, he bowed so low his long beard dragged the wet ground. “Your Wurship,” said the High Froman humbly, “we welcome you to our realm. Have you come for the Judgment?”
The god stared at him, then turned to another god (the Froman inwardly groaned-how many of these were there?) and spoke something to this second god in words that were a meaningless babble to the High Froman. The second god-a bald, weak, soft-looking god, if you asked Darral Longshoreman-shook his head, a blank expression on his face.
And it occurred to the High Froman that these gods hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
In that instant, Darral Longshoreman realized that Mad Limbeck wasn’t mad after all. These weren’t gods. Gods would have understood him. These were mortal men. They had come in a dragonship, which meant that the Welves in their dragonships were most likely mortal. If the Kicksey-Winsey had suddenly ceased to function, if every whirly had stopped whirling, every gear stopped grinding, every whistle stopped tooting, the High Froman could not have been more appalled. Mad Limbeck was right! There would be no Judgment! They would never be lifted up to Geg’s Hope. Glowering at the gods and at their wrecked ship, Darral realized that the gods themselves couldn’t even get off Drevlin!
A low rumble of thunder warned the High Froman that he and these “gods” didn’t have time to stand around and stare at one another. Disillusioned, angry, needing time to think, the High Froman turned his back on the “gods” and started to head for his city.
“Wait!” came a voice. “Where are you going?”
Startled, Darral whirled around. A third god had appeared.
This must have been the one the copper had seen, for this god was small and frail-looking. This god was a child! And had Darral only imagined it, or had the child spoken to him in words he understood?
“Greetings. I am Prince Bane,” said the child in excellent but halting Geg, sounding almost as if he were being prompted. One hand was clasped tightly around a feather amulet he wore on his breast. He held out his other hand, palm open, in the ritual Geg gesture of friendship. “My father is Sinistrad, Mysteriarch of the Seventh House, Ruler of the High Realm.”
Darral Longshoreman drew in a deep, shivering breath. Never in his life had he seen such a beautiful being as this. Bright golden hair, bright blue eyes-the child glistened like the shining metal of the Kicksey-Winsey.
Perhaps I’ve been mistaken. Mad Limbeck is wrong, after all. Surely this being is immortal! Somewhere from deep within the Geg, buried beneath centuries of Sundering, holocaust, and rupture, came a phrase to Darral’s mind, “And a little child shall lead them.”
“Greetings, Prince B-Bane,” returned the High Froman, stumbling over the name that held, in his language, no meaning. “Have you come to pass Judgment on us at last?”
The child’s eyelids flickered; then he said coolly, “Yes, I have come to judge you. Where is your king?”
“I am the High Froman, Your Wurship, ruler of my people. It would be a great honor if you would deign to visit our city, Your Wurship.” The High Froman’s gaze strayed nervously to the approaching storm. Gods probably weren’t bothered by bolts of lightning sizzling down from the heavens, and Darral found it somewhat embarrassing to hint that high fromen were. However, the child appeared to be cognizant of the Geg’s plight and to take pity on it. Casting a glance back at his two companions, whom Darral now took for the god’s servants or guards, Prince Bane indicated he was ready to travel and glanced about for the conveyance.
“I’m sorry, Your Wurship,” muttered the High Froman, flushing warmly, “but we have to … er … walk.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the god, and jumped gleefully into a puddle.
CHAPTER 30
WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM
LIMBECK WAS SITTING IN THE DRAFTY HEADQUARTERS OF WUPP WRITING THE SPEECH he would deliver at the rally tonight. His spectacles perched precariously on his head, the Geg scribbled his words onto the paper, happily spattering ink over everything and completely oblivious of the chaos erupting around him. Haplo sat near him, the dog at his feet.
Quiet, taciturn, unobtrusive-indeed, going almost unnoticed-the Patryn lounged in a Geg chair that was too short for him. His long legs extending out in front of him, he idly watched the organized confusion. His cloth-wound hand dropped occasionally to scratch the dog on the head or to pat it reassuringly in the event that something startled it.
WUPP Headquarters in the Geg capital city of Wombe was-literally-a hole in the wall. The Kicksey-Winsey had once decided it needed to expand in a certain direction, knocked a hole in the wall of a Geg dwelling, then had apparently decided, for some unknown reason, that it didn’t want to go that way after all. The hole in the wall remained and the twenty or so Geg families who had occupied the dwelling had moved, since one could never be certain but that the Kicksey-Winsey might change its mind again.
Beyond a few minor inconveniences-such as the perpetual draft-it was, however, ideal for the establishment of WUPP Headquarters. There had been no WUPP Headquarters in the capital of Drevlin. The High Froman and the church both held crushing power here. But after Limbeck’s triumphant return from the dead-bringing with him a god who claimed he wasn’t a god-reached Wombe via the newssingers, the Gegs clamored to know more about WUPP and its leader. Jarre herself traveled to Wombe to establish the Union, distribute pamphlets, and find a suitable building to serve both as center of operations and a place to live. Her primary, secret goal, h
owever, was to discover if the High Froman and/or the church was going to give them trouble, Jarre hoped they would. She could almost hear the newssingers across the land warbling, “Coppers Crush Converts!” Nothing of the sort had occurred, much to Jarre’s disappointment, and Limbeck and Haplo (and the dog) were met by cheering crowds when they entered the city. Jarre hinted that this was undoubtedly a dark and subtle plot by the High Froman to ensnare them all, but Limbeck said it simply proved that Darral Longshoreman was fair and open-minded.
Now crowds of Gegs stood outside the hole in the wall, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the famous Limbeck or of his god-who-wasn’t. WUPP members rushed importantly in and out, bearing messages to or from Jarre, who was so busy running things that she didn’t have time to make speeches anymore.
Jarre was in her element. She led WUPP with ruthless efficiency. Her skills in organization, her inherent knowledge of the Gegs, and her management of Limbeck had been responsible for setting the Gegs’ world aflame with anger and the call for revolution. She poked, prodded, and pummeled Limbeck into shape, shoved him forth to issue words of genius, and hauled him back When it was time to quit. Her awe of Haplo soon faded and she began to treat him the same way she treated Limbeck, telling him what to say and how long to say it.
Haplo submitted to her in everything with easy, casual pliability. He was, Jarre discovered, a man of few words, but those Words had a way of searing into the heart, leaving a mark that burned long after the iron had grown cool.
“Is your speech ready for tonight, Haplo?” She paused in the act of drafting a reply to an attack that the church had made on them-an attack so simpleminded that to answer it was to give it more credence than it deserved.
“I will say what I always say, if that is agreeable to you, madam,” he replied with the quiet respect that marked all his dealings with the Gegs.
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