“My name is Haplo. My friends, the Gegs”—he gestured to the hole out of which he’d come. Hearing a commotion behind him, he assumed that the ever-curious Limbeck was following—“and I heard of your coming and decided that we should meet and talk to you in private, if that’s possible. Are the High Froman’s guards around?”
Hugh lowered the sword slightly, though his dark eyes continued to follow Haplo’s every move. “No, they left. But we’re probably being watched.”
“No doubt. Then we haven’t much time before someone returns.” Limbeck, puffing and panting from his scramble up the ladder, trotted up behind Haplo. The Geg glanced askance at Hugh’s sword, but his curiosity was stronger than his fear.
“Are you Mangers?” he asked, his gaze going from Haplo to the boy. Haplo, watching Limbeck closely, saw an awed expression smooth out his face. The Geg’s myopic eyes, magnified behind the spectacles, grew wide. “You are a god, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” answered the child, speaking Geg. “I am a god.”
“Do these speak human?” asked Hugh, pointing to Limbeck, Jarre, and the other two Gegs, who were cautiously poking their heads up out of the hole. Haplo shook his head.
“Then I can tell you the truth,” said Hugh. “The kid’s no more a god than you are.” To judge by the expression in Hugh’s dark eyes, he had apparently reached the same decision about Haplo that Haplo had reached about Hugh. He was wary, cautious, suspicious still, but crowded inns force people to sleep with odd bedfellows or spend the night out in the cold. “Our ship got caught in the Maelstrom and crashed on Drevlin, not far from here. The Gegs found us and thought we were gods, and we had to play along.”
“Like me,” said Haplo, nodding. He glanced down at the servant, who had opened his eyes and was staring around him with a bemused look. “Who’s that?”
“The kid’s chamberlain. I’m called Hugh the Hand. That’s Alfred, and the kid’s name is Bane, son of King Stephen of Volkaran and Uylandia.” Haplo turned to Limbeck and Jarre—who was staring at the three with deep suspicion—and made introductions. Alfred staggered to his feet and gazed at Haplo with a curiosity that deepened when he saw the man’s wrapped hands. Haplo, becoming aware of Alfred’s stare, self-consciously tugged at the cloth.
“Are you injured, sir?” questioned the servant in respectful tones. “Forgive me for asking, but I notice the bandages you wear. I am somewhat skilled in healing—”
“Thank you, no. I’m not wounded. It’s a skin disease, common to my people. It’s not contagious and it doesn’t cause me any pain, but the pustules it creates aren’t pleasant to look at.”
Disgust twisted Hugh’s features. Alfred’s face paled slightly, and it was a struggle for the servant to express the proper sympathy. Haplo watched with inward satisfaction and did not believe he would encounter any further questions about his hands.
Hugh sheathed his sword and drew near. “Your ship crashed?” he asked Haplo in low tones.
“Yes.”
“Destroyed?”
“Completely.”
“Where are you from?”
“Down below, on one of the lower isles. You’ve probably never heard of it. Not many have. I was fighting a battle in my own lands when my ship was hit and I lost control—”
Hugh walked toward the statue. Apparently deeply engrossed in the conversation, Haplo joined him, but managed to cast a casual glance back at the servant. Alfred’s skin was a deathly hue, his eyes still staring intently at the Patryn’s hands, as if the man wished desperately his look could pierce through the cloth.
“You’re stranded down here, then?” asked Hugh.
Haplo nodded.
“And you want . . .” Hugh hesitated, certain, perhaps, that he knew the answer but wanting the other to say it.
“. . . to get out.” Haplo was emphatic.
Now it was Hugh who nodded. The two men understood each other completely. There was no trust between them, but that wasn’t necessary, not as long as each was able to use the other to achieve a common goal. Bedfellows, it seemed, who wouldn’t fight over the blankets. They continued to converse in low tones, considering their problem.
Alfred stood staring at the man’s hands. Bane, frowning, gazed after Haplo; the boy’s fingers stroked the feather amulet. His thoughts were interrupted by the Geg.
“You’re not a god, then?” Drawn by an irresistible force, Limbeck had moved nearer to talk to the child.
“No,” answered Bane, wrenching his gaze from Haplo. Turning to the Geg, the prince carefully and quickly smoothed his dour expression. “I’m not, but they told me to tell that man, your king, that I was so that he wouldn’t hurt us.”
“Hurt you?” Limbeck appeared amazed. The concept was beyond him.
“I’m really a prince of the High Realm,” continued the child. “My father is a powerful wizard. We were going to see him when our ship crashed.”
“I’d dearly love to see the High Realm!” exclaimed Limbeck. “What’s it like?”
“I’m not sure. You see, I’ve never been there before. I’ve lived all my life in the Mid Realm with my adopted father. It’s a long story.”
“I’ve never been to the Mid Realm either. But I’ve seen pictures of it in a book I found in a Welf ship. I’ll tell you how I found it.” Limbeck began to recite his favorite tale—that of stumbling across the elven vessel. Bane, fidgeting, craned his head to look back at Haplo and Hugh, standing together before the statue of the Manger. Alfred was muttering to himself. None of them was paying any attention to Jarre.
She didn’t like this, any of it. She didn’t like the two tall, strong gods putting their heads together and talking in a language she couldn’t understand. She didn’t like the way Limberk was looking at the child-god, she didn’t like the way the child-god was looking at anyone. She didn’t even like the way the tall, gawky god had tumbled down onto the floor. Jarre had the feeling that, like poor relatives coming to visit, these gods were going to devour all the food and, when that was gone, leave the Gegs with nothing but an empty cupboard.
Jarre slipped over to where the two Gegs were standing nervously beside the hole.
“Bring up everybody,” she said in as soft a voice as is possible for a Geg.
“The High Froman’s tried to fool us with sham gods. We’re going to capture them and take them before the people and prove that the High Froman is a fraud!”
The Gegs looked at the so-called gods, then at each other. These gods didn’t appear very impressive. Tall, maybe, but skinny. One of them carried a formidable-looking weapon. If he were mobbed, he wouldn’t get a chance to use it. Haplo had mourned the extinction of Geg courage. It hadn’t completely died out. It had just been buried under centuries of submission and toil. Now the coals had been stirred up. Here and there, flames were flickering. The excited Gegs backed down the ladder. Jarre leaned over and looked down after them. Her square face, dimly illuminated by the glimmerglamps, was awesome, almost ethereal, when viewed from below. More than one Geg had a sudden image of ancient days when the clan priestesses would have summoned them to war.
Noisily, but in the disciplined manner the Gegs had learned serving the great machine, they clambered up the ladder. What with the whumping and the thumping going on all around, no one heard them.
Forgotten in the confusion, Haplo’s dog lay at the foot of the ladder. Nose on paws, it watched and listened and seemed to ponder whether its master had really been serious about that word “stay.”
35
Haplo heard a whine, felt a pawing at his leg. He turned his attention from examining the Manger pictures to look down at his feet.
“What is it, boy? I thought I told you to ... Oh.” The Patryn glanced over and saw the Gegs streaming up out of the hole. The Hand, hearing a sound at his back, looked in the opposite direction—toward the main entrance of the Factree.