“Company,” said Hugh. “The High Froman and his guards.”
“And over there.”
Hugh glanced swiftly toward the hole, his hand going to his sword. Haplo shook his head. “No, we can’t fight. There are too many. Besides, they don’t want to harm us. They want to claim us. We’re the prize. There’s no time to explain. It looks as if we’re going to be caught in the middle of a riot. You better go take care of that prince of yours.”
“He’s an investment—” began Hugh.
“The coppers!” Jarre shrieked, catching sight of the High Froman. “Quick, grab the gods before they stop us!”
“Then you better go guard your investment,” suggested Haplo.
“What is it, sir?” gasped Alfred, seeing Hugh running toward them, sword in hand.
The two groups of Gegs were yelling and shaking their fists and snatching up makeshift weapons off the Factree floor.
“Trouble. Take the kid and go with . . .” Hugh began. “No, dammit, don’t faint . . .”
Alfred’s eyes rolled back in his head. Hugh reached out to shake him or slap him or something, but it was too late. The chamberlain’s limp body slid down and flopped gracelessly across the feet of the Manger’s statue. The Gegs rushed toward the gods. The High Froman, instantly recognizing his danger, ordered the coppers to rush the Gegs. Shouting wildly—some for the WUPPers and some for the Froman—the two groups came together. For the first time in the history of Drevlin, blows were struck, blood was shed. Haplo, gathering up his dog in his arms, melted back into the shadows and watched quietly, smiling.
Jarre stood near the hole, helping Gegs climb out, rallying her people to attack. When the last Geg was up out of the tunnels, she looked around and discovered that the battle had surged ahead of her. Worse, she had completely lost sight of Limbeck, Haplo, and the three strange beings. Leaping onto the top of a crate, Jarre peered over the heads of the milling, fighting press of Gegs and saw, to her horror, the High Froman and the Head Clark standing near the statue of the Manger, taking advantage of the confusion to spirit away not only the gods but also the august leader of WUPP!
Furious, Jarre jumped from her crate and ran toward them, but got caught up in the midst of the battle. Pushing and shoving and lashing out with her fists at the Gegs blocking her path, she struggled to get near the statue. She was flushed and panting, her trousers were torn, her hair had fallen down over her face, and one eye was swelling shut when she finally reached her destination. The gods were gone. Limbeck was gone. The High Froman had won. Her fist doubled, Jarre was prepared to punch the head of the first copper who came near her when she heard a moan and, looking down, saw two large feet sticking up in the air. They weren’t Geg feet. They were god feet!
Hurrying around to the front of the Manger, Jarre was amazed to see the base of the statue standing wide open! One of the Froman’s gods—the tall, gawky one—had apparently fallen into this opening and was lying half in and half out of it.
“I’m in luck!” said Jarre. “I’ve got this one, at least!” She glanced fearfully behind her, expecting to see the Froman’s coppers, but in the confusion and turmoil, no one was paying any attention to her. The Froman would be intent on getting his gods out of danger and, undoubtedly, no one had missed this one yet.
“But they will. We have to get you away from here,” muttered Jarre. Hurrying over to the god, she saw that he was lying on a staircase that led inside the statue. Descending below the floor level, the stairs provided a quick and easy means of escape.
Jarre hesitated. She was violating the statue—the Gegs’ most Holy of Holies. She had no idea why this opening was here or where it might lead. It didn’t matter. This was only going to be a hiding place. She’d wait inside here until everyone was gone. Jarre bounded over the comatose god and stumbled down the stairs. Turning, she grabbed the god’s shoulders and dragged him, bumping and sliding and groaning, inside the statue.
Jarre had no clear plan in mind. She only hoped that by the time the High Froman came looking for this god and discovered the opening in the statue, she would have been able to smuggle him back to WUPP Headquarters. But when Jarre drew the god’s feet over the base, the opening suddenly and silently slid shut. The Geg found herself in darkness.
Jarre held perfectly still and tried to tell herself everything was all right. But panic was swelling up inside her until it seemed she must split apart. Her terror wasn’t caused by fear of the dark. Living nearly all of their lives inside the Kicksey-Winsey, the Gegs were used to the darkness. Jarre shook all over. Her hands were sweating, her breath came fast, her heart pounded, and she didn’t know why. And then it came to her.
It was quiet.
She couldn’t hear the machine, couldn’t hear the comforting whistles and bangs and hammerings that had lulled her to sleep as a babe. Now there was nothing but awful, terrible silence. Sight is a sense outside and apart from the body, an image on the surface of the eye. But sound enters the ears, the head, it lives inside. In sound’s absence, silence echoes.
Abandoning the god on the staircase, heedless of pain, forgetting her fear of the coppers, Jarre flung herself against the statue. “Help!” she screamed.
“Help me!”
Alfred regained consciousness. Sitting up, he accidentally began to slide down the stairs, and only saved himself by reflexively grabbing and hanging on to the steps beneath. Thoroughly confused, surrounded by pitch-black night with a Geg screaming like a steam whistle in his ears, Alfred endeavored to ask several times what was going on. The Geg paid no attention to him. Finally, crawling on hands and knees in the darkness back up the stairs, he reached out a hand in the direction of the nearly hysterical Jarre.
“Where are we?”
She pounded and shrieked and ignored him.
“Where are we?” Alfred caught hold of the Geg in his large hands—uncertain, in the darkness, just what part he’d grabbed—and began to shake her. “Stop this! It isn’t helping! Tell me where we are and maybe I can get us out of here!” Not clearly understanding Alfred’s words, but angered at his rough handling, Jarre came to herself with a gulp and shoved the chamberlain away with a heave of her strong arms. He slid and slithered and nearly tumbled back down the stairs, but managed to stop his fall.
“Now, listen to me!” Alfred said, separating each word and speaking it slowly and distinctly. “Tell me where we are and maybe I can help get us out!”
“I don’t know how!” Breathing hard, shivering, Jarre huddled as far away from Alfred as possible on the opposite side of the staircase. “You’re a stranger here. What could you know?”
“Just tell me!” pleaded Alfred. “I can’t explain. After all, what will it hurt?”
“Well . . .” Jarre considered. “We’re inside the statue.”
“Ah!” breathed Alfred.
“What does ‘ah’ mean?”
“It means ... uh ... I thought that might be the case.”
“Can you open it back up?”
No, I can’t. No one can. Not from the inside. But how would I know that if I’ve never been here before? What do I tell her? Alfred was thankful for the darkness. He was a terrible liar and it made it easier that he couldn’t see her face and that she couldn’t see his.
“I’m . . . not certain, but I doubt it. You see, uh . . . What is your name?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. We’re here together in the dark and we should know each other’s names. Mine is Alfred. And yours?”
“Jarre. Go on. You opened it once, why can’t you open it again?”
“I ... I didn’t open it,” stammered Alfred. “It opened by accident, I guess. You see, I have this terrible habit. Whenever I’m frightened, I faint. It’s something I can’t control. I saw the fighting, you see, and some of your people were rushing toward us, and I ... just passed out.” That much was true. What followed wasn’t. “I guess that when I fell I must have tripped something on the statue that caused it to open.”