“I could raise an army, build ships. No! What has gotten into me!” Haplo angrily jerked the cloth back over his hand. The dog, cringing at the sharp tone, looked up apologetically, thinking, perhaps, that it had been at fault.
“It’s my true nature, the nature of the Patryns, and it will lead me into disaster! My lord warned me of this. I must move slowly. The Gegs are not ready. And I’m not the one who should lead them. Their own. Limbeck. Somehow, I must blow on the spark that is Limbeck.
“As for this child-god, there’s nothing to be done but wait and see and trust in myself. If it is a Sartan, then that might be all for the better. Right, boy?” Leaning down, Haplo thumped the animal on its flank. The dog, pleased at the return of its master’s good humor, closed its eyes and sighed deeply.
“And if it is a Sartan,” muttered Haplo beneath his breath, leaning back in the small uncomfortable chair and stretching his legs, “may my lord keep me from ripping out the bastard’s heart!”
By the time Jarre had come back, Limbeck was awake and anxiously perusing his speech, and Haplo had made a decision.
“Well,” said Jarre brightly, unwinding her shawl from around her ample shoulders, “everything is all ready for tonight. I think, my dear, that this will be the biggest rally yet—”
“We need to talk to the god,” interrupted Haplo in his quiet voice. Jarre flashed him a look, reminding him that this subject was not to be mentioned in front of Limbeck.
“God?” Limbeck peered at them from behind the spectacles perched precariously on his nose. “What god? What’s going on?”
“He had to know,” Haplo mollified an angry Jarre. “It’s best to always know as much as you can about the enemy.”
“Enemy! What enemy!” Limbeck, pale but calm, had risen to his feet.
“You don’t seriously believe that they are what they claim—Mangers—do you?” demanded Jarre, staring at Haplo with narrowed eyes, arms akimbo.
“No, and that is what we must prove. You said yourself this was undoubtedly a plot by the High Froman to discredit your movement. If we can capture this being who calls himself a god and can prove publicly that he’s not—”
“—then we can cast down the High Froman!” cried Jarre, clapping her hands together eagerly.
Haplo, pretending to scratch the dog, lowered his head to hide his smile. The animal gazed up at his master with a wistful, uneasy aspect.
“Certainly there’s that possibility, but we must take this one step at a time,” said Haplo after a pause, seeming to give the matter grave consideration. “First, it’s essential that we find out who this god really is and why he’s here.”
“Who who is? Why who is here?” Limbeck’s spectacles slid down his nose. He pushed them back and raised his voice. “Tell me—”
“I’m sorry, my dear. It all happened while you were asleep.” Jarre informed him of the arrival of the High Froman’s god and how he had paraded the child through the city streets and what the people were saying and doing and how some of them believed the child was a god and some believed he wasn’t and”—and there’s going to be trouble, that’s what you mean, don’t you?” concluded Limbeck. Sinking down into his chair, he stared bleakly at her. “What if they really are the Mangers! What if I’ve been wrong and they’ve come to ... to pass judgment on the people? They’ll be offended and they might abandon us again!” He twisted the speech in his hands. “I might have brought great harm to all our people!”
Jarre, looking exasperated, opened her mouth, but Haplo shook his head at her.
“Limbeck, that is why we need to talk to them. If they are the Sar . . . Mangers,” he corrected himself, “then we can explain and they’ll understand, I’m sure.”
“I was so certain!” Limbeck cried woefully.
“And you are right, my dear!” Jarre knelt beside him and, putting her hands on his face, turned it so that he was forced to look at her. “Believe in yourself! This is an impostor, brought by the High Froman! We’ll prove that and we’ll prove that he and the clarks have been in league with those who have enslaved us! This could be our great chance, our chance to change our world!” Limbeck did not reply. Gently removing Jarre’s hands, he held them fast, thanking her silently for her comfort. But he lifted his head and fixed a troubled gaze on Haplo.
“You’ve gone too far to back out now, my friend,” said the Patryn. “Your people trust you, believe in you. You can’t let them down.”
“But what if I’m wrong?”
“You’re not,” said Haplo with conviction. “Even if this is a Manger, the Mangers are not gods and never were. They are human, like myself. They were endowed with great magical power, but they were mortal. If the High Froman claims the Manger is a god, just ask the Manger. If he really is one, he will tell you the truth.”
The Mangers always told the truth. They had gone throughout the world protesting that they were not divine, yet taking upon themselves the responsibilities of the divine. False humility to mask pride and ambition. If this was a true Sartan, he would refute his own godhood. If not, Haplo would know he was lying, and exposing him would be easy.
“Can we get in to see them?” he asked Jarre.
“They’re being held in the Factree,” she said, pondering. “I don’t know much about it, but we have those in our group who do. I’ll ask them.”
“We should hurry. It’s almost dark and the meeting is supposed to commence in two hours’ time. We should see them before that.”
Jarre was on her feet and heading for the hole in the wall. Limbeck, sighing, leaned his head on his hand. His spectacles slid down his nose and dropped into his lap, where they lay unnoticed.
The woman has the energy and determination, mused Haplo. Jarre knows her limitations. She can make the vision reality, but it is Limbeck who has the eyes—half-blind that they are—to see. I must show him the vision. Jarre returned with several eager, grim-looking Gegs. “There’s a way in. Tunnels run underneath the floor and come up near the statue of the Manger.” Haplo nodded his head toward Limbeck. Jarre understood.
“Did you hear me, my dear? We can get inside the Factree and talk to this so-called god. Do we go?”
Limbeck raised his head. His face beneath the beard was pale, but there was an expression of determination. “Yes.” He raised a hand, stopping her from interrupting. “I’ve realized it doesn’t matter if I’m right or if I’m wrong. All that matters is to discover the truth.”
34
Two guide Gegs, Limbeck, Jarre, Haplo, and, of course, the dog navigated a series of twisting, winding tunnels that intersected, bisected, and dissected the ground below the Kicksey-Winsey. The tunnels were old and marvelous in their construction, lined with stone that appeared, from its regular shape, to have been made either by the hand of man or the metal hands of the Kicksey-Winsey. Here and there, carved into the stones, were curious symbols. Limbeck was absolutely fascinated with these, and it was with some difficulty and a few tugs on his beard that Jarre managed to persuade him that there was a need for hurry.