“What the devil . . . ?” Hugh turned on the Patryn angrily. Haplo raised an eyebrow, obliquely nodding his head in the direction of the opposite end of the table. Attracted by the commotion, everyone, including Sinistrad, was staring at them. Iridal sat straight and tall, her face pale and cold as the marble walls. Hugh lifted the goblet and drank deeply. From his dark expression, it might have been the wizard’s blood. Haplo smiled; he hadn’t been any too soon. He waved a hunk of bread at Sinistrad. “Sorry. You were saying?”
Frowning, the mysteriarch continued. “I was saying that we should have realized what was happening to your people in the Low Realm and come to your aid. But we didn’t know you were in trouble. We believed the stories that the Sartan had left behind. We did not know, then, that they were lying—” A sharp clatter made them all start. Alfred had dropped his spoon onto his plate.
“What do you mean? What stories?” Limbeck was asking eagerly.
“After the Sundering, according to the Sartan, your people—being shorter in stature than humans and elves—were taken to the Low Realm for their own protection. Actually, as is now apparent, what the Sartan wanted was a source of cheap labor.”
“That’s not true!” The voice was Alfred’s. He hadn’t spoken a word during the entire meal. Everyone, including Iridal, looked at him in astonishment. Sinistrad turned to him, his thin lips stretched in a polite smile. “No, and do you know what is the truth?”
Red spread from Alfred’s neck to his balding head. “I ... I’ve made a study of the Gegs, you see . . .” Flustered, he tugged at and twisted the hem of the tablecloth. “Anyway, I ... I think the Sartan intended to do ... what you said about protection. It wasn’t so much that the dwarv . . . the Gegs were shorter and therefore in danger from the taller races, but that they—the Gegs—were few in number . . . following the Sundering. Then, the dwarv . . . Gegs are very mechanically minded people. And the Sartan needed that for the machine. But they never meant . . . That is, they always meant to . . .” Hugh’s head slumped forward and hit the table with a thud. Iridal sprang from her chair, crying out in alarm. Haplo was on his feet and moving.
“It’s nothing,” he said, reaching Hugh’s side.
Slipping the assassin’s flaccid arm around his neck, Haplo lifted the heavy body from the chair. Hugh’s limp hand dragged at the cloth, knocked over goblets, and sent a plate crashing to the floor.
“Good man, but a weak head for wine. I’ll take him to his room. No need for the rest of you to be disturbed.”
“Are you certain he’s all right?” Iridal hovered over them anxiously. “Perhaps I should come—”
“A drunk has passed out at your table, my dear. There is hardly any need for concern,” Sinistrad said. “Remove him, by all means.”
“Can I keep the dog?” asked Bane, petting the animal, which, seeing its master preparing to leave, had jumped to its feet.
“Sure,” said Haplo easily. “Dog, stay.” The dog settled happily back down at Bane’s side.
Haplo got Hugh to his feet. Weaving drunkenly, the man was just barely able to stagger—with help—toward the door. Everyone else resumed his seat. Alfred’s words were forgotten. Sinistrad turned back to Limbeck.
“This Kicksey-Winsey of yours fascinates me. I believe that, since I now have a ship at my disposal, I will journey down to your realm and take a look at it. Of course, I will also be quite pleased to do what I can to help your people prepare for the war—”
“War!” The word echoed in the hall. Haplo, glancing back over his shoulder, saw Limbeck’s face, troubled and pale.
“My dear Geg, I didn’t mean to shock you.” Sinistrad smiled at him kindly.
“War being the next logical step, I simply assumed that you had come here for this very purpose—to ask my support. I can assure you, the Gegs will have the full cooperation of my people.”
Sinistrad’s words came through the dog’s ears to Haplo, who was carrying a stumbling Hugh into a dark-and-chill corridor. He was just wondering which direction the guest rooms were located from the dining room when a hallway materialized before him. Several doors stood invitingly open.
“I hope no one walks in his sleep,” Haplo muttered to his besotted companion. Back in the dining room, the Patryn could hear the rustle of Iridal’s silken gown and her chair scrape against the stone floor. Her voice, when she spoke, was tight with controlled anger. “If you will excuse me, I will retire to my room now.”
“Not feeling well, are you, my dear?”
“Thank you, I am feeling fine.” She paused, then added, “It is late. The boy should be in his bed.”
“Yes, wife. I’ll see to it. No need to trouble yourself. Bane, bid your mother good night.”
Well, it had been an interesting evening. Fake food. Fake words. Haplo eased Hugh onto his bed and covered him with a blanket. The assassin wouldn’t wake from the spell until morning.
Haplo retired to his own room. Entering, he shut the door and slid home the bolt. He needed time to rest and think undisturbed, assimilate all that he had heard today.
Voices continued to come to him, through the dog. Their words were unimportant; everyone was parting to rest for the night. Lying down on his bed, the Patryn sent out a silent command to the animal, then began to sort out his thoughts.
The Kicksey-Winsey. He’d deduced its function from the flickering images portrayed on the eyeball held in the hand of the Manger—the Sartan flouting their power, proudly announcing their grand design. Haplo could see the images again, in his mind. He could see the drawing of the world—the Realm of Sky. He saw the isles and continents, scattered about in disorder; the raging storm that was both death-dealing and life-giving; everything moving in the chaotic manner so abhorrent to the order-loving Sartan.
When had they discovered their mistake? When had they found out that the world they created for the removal of a people after the Sundering was imperfect?
After they had populated it? Did they realize, then, that the beautiful floating islands in the sky were dry and barren and could not nurture the life that had been placed in their trust?
The Sartan would fix it. They had fixed everything else, split apart a world rather than let those they considered unworthy rule it. The Sartan would build a machine that, combined with their magic, would align the isles and the continents. Closing his eyes, Haplo saw the pictures again clearly. A tremendous force beaming up from the Kicksey-Winsey catches hold of the continents and the isles, drags them through the skies, and aligns them, one right above the other. A geyser of water, drawn from the constant storm, shoots upward continually, bringing the life-giving substance to everyone. Haplo had figured out the puzzle. He was rather surprised that Bane had solved it as well. Now Sinistrad knew, and he had, most obligingly, explained his plans to his son—and to the listening dog.
One flick of the Kicksey-Winsey’s switch, and the mysteriarch would rule a realigned world.
The dog jumped up on the bed and settled itself at Haplo’s side. Lazily, relaxed to the point of sleep, the Patryn stretched out his arm and patted the dog on the flank. With a contented sigh, the animal rested its head on Haplo’s chest and closed its eyes.
What criminal folly, Haplo thought, stroking the dog’s soft ears. To build something this powerful and then walk away and leave it to fall into the hands of some ambitious mensch.[21] Haplo couldn’t imagine why they had done it. For all their faults, the Sartan weren’t fools. Something had happened to them before they could finish their project. He wished he knew what. This was the clearest sign he could imagine, however, to prove that the Sartan were no longer in the world.
21
A word used by both Patryns and Sartan to refer to those less gifted with power than themselves. It is applied equally to elves, humans, and dwarves.