“With an army.”
“Yes. Fortunately, we were forewarned. Do you remember that elf who brought you from High Realm? Captain Bothar’el?”
Haplo nodded.
“He’s joined up with the rebel elves; I forget the name of their leader. Anyway, Bothar’el came down here to warn us that the Tribus elves were setting sail in force to crush our resistance. I don’t mind telling you, my friend, that I was devastated.
“What could we do”—Limbeck thumped himself on the chest—“against the might of the elven empire? We knew nothing about fighting. It was our numbers alone forced them to surrender the first time. We were just lucky they didn’t attack us then or about half the dwarves would have run off.
“No dwarf living had ever raised a weapon in anger against a fellow being. It seemed we didn’t have a chance, we must surrender. But Bothar’el said no, we must not surrender. He showed us the way.
“Of course”—Limbeck’s eyes glittered behind the thick glass with sudden, hard cunning—“this Bothar’el and that rebel leader of his have their own reasons for wanting us to fight. I soon figured that out. Instead of concentrating all their forces on the rebel elves, the Tribus elves are forced to split their army, send half of it down here to fight us. The Tribus figured it would be a short war, then they’d be back to fighting their own people and maybe the humans, too. So, you see, my friend, it paid Bothar’el and his rebels to help us keep the Tribus army occupied.
“When the Tribus elves arrived in their huge dragonships, we were nowhere to be seen. They took over the Liftalofts—there was no help for that. Then they tried to come down into the tunnels, but they soon found out that was a mistake.
“Up until then, most of my people didn’t care whether or not the elves took over. They had their jobs on the Kicksey-winsey and their families to care for. The clarks, in fact”—
Limbeck sneered—“tried to make peace with the elves! The clarks sent out a delegation to meet them. The elves murdered them, every one. Then we got angry.”
Haplo, having seen dwarves fight on other worlds, could well imagine what happened after that. Dwarves are fiercely bound to one another. What happens to one dwarf happens to all is the dwarven philosophy.
“Those elves who were left alive fled,” Limbeck continued, with a dour smile.
“I thought at first that they might leave Drevlin altogether, but I should have known better. They made a stand around the Liftalofts. Some of my people wanted to continue fighting, but Bothar’el warned that this was just what the elves wanted us to do, to come out in the open, where we’d be at the mercy of their snips’ wizards and their magical weapons. So we let them have the Liftalofts and the water. They’ve taken over the Factree, too. But they don’t come down into the tunnels anymore.”
“I’ll bet not,” Haplo agreed.
“And we’ve made life difficult for them ever since,” continued Limbeck. “We sabotaged so many of their dragonships that they don’t dare land them on Drevlin. They have to transport their people down here through the Liftalofts. They’re forced to keep a large army down here, to protect their water supply, and they have to replace their soldiers pretty often, though I think that has more to do with the Maelstrom than with us.
“The elves hate the storm, so Bothar’el told us. They hate being cooped up inside, and the constant noise of both the storm and the Kicksey-winsey drives some of them crazy. They have to keep sending in new men. They’ve brought in slaves—captured rebel elves, with their tongues cut out,[20] or any of our people they can catch—to operate their part of the Kicksey-winsey.
“We attack them in small groups, harry them, make nuisances of ourselves, force them to keep a lot of elves down here, instead of the small, skeleton force they planned. But now...”
Limbeck frowned, shook his head.
“But now you’re at a standstill,” Haplo filled in. “You can’t retake the Liftalofts, the elves can’t ferret you and your people out. Both sides are dependent on the Kicksey-winsey, so both must keep it going.”
“True enough,” said Limbeck, taking off his spectacles, rubbing the red marks, where the nosepieces pinched. “That’s how it’s been.”
“Been?” said Haplo, noting the emphasis on the word. “What’s changed?”
“Everything,” said Limbeck grimly. “The elves have shut off the Kicksey-winsey.”
11
“Shut it off!” Bane blurted. “The whole machine!”
“It’s been seven cycles now,” said Limbeck. “Look out there. You can see it. Dark, silent. Nothing moves. Nothing works. We have no light, no heat.” The dwarf heaved a frustrated sigh. “We never knew, until now, how much the Kicksey-winsey did for us. Our fault, of course, because no dwarf ever wondered why it did anything at all.
“Now that the pumps have quit, many of the tunnels far below the surface are filling up with water. My people had homes down there. They’ve been forced to leave or drown. What dwellings we had were already overcrowded.
“There were special caves in Herot where we grew our food. Glimmerglamps that shone like the sun gave us light for our crops. But when the Kicksey-winsey shut down, the glimmerglamps went out and now the light’s gone. The crops are starting to wilt and will soon die.
“But aside from all of that,” said Limbeck, rubbing his temples, “my people are terrified. They weren’t afraid when the elves attacked them. But now they’re scared silly. It’s the quiet, you see.” He gazed about, blinking his eyes. “They can’t stand the quiet.”
Of course, it’s more than that, thought Haplo, and Limbeck knows it. For centuries, the lives of the dwarves had revolved around their great and beloved machine. They served it faithfully, devotedly, never bothering to ask how or why. Now the master’s heart has stopped beating and the servants have no idea what to do with themselves.
“What do you mean, High Froman, when you say ‘the elves shut it down’? How?” Bane wondered.
“I don’t know!” Limbeck shrugged helplessly.
“But you’re sure it was the elves?” Bane persisted.
“Pardon me, Your Highness, but what difference does it make?” the dwarf asked bitterly.
“It could make a big difference,” said Bane. “If the elves shut down the Kicksey-winsey, it could be because they’ve discovered how to start it up.” Limbeck’s expression darkened. He rumbled at his spectacles, ended up with one side dangling from one ear at a crazed angle. “That would mean they would control our lives! This is intolerable! We must fight now!” Bane was watching Haplo from out of the corners of the blue eyes, a faint smile on the sweetly curved lips. The boy was pleased with himself, knew he was one up on the Patryn in whatever game they were playing.
“Keep calm,” Haplo cautioned the dwarf. “Let’s think about this a minute.” If what Bane said was right, and Haplo was forced to admit that the kid made sense, then the elves had very probably learned how to operate the Kicksey-winsey, something no one else had been able to do since the Sartan mysteriously abandoned their great machine centuries ago. And if the elves knew how to work it, then they knew how to control it, control its actions, control the alignment of the floating isles, control the water, control the world.
Whoever rules the machine, rules the water. And whoever rules the water, rules those who must drink it or perish.
Xar’s words. Xar expected to come to Arianus a savior, bringing order to a world in chaos. Xar did not expect to arrive and find a world choked into submission by the iron fist of the Tribus elves, who would not easily loosen their grasp.
But I’m as bad as Limbeck, Haplo told himself. Getting worked up over what might be nothing. The first thing I have to do is discover the truth. It’s possible the damn machine simply broke; although the Kicksey-winsey was, as he knew from Limbeck’s past explanations, quite capable of repairing itself and had done so all these many years.
20
A magical song, sung by the rebel elves, has the effect of causing those elves who hear it to remember long-forgotten values once honored by all elves. Those who hear this song come to see the corruption of the Tribus empire and it causes them to renounce their allegiance, join the rebellion. Thus rebel elves, captured alive, have their tongues cut out or are otherwise silenced.