The Hand of Chaos

13

“Actually, this need for a diversion couldn’t come at a better time,” stated Limbeck, peering at Haplo through the spectacles. “I’ve developed a new weapon and I’ve been wanting to test it.”

“Humpf!” Jarre sniffed. “Weapons,” she muttered. Limbeck ignored her. The argument over plans for the diversion had been long and bitter and occasionally dangerous to bystanders, Haplo having narrowly missed being struck by a thrown soup pan. The dog had wisely retreated under the bed. Bane slept through the entire discussion.

And Haplo noted that, though Jarre had no compunction about hurling kitchen utensils, she was careful to keep them clear of the High Froman and august leader of WUPP. She seemed nervous and uneasy around Limbeck, watched him out of the corner of her eye with an odd mixture of frustration and anxiety. In the early days of the revolution, she had been accustomed to smacking Limbeck on both cheeks or tugging playfully, if painfully, at his beard to bring him back to reality. Not any longer. Now she appeared reluctant to come near him. Haplo saw her hands twitch, more than once, during the argument, and guessed that she would have liked nothing better than to give her leader’s side whiskers a good tweak. But her hands always ended up twisting her own skirts instead, or mangling the forks.

“I designed this weapon myself,” said Limbeck proudly. Rummaging under a pile of speeches, he produced it, held it to the flickering light of the glampern.

“I call it a flinger.”

Haplo would have called it a toy. The humans in the Mid Realms would have called it a slingshot. The Patryn said nothing disparaging about it, however, but duly admired it and asked how it worked.

Limbeck demonstrated. “When the Kicksey-winsey made new parts for itself, it used to turn out quite a lot of these things.” He held up a particularly wicked-looking, sharp chunk of metal. “We used to throw them into the helter-melter, but it occurred to me that one of these, flung at the wings of the elves’ dragonships, would tear a hole in the skin. I learned from my own experience that an object cannot travel through the air with holes in its wings.[22] Fill it full of enough holes, and it seems to me logical that the dragonships will not be able to fly.”

Haplo had to admit that it seemed logical to him, too. He regarded the weapon with more respect. “This would do a fair bit of damage to someone’s skin,” he said, picking up the razor-sharp metal chunk gingerly. “Elf skin included.”

“Yes, I thought of that, too,” remarked Limbeck with satisfaction. An ominous clanging came from behind him. Jarre was banging an iron skillet in a threatening manner against the cold stove. Limbeck turned around, stared at her through his spectacles. Jarre dropped the skillet on the floor with a bang that caused the dog to scoot as far back beneath the bed as possible. Head high, Jarre stalked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Limbeck demanded.

“For a walk,” she said haughtily.

“You’ll need the glampern,” he advised.

“No, I won’t,” she mumbled, one hand wiping her eyes and nose.

“We need you to come with us, Jarre,” Haplo said. “You’re the only one who’s been down in the tunnels.”

“I can’t help you,” she said, her voice choked. She kept her back turned. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know how we got down there or how we got back out. I just went where that man Alfred told me to go.”

“This is important, Jarre,” Haplo said quietly. “It could mean peace. An end to the fighting.”

She glanced at him over one shoulder, through a mass of hair and side whiskers. Then, tight-lipped, she said, “I’ll be back,” and walked out, slamming the door shut behind her.

“I’m sorry for that, Haplo,” said Limbeck, cheeks flushed in anger. “I don’t understand her anymore. In the early days of the revolution, she was the most militant among us.” He took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes. His voice softened. “She was the one who attacked the Kicksey-winsey! Got me arrested and nearly killed.” He smiled wistfully, gazing back into the past with his fuzzy vision. “She was the one who wanted change. Now, when change is here, she... she throws soup pans!”

The concerns of the dwarves are not mine, Haplo reminded himself. Stay out of it. I need them to take me to the machine, that’s all.

“I don’t think she likes the killing,” he said, hoping to mollify Limbeck, end the disruption.

“I don’t like the killing,” Limbeck snapped. He put his spectacles back on.

“But it’s them or us. We didn’t start it. They did.” True enough, Haplo thought, and put the matter aside. After all, what did he care? When Xar came, the chaos, the killing would end. Peace would come to Arianus. Limbeck continued planning the diversion. The dog, after making certain Jarre was gone, came out from under the bed.

Haplo snatched a few hours’ sleep himself, woke to find a contingent of dwarves milling about in the hallway outside the BOILER ROOM. Each dwarf was armed with his or her own flinger and metal chunks, carried in strong canvas bags. Haplo washed his hands and face (which reeked of glampern oil), watched, and listened. Most of the dwarves had become quite adept at using the flingers, to judge from what he saw of their crude target practice taking place in the corridor.

Of course, it was one thing to shoot at a drawing of an elf scrawled on the wall, quite another to shoot at a live elf who is shooting back at you.

“We don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Jarre told the dwarves. She had returned and had, with her characteristic briskness, taken control. “So keep under cover, stay near the doors and entrances to the Liftalofts, and be ready to run if the elves come after you. Our objective is to distract them, keep them busy.”

“Shooting holes in their dragonship should do that!” Lof said, grinning.

“Shooting holes in them would do it better,” added Limbeck, and there was a general cheer.

“Yes, and then they’ll shoot holes in you and where will you be?” Jarre said crossly, casting Limbeck a bitter glance.

The dwarf, not at all perturbed, nodded and smiled, his smile seeming grim and cold, topped by the glittering spectacles.

“Remember this, Fellow Warriors,” he said, “if we manage to bring the ship down, we will have scored a major victory. The elves will no longer be able to moor their dragonships on Drevlin, they will be reluctant to even fly near it. Which means that they may think twice about keeping troops stationed down here. This could be our first step toward driving them off.” The dwarves cheered again.

Haplo left to ascertain that his own ship was safe.

He returned, satisfied. The runes he’d activated not only protected his ship, but also created a certain amount of camouflage, causing it to blend in with objects and shadows around it. Haplo could not make his ship invisible—that was not within the spectrum of probable possibilities and, as such, could not be contrived by his magic. But he could make it extremely difficult to see, and it was. An elf would have to literally walk into it to know it was there, and that in itself was not possible, since the sigla created an energy field around the ship that would repel all attempts to get near it. He returned to find the dwarves marching off to attack the Liftalofts and the elven ship that was moored there, floating in the air, attached to the arms by cables. Haplo, Bane, Limbeck, Jarre, and the dog headed off in the opposite direction, to the tunnels that ran beneath the Factree.

Haplo had traveled this route once before, the last time they’d sneaked into the Factree. He could not have remembered the way, however, and was glad to have a guide. Time and wonders witnessed on other worlds had blurred the wonder of the Kicksey-winsey. His awe returned at the sight of it, however; awe tinged now with a sense of unease and disquiet, as if he were in the presence of a corpse. He remembered the great machine pounding with life: Mectric zingers zapping, whirly-wheels whirling, iron hands smashing and molding, dig claws digging. All still now. All silent.

The tunnels led him past the machine, beneath it, over it, around it, through it. And the thought came to him suddenly that he’d been wrong. The Kicksey-winsey wasn’t a corpse. The machine was not dead.

“It’s waiting,” said Bane.

“Yes,” said Haplo. “I think you’re right.” The boy edged nearer, looking at him through narrowed eyes. “Tell me what you know about the Kicksey-winsey.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“But you said there was another explanation—”

“I said there could be. That’s all.” He shrugged. “Call it a guess, a hunch.”

“You won’t tell me.”

“We’ll see if my guess is right when we get there, Your Highness.”

“Grandfather put me in charge of the machine!” Bane reminded him, scowling.

“You’re only here to protect me.”

“And I intend to do just that, Your Highness,” Haplo replied. Bane darted him a sullen, sidelong glance, but said nothing. He knew it would be useless to argue. Eventually, however, the boy either forgot his grievance or decided it wasn’t suited to his dignity to be caught sulking. Leaving Haplo’s side, Bane ran up to walk with Limbeck. Haplo sent the dog along, to keep an ear on both of them.

As it was, the dog heard nothing interesting. In fact, it heard very little at all. The sight of the Kicksey-winsey motionless and quiet had a depressing effect on all of them. Limbeck stared at it through his spectacles, his face grim and hard. Jarre regarded the machine she had once attacked with fond sadness. Coming to a part she had worked on, she would sidle close and give it a comforting pat, as though it were a sick child.

They passed numerous dwarves standing about in enforced idleness, looking helpless and frightened and forlorn. Most had been coming to their work every day since the machine quit running, though there was now no work to do. At first they’d been confident that this was all a mistake, a fluke, a slipped cog of monumental proportions. The dwarves sat or stood about in the darkness, lit by whatever source of light they could manufacture, and watched the Kicksey-winsey expectantly, waiting for it to roar to life again. When their shift ended, the dwarves went home and another shift took their place. But by now, hope was beginning to dim.

“Go home,” Limbeck kept telling them as they walked along. “Go to your homes and wait. You’re only wasting light.”

Some of the dwarves left. Some of the dwarves stayed. Some left, then came back. Others stayed, then left.

“We can’t go on like this,” said Limbeck.

“Yes, you’re right,” said Jarre, for once agreeing with him. “Something terrible will happen.”

“A judgment!” called out a deep and ragged voice from the too-quiet darkness.

“A judgment, that’s what it is! You’ve brought the wrath of the gods upon us, Limbeck Bolttightner! I say we go to the Welves and surrender. Tell the gods we’re sorry. Maybe they’ll turn the Kicksey-winsey back on.”

“Yes,” muttered other voices, safely hidden by the shadows. “We want everything back the way it was.”

“There, what did I tell you?” Limbeck demanded of Jarre. “This kind of talk is spreading.”

“They surely can’t believe the elves are gods?” Jarre protested, glancing behind her to the whispering shadows, her face drawn in concern. “We’ve seen them die!”

“They don’t,” Limbeck answered gloomily. “But they’ll be ready enough to swear they do if it means heat and light and the Kicksey-winsey working once again.”

“Death to the High Froman!” came the whispers.

“Give him to the Welves!”

“Here’s a bolt for you to tighten, Bolttightner.”

Something whizzed out of the darkness—a bolt, big around as Bane’s hand. The chunk of metal didn’t come any where near its target, clunked harmlessly into the wall behind them. The dwarves were still in awe of their leader, who had, for a brief time, given them dignity and hope. But that wouldn’t last long. Hunger and darkness, cold and silence bred fear.

Limbeck didn’t say anything. He didn’t flinch or duck. His lips pressed together grimly, he kept walking. Jarre, face pale with worry, posted herself at his side and flashed defiant glances at every dwarf they passed. Bane skipped hastily back to walk near Haplo.

The Patryn felt a prickling of his skin, glanced down, saw the sigla tattooed on his arms start to glow a faint blue—a reaction to danger. Odd, he thought. His body’s magic wouldn’t react that way in response to some frightened dwarves, a few muttered threats, and a thrown piece of hardware. Something or someone truly menacing was out there, a threat to him, to them all.

The dog growled, its lip curled.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bane, alarmed. He had lived among Patryns long enough to know the warning signs.

“I don’t know, Your Highness,” said Haplo. “But the sooner we get that machine started again, the better. So just keep walking.”

They entered the tunnels, which, as Haplo remembered from his last journey, bisected, dissected, and intersected the ground underneath the Kicksey-winsey. No dwarves lurked down here. These tunnels were customarily empty, since they led nowhere anyone had any reason to go. The Factree had not been used in eons, except as a meeting place, and that had ended when the elves took it over and turned it into a barracks.

Away from the whispers and the sight of the corpselike machine, everyone relaxed visibly. Everyone except Haplo. The runes on his skin glowed only faintly, but they still glowed. Danger was still present, though he couldn’t imagine where or how. The dog, too, was uneasy and would occasionally erupt with a loud and startling “whuff” that made everyone jump.

“Can’t you get him to stop doing that?” complained Bane. “I almost wet my pants.”

Haplo placed a gentle hand on the dog’s head. The animal quieted, but it wasn’t happy and neither was Haplo.

Elves? Haplo couldn’t recall a time his body had ever reacted to a danger from mensch, but then—as he recalled—the Tribus elves were a cruel and vicious lot.

“Why, look!” exclaimed Jarre, pointing. “Look at that! I never saw that before, did you, Limbeck?”

She pointed to a mark on the wall, a mark that was glowing bright red.

“No,” he admitted, removing his spectacles to stare at it. His voice was tinged with the same childlike wonder and curiosity that had brought him to first question the whys of Welves and the Kicksey-winsey. “I wonder what it is?”

“I know what it is,” cried Bane. “It’s a Sartan rune.”

“Shush!” Haplo warned, catching hold of the boy’s hand and squeezing it tightly.

“A what?” Limbeck peered round at them. Eyes wide, he had forgotten, in his curiosity, the reason for their being down here, or their need for haste.

“The Mangers made marks like that. I’ll explain later,” said Haplo, herding everyone on.

Jarre kept walking, but she wasn’t watching where she was going. She was staring back at the rune. “I saw some of those funny glowing drawings when that man and I were down in the place with the dead people. But those I saw shone blue, not red.”

And why were these sigla gleaming red? Haplo wondered. Sartan runes were like Patryn runes in many ways. Red was a warning.

“The light’s fading,” said Jarre, still looking back. She stumbled over her feet.

“The sigil’s broken,” Bane told Haplo. “It can’t do anything anymore—whatever it was that it was supposed to do.”

Yes, Haplo knew it was broken. He could see that for himself. Large portions of the wall had been covered over, either by the Kicksey-winsey or by the dwarves. The Sartan sigla on the walls were obscured, some missing entirely, others—like this one—cracked and now rendered powerless. Whatever it was they had been supposed to do—alert, halt, bar entry—they had lost the power to do.

“Maybe it’s you,” Bane said, looking up at him with an impish grin. “Maybe the runes don’t like you.”

Maybe, thought Haplo. But the last time I came down here, no runes glowed red. They continued walking.

“This is it,” stated Jarre, stopping beneath a ladder, shining her glampern upward.

Haplo glanced around. Yes, he knew where he was now. He remembered. He was directly beneath the Factree. A ladder led upward, and, at the top of the ladder, a piece of the tunnel’s ceiling slid aside, permitting access to the Factree itself. Haplo studied the ladder, looked back at Limbeck.

“Do you have any idea what’s up there now? I don’t want to come out in the middle of an elven dining hall during breakfast.”

Limbeck shook his head. “None of our people have been in the Factree since the elves took it over.”

“I’ll go look,” Bane offered, eager for adventure.

“No, Your Highness.” Haplo was firm. “You stay down here. Dog, keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll go.” Limbeck gazed around vaguely. “Where’s the ladder?”

“Put your spectacles on!” Jarre scolded.

Limbeck flushed, reached into a pocket, discovered the spectacles. He pulled them over his ears.

“Everyone stay put. I’ll go and take a look,” said Haplo, who already had his foot on the first rung. “When’s that diversion of yours supposed to start?”

“Should be anytime now,” Limbeck answered, peering nearsightedly up into the shadows.

“Do you... do you want the glampern?” Jane asked hesitantly. She was obviously impressed with Haplo’s blue-glowing skin, a sight she’d never seen.

“No,” Haplo answered shortly. His body was giving off light enough. He didn’t need to encumber himself with the glampern. He began to climb. He had gone about halfway when he heard a scuffle at the bottom and Bane’s voice rise in a yelp. Haplo glanced down. Apparently, the boy had been about to follow. The dog had its teeth clamped firmly in the seat of His Highness’s pants.

“Shhh!” Haplo hissed, glaring down at them.

He continued his climb, came to the metal plate. As he recalled from the last time he’d done this, the plate slid aside easily and—what was more important—quietly. Now, if some elf just hadn’t set a bed on top of it... Haplo placed his fingers on the plate, gave it a cautious shove. It moved. A crack of light shone down on him. He halted, waited, ears straining.

Nothing.

He moved the plate again, about as far as the length of his first finger. He halted again, keeping perfectly still, perfectly silent.

Up above, he could hear voices: light, delicate voices of elves. But they sounded as if they were coming from a distance, none near, none directly overhead. Haplo glanced down at the sigla on his skin. The blue glow had not intensified, but neither had it gone away. He decided to risk a look. Haplo slid the plate aside, peeped warily up over the edge. It took his eyes some time to become accustomed to the bright light. The fact that the elves had light at all was disquieting. Perhaps he’d been wrong, perhaps they had learned how to operate the Kicksey-winsey and had cut off light and heat to the dwarves.

Further investigation revealed the truth. The elves—known for their magical mechanics—had rigged up their own lighting system. The glimmerglamps belonging to the Kicksey-winsey, which had once lit the Factree, were dark and cold. And no light at all shone on this end of the Factree. This end was empty, deserted. The elves were bivouacked at the far end, near the entrance. Haplo was at eye level with neat rows of cots, stacked around the walls. Elves were moving about, sweeping the floor, checking their weapons. Some were asleep. Several surrounded a cooking pot, from which came a fragrant odor and a cloud of steam. One group squatted on the floor, playing at some type of game to judge by their talk of “bets” and exclamations of either triumph or disgust. No one was at all interested in Haplo’s part of the Factree. The lighting system didn’t even extend this far.

Directly across from where he stood, he could see the statue of the Manger—the robed and hooded figure of a Sartan holding a single, staring eyeball in one hand. Haplo took a moment to examine the eyeball, was glad to see it was dark and lifeless as the machine.

The eyeball, once activated, revealed the secret of the Kicksey-winsey to any who looked at its moving pictures.[23] Either the elves hadn’t discovered the eyeball’s secret, or, if they had, they’d discounted it, as had the dwarves all these years. Perhaps, like the dwarves, the elves used this empty portion of the huge building only for meetings. Or perhaps they didn’t use it at all.

Haplo slid the plate back all but a crack, descended the ladder.

“It’s all right,” he told Limbeck. “The elves are all in the front of the Factree. But either your diversion hasn’t started or else they don’t give a damn—”

He paused. A trumpet call sounded faintly from above. Then came the sound of shouts, weapons rattling, beds scraping, voices raised in either irritation or satisfaction, depending on whether the soldiers found this a welcome break in their dull routine or a nuisance.

Haplo swiftly climbed back up the ladder again, peered out the opening. The elves were strapping on swords, grabbing bows and quivers of arrows, and running to the call, their officers shouting curses and urging them to hurry. The diversion had started. He wasn’t certain how much time they had, how long the dwarves could harass the elves. Probably not long.

“Come on!” he said, motioning. “Quickly! It’s all right, boy. Let him go.” Bane was the first up, climbing like a squirrel. Limbeck followed more slowly. Jarre came after him. She had forgotten, in the heat of soup-pan tossing, to change her skirt for trousers, and was having difficulty managing the ladder. The dog stood at the bottom, regarding them with interest.

“Now!” said Haplo, keeping watch, waiting until the last elf had left the Factree. “Run for it!”

He shoved the plate aside, pulled himself up onto the floor. Turning, he gave Bane a hand, hauled the boy up beside him. Bane’s face was flushed, his eyes shone with excitement.

“I’ll go look at the statue—”

“Wait.”

Haplo cast a swift glance around, wondering why he hesitated. The elves had gone. He and the others were alone in the Factree. Unless, of course, the elves had been forewarned of their coming and were lying in wait. But that was a risk they had to take, and not much of a risk at that. Haplo’s magic could deal efficiently with any ambush. But his skin tingled, shone a faint, disturbing blue.

“Go ahead,” he said, angry at himself. “Dog, go with him.” Bane dashed off, accompanied by the dog.

Limbeck poked his head up out of the hole. He stared at the animal, gamboling at Bane’s side, and the dwarfs eyes widened. “I could have sworn...“ ‘

He stared back down the ladder. “The dog was down there ...”

“Hurry up!” Haplo grunted. The sooner they left this place, the happier he’d be. He dragged Limbeck over the top, reached out a hand to help Jarre. Hearing a startled shout and an excited bark, Haplo turned swiftly, nearly yanking Jarre’s arm out of its socket.

Bane, lying prone across the statue’s feet, was pointing down. “I’ve found it!” The dog, standing spraddle-legged at the top, gazed into the hole with deep suspicion, not liking whatever was down there.

Before Haplo could stop him, Bane slid down into the hole like an eel and disappeared.

The statue of the Manger began to revolve upon its base, sliding shut.

“Go after him!” shouted Haplo.

The dog jumped into the slowly closing gap. The last Haplo saw was the tip of a tail.

“Limbeck, stop it from closing!” Haplo all but dropped Jarre and started for the statue at a run. But Limbeck was ahead of him.

The stout dwarf lumbered across the Factree floor, short, thick legs pumping furiously. Reaching the statue, he hurled himself bodily into the slowly narrowing gap and wedged himself firmly between the base and floor. Giving the statue a push, he shoved it back open, then bent to examine it.

“Ah, so that’s how it works,” he said, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. He reached out a hand to check his theory by fiddling with a catch he’d discovered.

Haplo planted his foot gently but firmly on the dwarfs fingers.

“Don’t do that. It might close again and maybe this time we couldn’t stop it.”

“Haplo?” Bane’s voice floated up out of the hole. “It’s awfully dark down here. Could you hand me the glampern?”

“Your Highness might have waited for the rest of us,” Haplo remarked grimly. No answer.

“Keep still. Don’t move,” Haplo told the boy. “We’ll be down in a minute. Where’s Jarre?”

“Here,” she said in a small voice, coming to stand by the statue. Her face was pale. “Alfred said we couldn’t get back out this way.”

“Alfred said that?”

“Well, not in so many words. He didn’t want me to be afraid. But that had to be the reason why we went into the tunnels. I mean, if we could have escaped by coming up through the statue, we would have, wouldn’t we?”

“With Alfred, who knows?” Haplo muttered. “But you’re probably right. This must close whenever anyone goes down. Which means we have to find some way to prop this thing open.”

“Is that wise?” Limbeck asked anxiously, looking up at them from his position half in and half out of the hole. “What if the elves come back and find it open?”

“If they do, they do,” Haplo said, though he didn’t consider it likely. The elves seemed to avoid this area. “I don’t want to end up trapped down there.”

“The blue lights led us out,” said Jarre softly, almost to herself. “Blue lights that looked like that.” She pointed at Haplo’s glowing skin. Haplo said nothing, stalked off in search of something to use as a wedge. Returning with a length of stout pipe, he motioned Jarre and Limbeck into the hole, followed after them. As soon as he had passed across the base’s threshold, the statue began to slide shut, slowly, quietly. Haplo thrust the pipe into the opening. The statue closed on it, held it fast. He shoved on it experimentally, felt the statue give.

“There. The elves shouldn’t notice that. And we can open it when we return. All right, let’s get a look at where we are.”

Jarre held up the glampern and light flooded their surroundings. A narrow stone staircase spiraled down into darkness below. A darkness that was, as Jarre had said, unbelievably quiet. The silence lay over the place like thick dust, seemed not to have been disturbed in centuries. Jarre gulped, her hand holding the glampern trembled, caused the light to wobble. Limbeck took out his handkerchief, but used it to mop his forehead, not to clean his spectacles. Bane, huddled at the bottom of the stairs, his back pressed flat against the wall, looked subdued and awed. Haplo scratched the burning sigla on the back of his hand and firmly suppressed the urge to leave. He had hoped to evade, by coming down here, whatever unseen danger threatened them. But the runes on his body continued to glow blue, neither brighter nor dimmer than when he’d been standing in the Factree. Which made no sense, for how could the threat be both above and below?

“There! Those things make the lights,” said Jarre, pointing. Looking down, Haplo saw a row of Sartan runes running along the base of the wall. He recalled, in Abarrach, seeing the same series of runes, recalled Alfred using them as guides out of the tunnels of the Chamber of the Damned. Bane crouched down to study them. Smiling to himself, pleased with his cleverness, he put his finger on one and spoke the rune.

At first, nothing happened. Haplo could understand the Sartan language, although it jarred through him like the screeching of rats. “You’ve mispronounced it.”

Bane glowered up at him, not liking to be corrected. But the boy repeated the rune again, taking time to form the unfamiliar and difficult sounds with care. The sigil flared into light, shared that light with its neighbor. One at a time, the sigla each caught fire. The base of the wall, down the stairs, began to glow blue.

“Follow it,” said Haplo unnecessarily, for Bane and Limbeck and the dog were already clambering down the steps.

Only Jarre lingered behind, face pale and solemn, her hands kneading and twisting a tiny fold of her skirt.

“It’s so sad,” she said.

“I know,” Haplo replied quietly.