Haplo could have told him much about these symbols. He could have told him they were in reality sigla—the runes of the Sartan—and that it was the sigla carved upon the stones that kept the tunnels dry despite the almost constant flow of rainwater dripping through the porous coralite. It was the sigla that maintained the tunnels centuries after those who built them had left them. The Patryn was nearly as interested in the tunnels as Limbeck. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that the Sartan had abandoned their work. Not only that, but they had left it unfinished...and that was not at all like these humans who had attained the power and the status of demigods. The great machine, which, even far below ground, they could still feel throbbing and pulsing and pounding, was, Haplo had observed, running on its own, at its own whim, by its own design.
And it was doing nothing. Nothing creative, that Haplo could see. He had traveled the length and breadth of Drevlin with Limbeck and the WUPPers, and everywhere he had gone he had inspected the great machine. It knocked over buildings, it dug holes, it built new buildings, it filled in holes, it roared and steamed and tooted and hummed and did what it did with a wondrous amount of energy. But what it was doing was nothing.
Once a month, so Haplo had heard, the “Welves” came down from above in their iron suits and their flying ships and picked up the precious substance—water. The Welves had been doing this for centuries and the Gegs had come to believe that this was the ultimate purpose of their beloved and sacred machine—to produce water for these godlike Welves. But Haplo saw that the water was merely a by-product of the Kicksey-Winsey, perhaps even a waste product. The function of the fabulous machine was something grander, something far more magnificent than spitting out water to slake the thirst of the elven nation. But what that purpose was, and why the Sartan had left before it could be accomplished, was something Haplo could not begin to fathom. There was no answer for him in the tunnels. Possibly it lay ahead. He had learned, as had all the Patryns, that impatience—any slip from the tightly held reins of control imposed upon themselves—could lead to disaster. The Labyrinth was not kind to those with flaws. Patience, endless patience—that was one of the gifts the Patryns had received from the Labyrinth, though it came to them covered with their own blood.
The Gegs were excited, noisy, and eager. Haplo walked through the tunnels after them, making no more noise than did his shadow cast by the light of Geg glimmerglamps. The dog trotted along behind, silent and watchful as his master.
“Are you certain this is the right way?” Jarre asked more than once, when it seemed that they must be walking in endless circles.
The guide Gegs assured her it was. It seemed that several years ago, the Kicksey-Winsey had taken it into its mechanical head that it should open the tunnels. It had done so, punching through the ground with its iron fists and feet. Gegs swarmed below, shoring up the walls and providing the machine support. Then, just as suddenly, the Kicksey-Winsey changed its mind and launched off in a completely new direction. These particular Gegs had been part of the tunnel scrift and knew them as well as they knew their own houses. Unfortunately, the tunnels were not deserted, as Haplo had hoped. The Gegs now used them to get from one place to another, and the WUPPers on their way to the Factree ran into large numbers of Gegs. The sight of Haplo created excitement, the guide Gegs felt called upon to tell everyone who he was and who Limbeck was, and almost all the Gegs that didn’t have other, more pressing business, decided to follow along.
Soon there was a parade of Gegs tromping through the tunnels, heading for the Factree. So much for secrecy and surprise. Haplo comforted himself with the knowledge that an army of Gegs mounted on shrieking dragons could have flown through the tunnel and, due to the noise of the machine, no one topside would be the wiser.
“Here we are,” shouted one Geg in a booming voice, pointing to a metal ladder leading up a shaft and into darkness. Glancing further down the tunnel, Haplo could see numerous other ladders, placed at intervals—the first time they had come across such a phenomenon—and he calculated that the Geg was correct. These ladders obviously led somewhere. He just hoped it was the Factree. Haplo motioned the guide Gegs, Jarre, and Limbeck to draw near him. Jarre kept the numerous other Gegs back with a wave of her hand.
“What’s up the ladder? How do we get into the Factree?” There was a hole in the floor, explained the Gegs, covered with a metal plate. Moving the plate allowed access to the main floor of the Factree.
“This Factree is a huge place,” said Haplo. “What part of it will I come up in? What part have they given over to the god?”
There was some lengthy discussion and argument over this. One Geg had heard that the god was in the Manger’s room two floors up over the main floor of the Factree. The other Geg had heard that the god was, by orders of the High Froman, being kept in the Bored Room.
“What’s that?” Haplo asked patiently.
“It’s where my trial was held,” said Limbeck, his face brightening at the memory of his moment of supreme importance. “There’s a statue of a Manger there, and the chair where the High Froman sits in judgment.”
“Where is this place from here?”
The Gegs thought it was about two more ladders down, and they all trooped in that direction, the two guide Gegs arguing among themselves until Jarre, with an embarrassed glance at Haplo, ordered them sharply to hold their tongues.
“They think this is it,” she said, placing her hand upon the ladder’s steel rungs.
Haplo nodded. “I’ll go up first,” he said as softly as he could and still make himself heard above the roar of the machine.
The guide Gegs protested. This was their adventure, they were leading, they should get to go up first.
“There might be guards of the High Froman up there,” said Haplo. “Or this so-called god might be dangerous.”
The Gegs looked at each other, looked at Haplo, and backed away from the ladder. There was no further discussion.
“But I want to see them!” protested Limbeck, who was beginning to feel they’d come all this way for nothing.
“Shhh!” remonstrated Haplo. “You will. I’m just going up to . . . scout around. Reconnoiter. I’ll come back and get you when it is safe.”
“He’s right, Limbeck, so be quiet,” scolded Jarre. “You’ll have your chance soon enough. It would never do for the High Froman to arrest us before tonight’s rally!”
Cautioning the need for quiet—at which all the Gegs stared at him as if he were absolutely insane—Haplo turned to the ladder.
“What should we do with the dog?” asked Jarre. “He can’t climb the ladder, and you can’t carry him.”
Haplo shrugged, unconcerned. “He’ll be all right, won’t you, dog?” Leaning down, he patted the animal on the head. “You stay, dog, all right? Stay.” The dog, mouth open and tongue lolling, plopped itself down on the floor and, ears cocked, looked around with interest.
Haplo began his ascent, climbing the ladder slowly and carefully, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the increasing darkness as he moved out of the bright light of the glimmerglamps. The climb was not long. Soon he was able to see pinpoints of the glimmerglamp light below him, reflecting off a metal surface above.
Reaching the plate, he put his hand on it and cautiously and gently pushed. It gave way smoothly and easily and, he was thankful to note, quietly. Not that he was anticipating trouble. He wanted this chance to observe these “gods” without them observing him. Thinking regretfully that, in the old days, the threat—or the promise—of danger would have caused the dwarves to clamor up the ladders in droves, Haplo cursed the Sartan beneath his breath, silently lifted the plate, and peered out.