Into the Labyrinth

14

“Look!” Limbeck exclaimed, coming to a halt with a suddenness that caused several people traipsing along at his heels to stumble into him. “There’s my sock!”

The Sartan tunnels were shadowed and eerie, lit only by the blue rune-lights that flickered along the base of the wall. These runes were leading the party to its destination—or so all of them devoutly hoped, although more than a few were beginning to have serious doubts. No one had brought torches or lamps, Limbeck having assured them all that the tunnels were well lighted. (So they were, to a dwarf.)

Since the departure of the dragon-snakes, the feeling of evil that had wafted through the tunnels like the foul smell of something dead and decaying was no longer prevalent. But there remained in the tunnels a sensation of lingering sadness, regret for mistakes made in the past, regret that there had been no future in which to correct them. It was as if the ghosts of the builders of the Kicksey-winsey walked among them, benevolent but sorrowful. We’re sorry. The words seemed to whisper from the shadows. So very sorry... Hearts were subdued. The dignitaries bunched together in the darkness, glad to feel the touch of a warm hand—be it human, elven, or dwarven. Trian was visibly moved, and Jarre was just beginning to feel a choke in her throat when Limbeck made his discovery.

“My sock!”

Eagerly the dwarf hurried over to the wall, proudly pointed out a bit of string running along the floor.

“I beg your pardon, High Froman?” Trian was not certain he’d understood the words, which were spoken in dwarven. “Did you say something about a... er...”

“Sock,” Limbeck said for the third time. He was about to launch into the exciting tale, which had come to be one of his favorites—all about how they had discovered the metal man, how then Haplo had been captured by the elves, and how he, Limbeck, had been left alone, lost in the tunnels with no way out and only his socks standing between him and disaster.

“My dear,” said Jarre, giving his beard a tweak, “there isn’t time.”

“But I’m certain there will be after the machine is up and running,” Trian hastened to add, seeing that the dwarf appeared extremely disappointed. “I would really enjoy hearing your tale.”

“You would?” Limbeck brightened.

“Most assuredly,” said Trian with such eagerness that Jarre regarded him with suspicion.

“At least,” said Limbeck, starting out again, Trian at his side, “now I know we’re going in the right direction.”

This statement appeared to comfort the vast majority of the procession. They hurried after Limbeck. Jarre lagged behind.

She was sad and grumpy on the day that should have been the most joyous of her life, and she didn’t understand why.

A cold, wet nose prodded her in the back of the leg.

“Hullo, dog,” she said dispiritedly, timidly patting its head.

“What’s wrong?” Haplo asked, coming up beside her. She looked startled. She’d supposed he was in front, with Limbeck. But then Haplo was rarely where you thought he ought to be.

“Everything’s changing,” said Jarre with a sigh.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Haplo asked. “It’s what you wanted. What you and Limbeck worked for. What you risked your lives for.”

“Yes,” Jarre admitted. “I know. And change will be good. The elves have offered to let our people move up to our ancestral homes in the Mid Realms. Our children will play in the sunshine. And, of course, those who want to stay down here and work on the machine can stay.”

“Now your work will have meaning, purpose,” Haplo said. “Dignity. It won’t be slave labor.”

“I know all that. And I don’t want to go back to the old days. Not really. It’s just... well... there was a lot of good mixed in with the bad. I didn’t see it then, but I miss it now. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Haplo quietly. “I understand. Sometimes I’d like to go back to the way things used to be in my life. I never thought I’d say that. I didn’t have much, but what I did have, I didn’t value. Trying to get something else, I let what was important get away. And when I got what I wanted, it turned out to be worthless without the other. Now I might lose it all. Or maybe I’ve already lost it past finding.”

Jarre understood without understanding. She slid her hand inside Haplo’s. They walked slowly after Limbeck and the others. She wondered a little why Haplo should choose to stay in the back of the procession; it was almost as if he were keeping watch. She noticed he glanced continually this way and that, but he didn’t seem to be afraid—which would have made her afraid. He just seemed puzzled.

“Haplo,” Jarre said suddenly, reminded of another time when she’d walked hand in hand with another person down in these tunnels. “I’m going to tell you a secret. Not even Limbeck knows.”

Haplo said nothing, but he smiled encouragingly down at her.

“I’m going to see to it that no one”—she stared hard at the wizard Trian as she spoke—“that no one ever bothers the beautiful dead people. That no one finds them. I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet, but I will.” She brushed her hand across her eyes. “I can’t bear to think of the humans, with their loud voices and prying hands, barging into that hushed tomb. Or the elves with their twitterings and high-pitched laughs. Or even of my people clumping about with their big, heavy boots. I’ll make certain that it all stays quiet. I think Alfred would want it that way, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Haplo. “Alfred would want it that way. And I don’t believe you have to worry,” he added, squeezing her hand. “The Sartan magic will take care of its own. No one will find that room who isn’t meant to.”

“Do you think so? Then I don’t need to worry?”

“No. Now, you’d better go on ahead. I think Limbeck’s looking for you.” Indeed, the procession had straggled to a halt again. Limbeck could be seen in the front, in the reflected glow of the Sartan sigla, peering myopically into the shadows.

“Jarre?” he was calling.

“He’s such a druz,” said Jarre fondly, and started to hurry back up to the front of the line. “Won’t you come, too?” she asked Haplo, hesitating. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Just a little weakness,” Haplo lied easily. “Let go of the past, Jarre. Reach out to the future with both hands. It will be a good one for you and your people.”

“I will,” said Jarre decisively. “After all, you gave us that future.” She had a sudden funny feeling that she would never see him again.

“Jarre!” Limbeck was getting worried.

“You’d better run along,” Haplo told her.

“Good-bye,” she faltered, a smothering ache in her chest. Leaning down, she gave the dog a hug that nearly choked the animal; then, blinking back sudden and inexplicable tears, she ran off to join Limbeck.

Change—even good change—was hard. Very hard indeed.

The procession halted outside a door marked by gleaming blue Sartan runes. Bathed in the soft blue light, Limbeck marched up to the door and, acting according to Jarre’s instructions (she held the book, reading out directions), the dwarf drew with a stubby finger the Sartan rune that completed the circle of runes on the door.

The door swung open.

A strange clanking sound could be heard within, coming toward them. The elves and humans held back, curious but alarmed.

Limbeck, however, marched right in. Jarre hurried to stay at his side. The wizard Trian nearly tripped on the dwarves’ heels, hastening in behind. The room they entered was brightly lighted by globes hanging from the ceiling. The light was so bright after the darkness of the tunnels that they had to shade their eyes momentarily.

A man made all of metal—silver and gold and brass—walked over to meet them. The metal man’s eyes were jewels; it moved stiffly. Sartan runes covered its body.

“It’s an automaton,” announced Limbeck, recalling Bane’s word. The dwarf waved his hand at the metal man with as much pride as if he’d made it himself. Awed, Trian stared at the automaton, and at the huge glass eyeballs that lined the walls, each eye gazing out watchfully on a certain part of the great machine. The wizard looked around dubiously at the banks of gleaming metal adorned with glass boxes and small wheels, levers, and other fascinating and unfathomable objects.

None of the levers or gears or wheels was moving. All held perfectly still, as if the Kicksey-winsey had fallen asleep and was waiting for the sunlight to shine on closed eyelids, -when it would awake.

“The gate is open. What are my instructions?” asked the metal man.

“It speaks!” Trian was agog.

“Of course it does,” Limbeck said proudly. “It wouldn’t be much use otherwise.”

He gulped in excitement, reached out a shaking hand for Jarre. She caught hold of his hand in hers, held on to the book in the other. Trian was trembling in excitement.

One of the human mysteriarchs, peering in nervously through the door, had broken down and was weeping uncontrollably.

“All lost,” he was blubbering incoherently, “all lost, for all these many centuries.”

“Now found,” Trian breathed. “And bequeathed to us. May the ancestors make us worthy.”

“What do I say to the metal man, my dear?” Limbeck quavered. “I... want to make sure I get it right.”

“ ‘Put your hand on the wheel of life and turn,’” Jarre read the directions in dwarven.

Trian translated the words into elven and human for those crowding around the door.

“Put your hand on the wheel of life and turn,” Limbeck ordered the automaton. The dwarf’s voice cracked at first, but, gathering his confidence, he boomed out the last words so that even Haplo, standing alone and forgotten in the hall, heard them.

A gigantic wheel made of gold was affixed to one of the metal walls. Runes were etched all around the wheel. The metal man obediently clanked its way over to the wheel. The automaton placed its hands on the wheel and then looked back with its jeweled eyes at Limbeck.

“How many times do I turn it?” the mechanical voice intoned.

“ ‘One for each of the worlds,’” said Jarre, sounding doubtful.

“That is correct,” said the metal man. “Now, how many worlds are there?” None of them who’d studied the book was sure about this part. The answer wasn’t given. It was as if the Sartan assumed the number would be common knowledge.

They had consulted Haplo. He’d shut his eyes, as if he were seeing moving pictures—like those in the Sartan magic lantern—in his mind.

“Try the number seven,” Haplo had advised them, but wouldn’t say how he arrived at the answer. “I’m not sure myself.”

“Seven,” Jarre repeated with a helpless shrug.

“Seven,” said Limbeck.

“Seven worlds,” murmured Trian. “Can such a thing be?” Apparently it could, for the automaton nodded and, reaching up its hands, took hold of the wheel and gave it a mighty turn.

The wheel shuddered; its gears squealed from long disuse, but it moved. The metal man began to speak, saying a word every time it turned the wheel. No one could understand what it said except Haplo.

“The first world, the Vortex,” said the automaton in Sartan. The wheel revolved with a protesting, grinding sound.

“The Vortex,” Haplo repeated. “I wonder...” His musings were cut short.

“The Labyrinth,” the metal man intoned.

Again the wheel turned.

“The Nexus,” said the automaton.

“The Labyrinth, then the Nexus.” Haplo considered what he was hearing. He quieted the dog, which had begun to howl dismally—the squealing of the wheel hurt its sensitive ears. “Both of those in order. Perhaps that means the Vortex is in the—”

“Arianus,” said the metal man.

“It said us!” Jane cried in delight, recognizing the Sartan word for their world.

“Pryan. Abarrach. Chelestra.” At each name in the roll call, the metal man gave the wheel another turn.

When it came to the last name, it stopped.

“Now what?” Trian asked.

“ ‘Heaven’s fire will spark life,’” Jarre read.

“I’m afraid we were never very clear on that part,” Limbeck said in apology.

“Look!” cried Trian, pointing to one of the crystal eyeballs that looked out upon the world.

Terrible thunderclouds, darker and more ferocious than any that had been seen before on Drevlin, were massing in the skies above the continent. The land grew pitch-black. The very room in which they stood, so brightly lit, seemed darker, though they were far, far beneath the ground.

“My—my goodness,” stammered Limbeck, eyes round. Even without his spectacles, he could see the boiling clouds swirling over his homeland.

“What have we done?” Jarre gasped, crowding close to Limbeck.

“Our ships,” cried the elves and the humans. “This will wreck our ships. We’ll be stranded down here—”

A bolt of jagged lightning shot from the clouds, struck one of the metal hands of the Liftalofts. Arcs of fire swirled around the hand, flashed down the metal arm. The arm twitched. Simultaneously hundreds of other spears of lightning slanted down from the heavens, struck hundreds of metal hands and arms, all over Drevlin. The eyeballs focused on each. The mensch gazed from one to the other in terrified astonishment.

“ ‘Heaven’s fire’!” announced Trian suddenly.

And at that moment all the machinery in the room came to life. The wheel on the wall began to turn of its own accord. The glass eyeballs started to blink and rove, shifting their gazes to different parts of the great machine. Arrows encased in glass boxes began to inch their way upward. On all parts of Drevlin, the Kicksey-winsey came back to life. Immediately the metal man left the large wheel and headed for the levers and the small wheels. The mensch scrambled to get out of its way, for the automaton let nothing stop it.

“Look, oh, look, Limbeck!” Jarre was sobbing and didn’t know it. The whirley-wheels were whirling, the ’lectric zingers zinging, the arrows arrowing, the flash-rafts flashing. The dig-claws began furiously digging; gears were gearing and pulleys pulling. The glimmerglamps burst into light. Bellows sucked in great breaths and whooshed them out, and warm air wafted once again through the tunnels.

The dwarves could be seen swarming out of their homes, hugging each other and whatever parts of the machine they could conveniently hug. The scrift-bosses appeared in their midst and immediately began bossing, which was what they were supposed to do, so no one minded. All the dwarves went back to work, just as they had before.

The metal man was working, too, the mensch taking care to keep out of its way. What it was doing, no one had any idea, when suddenly Limbeck pointed to one of the eyeballs.

“The Liftalofts!”

The storm clouds roiled and swirled around the circle of the nine huge arms, forming a hole through which the sun shone on a waterspout, which was no longer working.

In the old days, the spout had funneled the water collected from the Maelstrom into a water pipe lowered from Aristagon. Elves had seized control of the pipe, and of the life-giving water, thus bringing about the first of many wars. But when the Kicksey-winsey had ceased to work, the waterspout had no longer functioned—for anybody.

Would it begin working now?

“According to this,” said Jarre, reading from the book, “some of the water harvested from the storm will be heated until it turns to steam and hot water; then that steam and hot water will shoot up into the sky...” Slowly the nine hands attached to the nine arms rose straight up in the air. Each hand opened, its metal palm lifted to the sun. Then each hand seemed to catch hold of something, like an invisible string attached to an invisible kite, and began the motion of pulling the string, pulling the kite. Above, in the Mid Realms and the High, the continents shuddered, moved, began slowly to shift their positions.

And suddenly a sparkling geyser of water burst out of the waterspout. Higher it rose, higher and higher, clouds of steam billowing around it, obscuring it from view.

“It’s starting,” said Trian softly, reverently.