“Bane, what’s going on?” Hugh demanded loudly, shouting to be heard above the racket made by the machine. “Who is this guy and what does he want?” Bane looked up at Hugh with an ingenuous grin, obviously highly pleased with himself and his newfound power. “He’s the king of his people!” shouted Bane.
“What?”
“King! He’s going to take us to some sort of judgment hall.”
“Can’t he take us somewhere quiet?” Hugh’s head was beginning to throb. Bane turned to the king with the question. To Hugh’s amazement, all the Gegs stared at him in horror, shaking their heads emphatically.
“What the hell is the matter with them?”
The prince began to giggle.
“They think you’ve asked for a place to go to die!” At this juncture, the Geg dressed in silk hose, knee breeches, and a worn velvet doublet was introduced to Bane by the Geg king. The velvet-clad Geg threw himself to his knees. Taking Bane’s hand, he pressed it against his forehead.
“Who do they think you are, kid?” Hugh asked.
“A god,” Bane answered airily. “One they’ve been looking for, it seems. I’m going to pass judgment on them.”
The Gegs led their newly discovered gods through the streets of Wombe—streets that ran up, under, and straight through the Kicksey-Winsey. Hugh the Hand was not awed by many things in this world—not even death impressed him much—but he was awed by the great machine. It flashed, it glittered, it sparkled. It whumped and thwanged and hissed. It pumped and whirled and shot out blasts of searing hot steam. It created arcs of sizzling blue lightning. It soared higher than he could see, delved deeper than he could imagine. Huge gears engaged, huge wheels revolved, huge boilers boiled. It had arms and hands and legs and feet, all made of shining metal, all busily engaged in going somewhere other than where they were. It had eyes that shed a blinding light and mouths that screeched and hooted. Gegs crawled over it, climbed up it, clambered down into it, turned it, tapped it, and tended it with obvious loving care and devotion.
Bane, too, was overwhelmed. He gazed with wide-open eyes, his mouth gaping in ungodlike wonder.
“This is amazing!” breathed the boy. “I’ve never seen anything like this!”
“You haven’t, Your Wurship?” exclaimed the High Froman, looking at the child-god in astonishment. “But you gods built it!”
“Oh, er, yes,” Bane stammered. “It’s just that I meant I’d never seen . . . anything like the way you’re taking care of it!” he finished with a rush, exhaling the words in relief.
“Yes,” said the high dark with dignity, his face glowing with pride. “We take excellent care of it.”
The prince bit his tongue. He wanted very much to ask what this wondrous machine did, but it was obvious that this little king fellow expected him to know everything—not an unreasonable assumption in a god. Bane was on his own in this too, his father having imparted to him all the information he had on the great machine of the Low Realm. This being a god wasn’t as easy as it had first appeared, and the prince began regretting he’d agreed to it so fast. There was this judgment thing. Who was he judging, and why? Would he be sending anyone to the dungeons? He really needed to find out, but how?
The little king fellow was, Bane decided, just a bit too shrewd. He was very respectful and polite, but the boy saw that when he wasn’t looking, the Geg was scrutinizing him with a gaze that was sharp and penetrating. Walking along on the prince’s right, however, was another Geg who reminded the child of a performing monkey he’d seen once at court. Bane guessed from what he’d heard that the beruffled, beribboned, velvet-lined Geg had something to do with the religion in which the boy had suddenly found himself so intimately involved. This Geg didn’t appear to be all that bright, and the prince decided to turn to him for answers.
“Pardon me,” said the boy with a charming smile for the Head Clark, “but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Wes Wrenchwranger, Your Wurship,” said the Geg, bowing as best he could for his stoutness, and nearly tripping on his long beard. “I have the honor to be Your Wurship’s Head Clark.”
Whatever that is, Bane muttered to himself. Outwardly he smiled and nodded and gave every indication that nowhere else on Drevlin could he have found a Geg more suited for that position.
Sidling close to the Head Clark, Bane slipped his hand into the Geg’s hand—a proceeding which caused the Head Clark to swell rather alarmingly and cast a glance of supreme self-satisfaction at his brother-in-law, the High Froman. Darral paid little attention. The crowds lining the streets to see them were getting unruly. He was glad to see the coppers reacting to it. For the moment they appeared to have matters under control, but he knew he would need to keep a watchful eye on things. He only hoped the child-god couldn’t understand what some of the Gegs were shouting. Damn that Limbeck anyway!
Fortunately for Darral, the child-god was completely absorbed in his own problems.
“Perhaps you could help me, Head Clark,” said Bane, flushing shyly and very prettily.
“I would be honored, Your Wurship!”
“You know, it’s been an awfully long time since we—your gods . . . Uh, what did you call us?”
“The Mangers, Your Wurship. That is what you call yourselves, isn’t it?”
“Yes, oh, yes! Mangers. It’s just that, well, as I was saying, we Mangers have been away an awfully long time—”
“—many centuries, Your Wurship,” said the Head Clark.
“Yes, many centuries, and we’ve noticed that quite a few things have changed since we were away.” Bane drew a deep breath. This was coming easier all the time. “Therefore we’ve decided that this judgment-thing should be changed as well.”
The Head Clark felt some of his smugness begin to drain from him. He glanced uneasily at the High Froman. If he, the Head Clark, screwed up the Judgment, it would be the last screw he ever turned.
“I’m not quite certain what you mean, Your Wurship.”
“Modernize it, bring it up-to-date,” suggested Bane. The Head Clark appeared terribly confused. How could you change something that had never before happened? Still, he supposed that the gods must have had it planned out. “I guess it would be all right—”
“Never mind. I can see you’re uncomfortable with the idea,” said the prince, patting the Head Clark on his velvet-covered arm. “I’ve got a suggestion. You tell me the way you want me to handle it and I’ll do it just like you say.” The Head Clark’s face brightened. “You can’t believe how wonderful this moment is for me, Your Wurship! I’ve dreamed of it for so long. And now, to have the Judgment go just as I’ve always imagined . . .” He wiped tears from his eyes.
“Yes, yes,” said Bane. He noted that the High Froman was watching them with narrowed eyes and edging nearer all the time. He might have stopped their conversation before this except that it was undoubtedly considered bad manners to interrupt a god in confidential conference. “Go on.”
“Well, I always pictured all the Gegs—or at least as many as we could get in there—dressed in their very best clothes, standing in the Factree. You would be there, seated in the Manger’s Chair, of course.”
“Of course, and—”
“And I would be there, standing before the crowd in my new Head Cark suit that I would have made specially for the occasion. White, I think, would be proper, with black bows at the knees, nothing too overdone—”