Between them, the Gegs managed to drag the body of the god into the cart. Jarre swaddled the god’s injured head in Lof’s cloak (Lof seemed inclined to protest, but a smack on the cheek delivered by a nervous and exasperated Jarre brought him around). The gong sounded a third time. Cables creaking and screeching, the dig-claws began to descend. The floor rumbled and started to open. The Gegs, all but losing their footing, lined up in back of the cart and gave a great heave. The cart leapt forward and rolled up the ramp, the Gegs sweating and straining behind it, the dog running around their feet and nipping at their heels.
Gegs are strong, but the cart was made of iron and quite heavy, not to mention that it had the added weight of the god inside. It had never been intended to travel a ramp used mainly by Gegs, and it was far more inclined to roll down the ramp than up it.
Limbeck, noting this, had vague thoughts of weight, inertia, and gravity and would have undoubtedly developed another law of physics had he not been in dire peril of his life. The floor was gaping wide open beneath them, the dig-claws were thundering down into the void, and there came one particularly tense moment when it seemed that the Gegs couldn’t hold on and that the cart must win and end up carrying Gegs, god, dog, and all into the gap.
“Now, once more, together!” grunted Jarre. Her stout body was braced against the cart, her face fiery red from the exertion. Limbeck, beside her, wasn’t much help, being naturally weak anyway and further weakened by his grueling experience. But he was valiantly doing what he could. Lof was flagging and seemed about to give up.
“Lof,” gasped Jarre, “if it starts to roll back, put your foot under the wheel!”
This command from his leader gave Lof, who was naturally flat-footed but saw no reason to carry it to extremes, extra incentive. Strength renewed, he put his shoulder to the cart, gritted his teeth, shut his eyes, and gave a mighty shove. The cart surged forward with such force that Limbeck fell to his knees and slid halfway down the ramp before he could manage to stop himself. The cart popped over the top of the ramp. The Gegs tumbled, exhausted, to the floor of the upper level, and the dog licked Lof’s face—much to that Geg’s consternation. Limbeck crawled up the ramp on his hands and knees and, reaching the top, sank down in a swoon.
“This is all I need!” Jarre muttered in exasperation.
“I’m not hauling him around too!” protested Lof bitterly. He was beginning to think that his father had been right and that he should never have involved himself in politics.
A vicious tug on his beard and a sound smack on the cheek brought Limbeck to semi-consciousness. He began babbling something about inclines and planes, but Jarre told him to keep quiet and make himself useful by picking up the dog and hiding it in the cart with its master.
“And tell it to keep quiet, too!” Jarre commanded. Limbeck’s eyes opened so wide that it seemed they might fall out of his head.
“M-me? P-pick up th-that—”
But the dog, seeming to understand, solved the problem by jumping lightly into the cart, where it curled up at its master’s feet.
Jarre took a peep at the god and reported that he was still alive and looked somewhat better now that he was wrapped up in the cloaks. The Gegs covered his body with small chunks of coralite and various debris that the Kicksey-Winsey let fall from time to time, tossed a gunnysack over the dog, and headed the cart for the nearest exit.
No one stopped them. No one demanded to know why they were shoving an ore cart through the tunnels. No one wanted to know where they were going or what they were going to do once they got there. Jarre, grinning wearily, said it was all for the best. Limbeck, sighing, shook his head and pronounced this lack of curiosity a sad commentary on his people.
20
In the Labyrinth, a man must hone his instincts to a fine, sharp point, as sharp as any blade of knife or sword, for the instincts, too, are weapons of self-preservation and are oftentimes as valuable as steel. Struggling to regain consciousness, Haplo instinctively kept himself from revealing that he was conscious. Until he could regain complete control of every faculty, he lay perfectly still and unmoving, stifled a groan of pain, and firmly resisted the overwhelming impulse to open his eyes and look at his surroundings. Play dead. Many times, an enemy will let you alone.
Voices swam in and out of his hearing. Mentally he grasped at them, but it was like snagging fish with bare hands. They darted among his fingers; he could touch them but never quite catch hold. They were loud, deep voices, sounding quite clearly over a roaring thrumming that seemed to be all around him, even inside of him, for he could swear he could feel his body vibrating. The voices were some distance away and sounded as if they were arguing, but they weren’t being violent about it. Haplo did not feel threatened and he relaxed.
“I’ve fallen in with Squatters, seemingly. . . .”
“. . . The boy’s still alive. Got a nasty crack on the head, but he’ll make it.”
“The other two? I suppose they’re his parents.”
“Dead. Runners, by the looks of them. Snogs got them, of course. I guess they thought the kid too little to bother with.”
“Naw. Snogs don’t care what they kill. I don’t think they ever knew the kid was there. He was well-hidden in those bushes. If he hadn’t groaned, we never would’ve heard him. It saved his life this time, but it’s a bad habit. We’ll have to break him of it. My guess is the parents knew they were in trouble. They clouted the kid a good one to keep him quiet and hid him away, then tried to lead the snogs away from him.”
“Lucky thing for the kid it was snogs and not dragons. Dragons would’ve sniffed him out.”
“What’s his name?”
The boy felt hands run over his body, which was naked except for a strip of soft leather tied around his loins. The hands traced a pattern of tattoos that began at his heart, extending across his chest, down his stomach and legs to the tops of his feet but not the soles, down his arms to the back of his hands but not the fingers or the palms, up his neck but not on the head or face.
“Haplo,” said the man, reading the runes over the heart. “He was born the time the Seventh Gate fell. That would make him about nine.”
“Lucky to have lived this long. I can’t imagine Runners trying to make it, saddled with a kid. We better be getting out of here. Dragons’ll be smelling the blood before long. Come on, boy. Wake up. On your feet. We can’t carry you. Here, you, awake now? All right.” Grabbing him by the shoulder, the man took Haplo to stand beside the hacked and mangled bodies of his parents. “Look at that. Remember it. And remember this. It wasn’t snogs that killed your father and mother. It was those who put us in this prison and left us to die. Who are they, boy? Do you know?” His fingers dug into Haplo’s flesh.
“The Sartan,” answered Haplo thickly.
“Repeat it.”
“The Sartan!” he cried.
“Right, never forget that, boy. Never forget. . . .” Haplo floated again to the surface of consciousness. The roaring, drumming sound whooshed and thumped around him but he could hear voices over it, the same voices he vaguely remembered hearing earlier, only now there seemed to be fewer of them. He tried to concentrate on their words, but it was impossible. The throbbing pain in his head stamped out every spark of rational thought. He had to end the pain.
Cautiously Haplo opened his eyes a crack and peered out between the lashes. The light of a single candle, placed somewhere near his head, did not illuminate his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, but he could manage to make out that he was alone.