“And I saw their world! I saw your ‘glorious heavens.’ They had brought books with them, and I looked at some of them. And truly, it is heaven! They live in a world of wealth and magnificence. A world of beauty that we can only begin to imagine. A world of ease that is supported by our sweat and our labor! And let me tell you! They have no intention of ever ‘taking us up to that world’ as the clarks keep telling us they will, ‘if we are worthy’! Why should they? They have us to use as willing slaves down here! We live in squalor, we serve the Kicksey-Winsey so that they can have the water they need to survive. We battle the storm every day of our miserable lives! So that they can live in luxury off our tears!
“And that is why I say,” shouted Limbeck over the rising tumult, “that we should learn all we can about the Kicksey-Winsey, take control of it, and force these Welves, who are not gods at all, but mortals, just like us, to give us our proper due!”
Chaos broke out. Gegs were yelling, screaming, shoving, and pushing. Appalled at the monster he’d unwittingly unleashed.
The Froman—finally freed from his chair—stomped his feet and pounded the butt-end of his flashglamp on the concrete with such ferocity that he yanked the tail free of the statue and doused the light.
“Clear the court! Clear the court!”
Coppers charged in, but it was some time before the excited Gegs could be made to leave the Factree. Then they milled around in the corridors for a while, but fortunately for the High Froman, the whistle-toot signaled a scrift change and the crowds dispersed—either going to perform their service for the Kicksey-Winsey or returning home.
The High Froman, the Head Clark, the Offensive Voice, Limbeck, and the two warders with smeared face paint were left alone in the Factree.
“You are a dangerous young man,” said the High Froman. “These lies—”
“They’re not lies! They’re the truth! I swear—”
“These lies would, of course, never be believed by the people, but as we have seen this day when you recite them, they lead to turmoil and unrest! You have doomed yourself. Your fate is now in the hands of the Manger. Hold on to the prisoner and keep him quiet!” the High Froman ordered the warders, who latched on to Limbeck firmly, if reluctantly, as though his touch might contaminate them.
The Head Clark had recovered sufficiently from his shock to appear smug and pious again, this expression mingling with righteous indignation and the certain conviction that sin was about to be punished, retribution exacted. The High Froman, walking somewhat unsteadily on feet to which the circulation was only now returning, made his way with aching head over to the statue of the Manger. Led along by the warders, Limbeck followed. Despite the danger, he was, as usual, deeply curious and far more interested in the statue of the Manger itself than in whatever verdict it might hand down. The Head Clark and the Voice crowded close to see. The High Froman, with many bowings and scrapings and mumbled prayers that were echoed reverently by the Head Clark, reached out, grasped the left hand of the Manger, and pulled on it. The eyeball that the Manger held in the right hand suddenly blinked and came to life. A light shone, and moving pictures began to flit across the eyeball. The High Froman cast a triumphant glance at the Head Clark and the Voice. Limbeck was absolutely fascinated.
“The Manger speaks to us!” cried the Head Clark, falling to his knees.
“A magic lantern!” said Limbeck excitedly, peering into the eyeball. “Only it isn’t really magic, not like the magic of the Welves. It’s mechanical magic! I found one on another part of the Kicksey-Winsey and I took it apart. Those pictures that seem to move are frames revolving around a light so fast that it fools the eyes—”
“Silence, heretic!” thundered the High Froman. “Sentence has been passed. The Mangers say that you shall be given into their hands.”
“I don’t think they’re saying any such thing, Yonor,” protested Limbeck. “In fact, I’m not certain what they’re saying. I wonder why—”
“Why? Why! You will have a lot of time to ask yourself why as you are falling into the heart of the storm!” shouted Darral.
Limbeck was watching the magic lantern that was repeating the same thing over and over and did not clearly hear what the High Froman had said. “Heart of the storm, Yonor?” The thick lenses magnified his eyes and gave him a buglike appearance that the Froman found particularly disgusting.
“Yes, so the Mangers have sentenced you.” The High Froman pulled the hand and the eyeball blinked and went out.
“What? In that picture? No, they didn’t, Yonor,” Limbeck argued. “I’m not certain what it is, but if you’d only give me a chance to study—”
“Tomorrow morning,” interrupted the High Froman, “you will be made to walk the Steps of Terrel Fen. May the Mangers have mercy on your soul!” Limping, one hand rubbing his numb backside and the other his pounding head, Darral Longshoreman turned on his heel and stalked out of the Factree.
12
“Visitor” said the turnkey through the iron bars.
“What?” Limbeck sat up on his cot.
“Visitor. Your sister. Come along.”
Keys jangled. The closer clicked and the door swung open. Limbeck, considerably startled and extremely confused, rose from the cot and followed the turnkey to the visitors’ vat. As far as he knew, Limbeck didn’t have a sister. Admittedly, he’d been gone from home a number of years, and he didn’t know all that much about rearing children, but he had the vague impression that it took a considerable length of time for a child to be born, then be up walking about, visiting brothers in jail.
Limbeck was just performing the necessary calculations when he entered the visitors’ vat. A young woman flung herself at him with such force that she nearly knocked him down.
“My dear brother!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with more attachment than is generally displayed between siblings.
“You’ve got till the whistle-toot blows the next scrift change,” said the turnkey in bored tones as he slammed shut and locked the closer behind him.
“Jarre?” said Limbeck, blinking at her. He’d left his spectacles in the cell.
“Well, of course!” she said, hugging him fiercely. “Who else did you think it would be?”
“I... I wasn’t sure’ Limbeck stammered. He was extremely pleased to see Jarre, but he couldn’t help experiencing a slight twinge of disappointment at the loss of a sister. It seemed that family might be a comfort at a time like this. “How did you get here?”
“Odwin Screwloosener has a brother-in-law who serves on one of the flashraft runs. He got me on. Didn’t it make you furious,” she said, releasing her grip on Limbeck, “to see the enslavement of our people exhibited before your eyes?”
“Yes, it did,” answered Limbeck. He was not surprised to hear that Jarre had experienced the same sensations and thought the same thoughts he had during the flashraft journey across Drevlin. The two often did this. She turned away from him, slowly unwinding the heavy scarf from around her head. Limbeck wasn’t certain—Jarre’s face was pretty much a blur to him without his spectacles—but he had the feeling that her expression was troubled. It might be, of course, the fact that he was sentenced to be executed, but Limbeck doubted it. Jarre tended to take things like that in stride. This was something different, something deeper.
“How is the Union getting along?” Limbeck asked.
Jarre heaved a sigh. Now, Limbeck thought, we’re getting somewhere.
“Oh, Limbeck,” Jarre said, half-irritable, half-sorrowful, “why did you have to go and tell those ridiculous stories during the trial?”
“Stories?” Limbeck’s bushy eyebrows shot up into the roots of his curly hair.