“That’s probably why he’s wearing so many clothes,” said Limbeck to himself, trying hard not to look out the sides of the bubble, where lightning strikes were making the stormy night brighter than any day the Gegs, in their sunless world, ever knew.
The god wore a thick leather tunic over a shirt with a drawstring collar that encircled his throat. He had wrapped a strip of cloth around his neck, the ends tied in a knot at the base of his throat and thrust into the tunic. The shirt’s long, full sleeves covered his wrists; drawstrings held them fast. Soft leather trousers were tucked into knee-high boots that fastened up the sides of the legs with buttons made of what appeared to be the horn of some animal. Over all this, he wore a long collarless coat with wide sleeves that came to the elbows. The colors of his clothes were drab-browns and whites, grays and dull black. The fabric was well-worn, frayed in places. The leather tunic, trousers, and boots had softened around the body, fitting it like a second skin.
Most peculiarly, the god wore rags around his hands. Startled by this, which he must have noticed, but hadn’t thought about until now, Limbeck looked at the god’s hands more closely. The rags were skillfully applied. Wrapping around the wrist, they covered the back of the hand and the palm and were twined around the base of the fingers and thumb.
“Why?” Limbeck wondered, and reached forward to find out. The dog’s growl was filled with such menace that Limbeck felt the hair rise on his head. The animal had jumped to its feet and was gazing at the Geg with a look that said plainly, “I’d leave my master alone, if I were you.”
“Right,” Limbeck gulped. He shrank back against the side of the bubble. The dog gave him an approving glance. Settling itself more comfortably, it even closed its eyes, as much as to say, “I know you’ll behave now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a short nap.”
The dog was right. Limbeck was going to behave. He was paralyzed, afraid to move, almost scared to breathe.
The practical-minded Gegs liked cats. Cats were useful animals who earned their keep by catching mice and who took care of themselves. The Kicksey-Winsey liked cats, at least so it was supposed, since it had been the creators of the Kicksey-Winsey—the Mangers—who first brought cats down from the realms above to dwell with the Gegs. There were, however, few dogs on Drevlin. Those who kept them were generally the wealthy Gegs—such as the High Froman and members of his clan. The dogs were not pets, but were used to protect the wealth. Gegs would not take each other’s lives, but there were a few who had no aversion at all to taking each other’s property. This dog was different from Geg dogs, which tended to resemble their owners—short-legged, barrel-chested, with round, thick-nosed, flat faces . . . and an expression of vicious stupidity. The dog holding Limbeck at bay was sleek-coated and slim-bodied. It had a longish nose, its face was exceptionally intelligent, and the eyes were large and liquid brown. Its fur was a nondescript black with patches of white on the tips of the ears, and white eyebrows. It was the eyebrows, Limbeck decided, that made the dog’s face unusually expressive for an animal.
Such were Limbeck’s observations of god and beast. They were detailed, because he had a long time to study them during his ride in the help-hand back up to the isle of Drevlin.
And all the time, he couldn’t help wondering: What? . . . Why? . . .
19
Jarre waited impatiently for the Kicksey-Winsey to slowly and laboriously wind up the cable from which dangled the help-hand. Occasionally, if some other Geg happened by, she would pull her scarf low over her face and stare with intense and frowning interest at a large round glass case in which lived a black arrow that did practically nothing all its life but hover uncertainly between a great many black lines all marked with strange and obscure symbols. The only thing the Gegs knew about this black arrow—known fondly as the pointy-finger—was that when it flopped over into the area where the black lines all turned red, the Gegs ran for their lives.
This night the pointy-finger was behaving, giving no indication that it was about to unleash blasting gusts of steam that would parboil any Geg caught within reach. Tonight everything was fine, just fine. The wheels were turning, the gears shifting, the cogs cogging. Cables came up and went down. The dig-claws deposited their loads of ore into carts pushed by the Gegs, who dumped the contents into the gigantic maw of the Kicksey-Winsey, which chewed up the ore, spit out what it didn’t want, and digested the rest. Most of the Gegs working tonight were members of WUPP. During the day, one of their crew had sighted the dig-claw with Limbeck’s L on it. By extraordinary good fortune, the claw belonged to the part of the Kicksey-Winsey located near the capital city of Wombe. Jarre, traveling—with the aid of WUPP members—by flashraft, had arrived in time to meet her beloved and renowned leader. All the dig-claws had come up except one which appeared to have broken down on the isle below. Jarre left her supposed work station and came over to join the other Gegs, peering anxiously down into the gap—a large shaft that had been bored straight through the coralite isle, opening out onto the sky below. Occasionally Jarre glanced around nervously, for she wasn’t supposed to be on this work crew, and if she was caught, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Fortunately, other Gegs rarely came into the help-hand area, doing so only if there was trouble with one of the claws. She looked up uneasily at the carts being rolled around on the level above her.
“Don’t worry,” said Lof. “If anyone looks down here, they’ll just think we’re helping to fix a claw.”
Lof was a comely young Geg. He admired Jarre immensely and hadn’t been exactly deeply grieved to hear of Limbeck’s execution. Lof squeezed Jarre’s hand and seemed inclined to hang on to it, but Jarre needed her hand herself and took it back.
“There it is!” she cried excitedly, pointing down into the gap. “That’s it!”
“You mean that thing that just got struck by lightning?” asked Lof hopefully.
“No!” Jarre snapped. “I mean yes, but it wasn’t hit.” They could all see the help-hand, clutching its bubble, rising up out of the gap. Never before had it seemed to Jarre that the Kicksey-Winsey was so slow. Several times she wondered if it hadn’t broken down, and looked at the giant winder-upper, only to see it crankily winding away.
And, at length, the help-hand rose up into the Kicksey-Winsey. The winder-upper screeched to a halt, the gap closed beneath the hand with a rumble, floor plates sliding across to provide safe footing.
“It’s him! It’s Limbeck!” exclaimed Jarre, who could see a blurry blob through the glass of the bubble that was streaming with rain.
“I’m not sure,” said Lof dubiously, still clinging to a fragment of hope.
“Does Limbeck have a tail?”
But Jarre didn’t hear. She rushed across the floor before the gap had quite closed all the way, the other Gegs hastening after her. Reaching the door, she began to yank on it impatiently.
“It won’t open!” she cried, panicked.