Dragon Wing

31

“Alfred.”

“Sir?”

“Do you understand what they’re saying?”

Hugh motioned to Bane, chatting with the Geg, the two of them scrambling across the coralite. Storm clouds gathered at their backs and the wind was rising and keened eerily among the bits and pieces of lightning-blasted coralite. Ahead of them was the city Bane had seen. Or rather, not a city but a machine. Or perhaps a machine that was a city.

“No, sir,” said Alfred, looking directly at Bane’s back and speaking more loudly than was usual for him. “I do not speak the language of these people. I do not believe that there are many of our race, or the elves either, for that matter, who do.”

“A few of the elves speak it—those who captain the waterships. But if you don’t speak it, and I assume that Stephen didn’t, then where did His Highness learn it?”

“How can you ask, sir?” said Alfred, glancing significantly toward the heavens.

He wasn’t referring to the storm clouds. Up there, far above the Maelstrom, was the High Realm, where dwelt the mysteriarchs in their self-imposed exile, living in a world said by legend to be wealthy beyond the dreams of the greediest man and beautiful beyond the imagining of the most fanciful.

“Understanding the language of a different race or culture is one of the simpler of the magical spells. I wouldn’t be surprised if that amulet he wears—Oh!”

Alfred’s feet decided to take a side trip down a hole and took the rest of Alfred with them. The Geg stopped and looked around in alarm at the man’s cry. Bane said something, laughing, and he and the Geg continued on their way. Hugh extricated Alfred and, keeping his hand on his arm, guided him rapidly over the rough ground. The first raindrops were falling out of the sky, hitting the coralite with loud splatters.

Alfred cast an uneasy sidelong glance at Hugh, and the Hand read the unspoken appeal to keep his mouth shut. In that appeal, Hugh had his answer, and it wasn’t the one Alfred had given for Bane’s benefit. Of course Alfred spoke the Gegs’ language. No one listened intently to a conversation he couldn’t understand. And Alfred had been listening intently to Bane and the Geg. What was more interesting—to Hugh’s mind—was that Alfred was keeping his knowledge secret from the prince.

Hugh thoroughly approved spying on His Highness, but that opened the other nagging question. Where—and why—had a chamberlain learned to speak Geg? Who—or what—was Alfred Montbank?

The storm broke in all its deadly fury and the humans and the Gegs made for the city of Wombe at a dead run. Rain fell in a gray wall in front of them, partially obscuring their vision. But the noise made by the machine was, fortunately, so loud that they could hear it over the storm, feel its vibrations underfoot, and knew they were headed in the right direction. A crowd of Gegs were waiting by an open doorway for them and hustled them all inside the machine. The sounds of the storm ceased, but the sounds of the machine were louder, clanking and banging above, around, below, and beyond. Several Gegs, who appeared to be armed guards of some sort, plus a Geg dressed up to look like an elflord’s footman, were waiting—somewhat nervously—to greet them.

“Bane, what’s going on?” Hugh demanded loudly, shouting to be heard above the racket made by the machine. “Who is this guy and what does he want?” Bane looked up at Hugh with an ingenuous grin, obviously highly pleased with himself and his newfound power. “He’s the king of his people!” shouted Bane.

“What?”

“King! He’s going to take us to some sort of judgment hall.”

“Can’t he take us somewhere quiet?” Hugh’s head was beginning to throb. Bane turned to the king with the question. To Hugh’s amazement, all the Gegs stared at him in horror, shaking their heads emphatically.

“What the hell is the matter with them?”

The prince began to giggle.

“They think you’ve asked for a place to go to die!” At this juncture, the Geg dressed in silk hose, knee breeches, and a worn velvet doublet was introduced to Bane by the Geg king. The velvet-clad Geg threw himself to his knees. Taking Bane’s hand, he pressed it against his forehead.

“Who do they think you are, kid?” Hugh asked.

“A god,” Bane answered airily. “One they’ve been looking for, it seems. I’m going to pass judgment on them.”

The Gegs led their newly discovered gods through the streets of Wombe—streets that ran up, under, and straight through the Kicksey-Winsey. Hugh the Hand was not awed by many things in this world—not even death impressed him much—but he was awed by the great machine. It flashed, it glittered, it sparkled. It whumped and thwanged and hissed. It pumped and whirled and shot out blasts of searing hot steam. It created arcs of sizzling blue lightning. It soared higher than he could see, delved deeper than he could imagine. Huge gears engaged, huge wheels revolved, huge boilers boiled. It had arms and hands and legs and feet, all made of shining metal, all busily engaged in going somewhere other than where they were. It had eyes that shed a blinding light and mouths that screeched and hooted. Gegs crawled over it, climbed up it, clambered down into it, turned it, tapped it, and tended it with obvious loving care and devotion.

Bane, too, was overwhelmed. He gazed with wide-open eyes, his mouth gaping in ungodlike wonder.

“This is amazing!” breathed the boy. “I’ve never seen anything like this!”

“You haven’t, Your Wurship?” exclaimed the High Froman, looking at the child-god in astonishment. “But you gods built it!”

“Oh, er, yes,” Bane stammered. “It’s just that I meant I’d never seen . . . anything like the way you’re taking care of it!” he finished with a rush, exhaling the words in relief.

“Yes,” said the high dark with dignity, his face glowing with pride. “We take excellent care of it.”

The prince bit his tongue. He wanted very much to ask what this wondrous machine did, but it was obvious that this little king fellow expected him to know everything—not an unreasonable assumption in a god. Bane was on his own in this too, his father having imparted to him all the information he had on the great machine of the Low Realm. This being a god wasn’t as easy as it had first appeared, and the prince began regretting he’d agreed to it so fast. There was this judgment thing. Who was he judging, and why? Would he be sending anyone to the dungeons? He really needed to find out, but how?

The little king fellow was, Bane decided, just a bit too shrewd. He was very respectful and polite, but the boy saw that when he wasn’t looking, the Geg was scrutinizing him with a gaze that was sharp and penetrating. Walking along on the prince’s right, however, was another Geg who reminded the child of a performing monkey he’d seen once at court. Bane guessed from what he’d heard that the beruffled, beribboned, velvet-lined Geg had something to do with the religion in which the boy had suddenly found himself so intimately involved. This Geg didn’t appear to be all that bright, and the prince decided to turn to him for answers.

“Pardon me,” said the boy with a charming smile for the Head Clark, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Wes Wrenchwranger, Your Wurship,” said the Geg, bowing as best he could for his stoutness, and nearly tripping on his long beard. “I have the honor to be Your Wurship’s Head Clark.”

Whatever that is, Bane muttered to himself. Outwardly he smiled and nodded and gave every indication that nowhere else on Drevlin could he have found a Geg more suited for that position.

Sidling close to the Head Clark, Bane slipped his hand into the Geg’s hand—a proceeding which caused the Head Clark to swell rather alarmingly and cast a glance of supreme self-satisfaction at his brother-in-law, the High Froman. Darral paid little attention. The crowds lining the streets to see them were getting unruly. He was glad to see the coppers reacting to it. For the moment they appeared to have matters under control, but he knew he would need to keep a watchful eye on things. He only hoped the child-god couldn’t understand what some of the Gegs were shouting. Damn that Limbeck anyway!

Fortunately for Darral, the child-god was completely absorbed in his own problems.

“Perhaps you could help me, Head Clark,” said Bane, flushing shyly and very prettily.

“I would be honored, Your Wurship!”

“You know, it’s been an awfully long time since we—your gods . . . Uh, what did you call us?”

“The Mangers, Your Wurship. That is what you call yourselves, isn’t it?”

“Yes, oh, yes! Mangers. It’s just that, well, as I was saying, we Mangers have been away an awfully long time—”

“—many centuries, Your Wurship,” said the Head Clark.

“Yes, many centuries, and we’ve noticed that quite a few things have changed since we were away.” Bane drew a deep breath. This was coming easier all the time. “Therefore we’ve decided that this judgment-thing should be changed as well.”

The Head Clark felt some of his smugness begin to drain from him. He glanced uneasily at the High Froman. If he, the Head Clark, screwed up the Judgment, it would be the last screw he ever turned.

“I’m not quite certain what you mean, Your Wurship.”

“Modernize it, bring it up-to-date,” suggested Bane. The Head Clark appeared terribly confused. How could you change something that had never before happened? Still, he supposed that the gods must have had it planned out. “I guess it would be all right—”

“Never mind. I can see you’re uncomfortable with the idea,” said the prince, patting the Head Clark on his velvet-covered arm. “I’ve got a suggestion. You tell me the way you want me to handle it and I’ll do it just like you say.” The Head Clark’s face brightened. “You can’t believe how wonderful this moment is for me, Your Wurship! I’ve dreamed of it for so long. And now, to have the Judgment go just as I’ve always imagined . . .” He wiped tears from his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” said Bane. He noted that the High Froman was watching them with narrowed eyes and edging nearer all the time. He might have stopped their conversation before this except that it was undoubtedly considered bad manners to interrupt a god in confidential conference. “Go on.”

“Well, I always pictured all the Gegs—or at least as many as we could get in there—dressed in their very best clothes, standing in the Factree. You would be there, seated in the Manger’s Chair, of course.”

“Of course, and—”

“And I would be there, standing before the crowd in my new Head Cark suit that I would have made specially for the occasion. White, I think, would be proper, with black bows at the knees, nothing too overdone—”

“Very tasteful. And then—”

“The High Froman would be standing there with us too, I suppose, Your Wurship? That is, unless we could find something else for him to do. You see, Your Wurship, what he’ll find fit to wear is going to be a problem. Perhaps, with this modernization you were discussing, we might dispense with him.”

“I’ll think about it.” Bane gripped the feather amulet and tried very hard to be patient. “Go on. We’re all up in front of the crowd. I stand up and I ...” He looked expectantly at the Head Clark.

“Why, you judge us, Your Wurship.”

The prince had the sudden satisfying vision of sinking his teeth into the Geg’s velvet arm. Reluctantly banishing the thought, he drew a deep breath.

“Fine. I judge you. And then what happens? I know! We’ll declare a holiday!”

“I don’t really think there’ll be time for that, do you, Your Wurship?” said the Geg, looking at Bane with a puzzled expression.

“P-perhaps not,” stammered the prince. “I forgot about . . . the other. When we’re all . .” Slipping his hand from the hand of the Head Clark, the boy wiped his sweating forehead. It was certainly hot inside the machine. Hot and noisy. His throat was getting sore from shouting. “What is it we’re all doing now, after I’ve judged you?”

“Why, that depends on whether or not you’ve found us worthy, Your Wurship.”

“Let’s say I find you worthy,” Bane said, gritting his teeth. “Then what?”

“Then we ascend, Your Wurship.”

“Ascend?” The prince looked at the catwalks running hither and thither above him.

The Head Clark, misunderstanding his gaze, sighed with happiness. His face glowing beatifically, he lifted his hands.

“Yes, Your Wurship. Right straight up into heaven!” Marching along behind Bane and his adoring Gegs, Hugh devoted one eye to his surroundings and the other to the prince. He soon ceased to try to keep track of where they were, admitting to himself that he could never find his way out of the insides of the machine without help. News of their coming had apparently rushed on ahead of them. Thousands of Gegs lined the halls and corridors of the machine, staring, shouting, and pointing. Gegs busy with their work actually turned their heads, bestowing on Hugh and his companions—had they known it—a high honor by forgetting their tasks for a few seconds. The reaction of the Gegs, however, was mixed. Some were cheering with enthusiasm, but others appeared to be angry.

Hugh was more interested in Prince Bane and what he was doing in such close confab with the ruffled Geg. Silently cursing himself for never having bothered to learn any of the Geg language when he was with the elves, Hugh felt a tug on his sleeve and turned his attention to Alfred.

“Sir,” said Alfred, “have you noticed what the crowd is yelling?”

“Gibberish, as far as I’m concerned. But you understand it, don’t you, Alfred?”

Alfred flushed deeply. “I am sorry I had to conceal my knowledge from you, Sir Hugh. But I believed it important that I conceal it from another.” He glanced at the prince. “When you asked me that question, it was just possible that he could have heard my answer, and so I felt I had no choice—” Hugh made a deprecating motion with his hand. Alfred had a point. It had been the Hand who had made the mistake. He should have realized what Alfred was doing and never spoken up. It was just that never in Hugh’s life had he felt so damn helpless!

“Where did you learn to speak Geg?”

“The study of the Gegs and the Low Realm has been a hobby of mine, sir,” answered Alfred with the shy, proud consciousness of a true enthusiast. “I daresay I have one of the finest collections of books written about their culture in the Mid Realm. If you would be interested, when we return, I’ll be happy to show you—”

“If you left those books in the palace, you can forget them. Unless you plan on asking Stephen to give you leave to run back in and pick up your things.”

“You’re right, sir, of course. How stupid of me.” Alfred’s shoulders sagged.

“All my books ... I don’t suppose I’ll ever see them again.”

“What were you saying about the crowd?”

“Oh, yes.” The chamberlain glanced around at the cheering and occasionally jeering Gegs. “Some are calling out, ‘Down with the Froman’s god!’ and ‘We want Limbeck’s god!’ ”

“Limbeck? What does that mean?”

“It’s a Geg name, I believe, sir. It means ‘to distill or extract.’ If I might make a suggestion? I think . . .” Instinctively he lowered his voice, and in the noise and commotion, Hugh lost his words.

“Talk louder. No one can understand us, can they?”

“Oh, I suppose not,” said Alfred, light dawning. “That hadn’t occurred to me. I was saying, sir, that there might be another human such as ourselves down here.”

“Or an elf. That’s more likely. Either way, odds are they’ve got a ship we can use to get out of here!”

“Yes, sir. I thought that might be the case.”

“We’ve got to see this Limbeck and his god or whatever.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult, sir. Not if our little ‘god’ commands it.”

“Our little ‘god’ seems to have gotten himself in some sort of trouble,” said Hugh, his gaze going to the prince. “Look at his face.”

“Oh, dear,” murmured Alfred.

Bane had twisted his head back to search for his companions. His cheeks were pale, his blue eyes wide. Biting his lip, he made a hurried motion for them to come up to him.

An entire squadron of armed Gegs marched between them and the prince. Hugh shook his head. Bane gazed at him pleadingly. Alfred, looking sympathetic, gestured at the crowd. Bane was a prince. He knew what was due an audience. Sighing, he turned around and began to wave his small hand feebly and without enthusiasm.

“I was afraid of this,” said Alfred.

“What do you think’s happened?”

“The boy said something about the Gegs thinking he was the god who had come to ‘judge’ them. He spoke about it glibly, but it is very serious to the Gegs. According to their legends, it was the Mangers who built the great machine. The Gegs were to serve it until the Day of Judgment, when they would be rewarded and carried up into the higher realms. That was how the isle Geg’s Hope came by its name.”

“Mangers. Who are these Mangers?”

“The Sartan.”

“Devil take us!” the Hand swore. “You mean they think the kid is one of the Sartan?”

“It would seem so, sir.”

“I don’t suppose he could fake it, with help from daddy?”

“No, sir. Not even a mysteriarch of the Seventh House, such as his father, possesses magical powers compared to those of the Sartan. After all,” said Alfred, gesturing, “they built all this.”

Hugh cared little about that now. “Great! Just great! And what do you think they’ll do when they find out we’re impostors?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Ordinarily, the Gegs are peaceful, gentle people. But then, I don’t suppose they’ve ever had anyone pretend to be one of their gods before. In addition, they seem to be in a turmoil over something.” Alfred, looking at the crowds growing increasingly hostile, shook his head. “I would say, sir, that we’ve come at rather a bad time.”