The elves, with their longer livespans, larger population, and knowledge of magical mechanics, had proved the stronger. They drove the humans from Aristagon—the Mid Realm source for water. The humans, with the aid of the dragons, fought back, raiding elven towns and stealing water or attacking the elven waterships that ferried the precious liquid to neighboring elven-held isles.
A watership such as the one flown by Captain Zankor’el carried on board eight huge casks made of rare oak (obtained from only the Sartan knew where) and bound by bands of steel. On an isle-run, the ship held the water in these casks. On this trip, however, the casks were filled with the junk that the elves gave as payment[16] to the Gegs.
The elves cared nothing about the Gegs. Humans were beasts. The Gegs were insects.
39
The Sartan built the Kicksey-Winsey; no one knows why or how. Elven wizards did an intensive study on the machine years ago and came up with a lot of theories but no answers. The Kicksey-Winsey had something to do with the world, but what? The pumping of water to the higher realms was important, certainly, but it was obvious to the wizards that such a feat could have been accomplished by a much smaller and less complicated (albeit less marvelous) magical machine.
Of all the constructions of the Sartan, the Liftalofts were the most impressive, mysterious, and inexplicable. Nine gigantic arms, made of brass and steel, thrust up out of the coralite—some of them soaring several menka into the air. Atop each arm was an enormous hand whose thumb and fingers were made of gold with brass hinges at each of the joints and at the wrist. The hands were visible to the descending elven ships and it was obvious to all who saw them that the wrists and fingers—which were large enough to have grasped one of the enormous waterships and held it in a golden palm—were movable. What were the hands designed to do? Had they done it? Would they do it still?
It seemed unlikely. All but one of the hands drooped in limp stiffness, like those of a corpse. The only hand that possessed any life belonged to an arm shorter than all the rest. It stood in a vast circle of arms surrounding an open area corresponding roughly in size to the circumference of the eye of the storm. The short arm was located near the waterspout. Its hand was spread flat, the fingers together, the palm facing upward, forming a perfect platform on which any so inclined could stand. The interior of the arm was hollow with a shaft running up the center. A doorway at the base of the arm allowed entrance, and hundreds of stairs, spiraling upward around the center shaft, permitted those with long wind and strong legs to ascend to the top. Apart from the stairs, an ornately carved golden door led into the shaft within the arm, and the Gegs had a legend which told that any who entered this door would be whisked to the top with the speed and force of the water that shot up out of the geyser. Thus the Geg name for the contraptions—Liftaloft—though no Geg in current memory had ever been known to dare open the golden door.
Here, on this arm, every month, the High Froman and the Head Clark and such other Gegs deemed worthy gathered to greet the Welves and receive their payment for services rendered. All the Gegs of the city of Wombe and those making pilgrimages from neighboring sectors in Drevlin ventured out into the raging storm to gather around the base of the arms, watching and waiting for the monna, as it was known, to fall from heaven. Gegs were frequently injured during this ceremony, for there was no telling what might drop out of the barrels of the Welf ships. (An overstuffed velvet sofa with claw legs had once wiped out an entire family.) But all the Gegs agreed it was worth the risk. This morning’s ceremony was particularly well-attended, word having gone out among the newssingers and over the squawky-talk that Limbeck and his gods-who-weren’t were going to be given to gods-who-were—the Welves. The High Froman, expecting trouble, was considerably disconcerted when there wasn’t any. The crowd that hastened across the coralite in a break during one of the storms was quiet and orderly—too quiet, thought the High Froman, slogging through the puddles.
Beside him marched the Head Clark—his face a picture of self-righteous indignation. Behind him were the gods-who-weren’t, taking this rather well, considering. They, too, were silent, even the troublemaker Limbeck. At least he appeared subdued and grave, giving the High Froman the satisfaction of thinking that at last the rebellious youth had learned his lesson. The arms could just be seen through the break in the scudding clouds, the steel and brass gleaming in the sunlight that shone only on this one place in all of Drevlin. Haplo gazed at them in undisguised wonder.
“What in the name of creation are those?”
Bane, too, was staring at them openmouthed and wide-eyed. Briefly Hugh explained what he knew of them—which was what he’d heard from the elves and amounted to almost nothing.
“You understand now why it’s so frustrating,” said Limbeck, roused out of his worries, staring almost angrily at the Liftaloft glistening on the horizon. “I know that if we Gegs put our minds together and analyzed the Kicksey-Winsey, we could understand the why and the how. But they won’t do it. They simply won’t do it.”
He irritably kicked a bit of loose coralite and sent it spinning across the ground. The dog, in high spirits, went chasing after it, leaping and bounding gleefully through the puddles and causing the coppers surrounding the prisoners to cast it wary, nervous glances.
“A ‘why’ is a dangerous thing,” said Haplo. “It challenges old, comfortable ways; forces people to think about what they do instead of just mindlessly doing it. No wonder your people are afraid of it.”
“I think the danger is not so much in asking the ‘why’ as in believing you have come up with the only answer,” said Alfred, seeming almost to be talking to himself.
Haplo heard him and thought it a strange statement to come from a human, but then, this Alfred was a strange human. The chamberlain’s gaze no longer darted to the Patryn’s bandaged hands. Instead, he seemed to avoid looking at them and to avoid looking at Haplo if at all possible. Alfred appeared to have aged during the night. Lines of anxiety had deepened, smudges of purple discolored the folds of puffy skin beneath his eyes. He obviously had not slept much, if at all. Not unusual, perhaps, for a man facing a battle for his life in the morning.
Haplo tugged reflexively at the bandages, making certain the telltale sigla tattooed on his flesh were covered. But he was forced to wonder, as he did so, why it now seemed suddenly an empty, wasted gesture.
16
Every month all the rubbish accumulated throughout the elven lands is transported by tier-drawn carts to the harbor. Here it is loaded on board the ship and sent down to reward the faithful, long-suffering Gegs without whom those in the Mid Realm would not long survive.