Except Haplo didn’t come back. Time passed. The sigil grew dimmer. Something had gone wrong.
Limbeck wavered. The thought of leaving this room, perhaps forever, was agony. He had been so close. Give the metal man its instructions and the metal man would start the heart of the great machine beating again. Limbeck was not quite clear on what the instructions were or how they were to be given or what would happen once the great machine started up, but he had faith that all would be made clear to him in time—just like putting on his spectacles. But, for now, the door was closed. Limbeck couldn’t get back inside. He knew he couldn’t get back inside, because he’d given the door a push or two, after Jarre had left him. He supposed he should be encouraged because the metal man had at least followed Haplo’s orders, but right at the moment Limbeck could have opted for a more slovenly, undisciplined attitude on the metal man’s part.
The dwarf considered beating on the door, shouting, demanding to be let in.
“No,” Limbeck muttered, grimacing at an awful taste in his mouth, a taste left behind by the earpiece, “yelling and shouting might alert the elves. They’d come searching and find the Heart Room [as he was now terming it]. If I had a light, I could see that symbol Bane drew on the door, then maybe I could open it. But I don’t have a light and no way to get a light without going away and bringing one back. And if I go away to bring one back, how will I get back when I don’t know the way?”
Sighing, Limbeck put his spectacles back on. His gaze went to the archway, to the sigil that had once shone brightly but now was hardly more than a pale ghost of itself.
“I could leave a trail, like Haplo did,” murmured Limbeck, frowning in deep thought. “But with what? I don’t have anything to write with. I don’t”—he felt hastily in his pockets—“even have a single wing nut on me.” He had been thinking of a story he’d heard as a child, in which two young Gegs, before entering the tunnels of the great machine, had marked their route by leaving behind a trail of nuts and bolts.
A thought came to him, then—a thought whose brilliance nearly took his breath away.
“My socks!”
Limbeck plunked himself down on the floor. One eye on the sigil, whose glow was growing dimmer by the minute, and one on what he was doing, he hauled off his boots, stood them neatly by the door. Pulling off one of his long, thick woolen socks, which he had knit himself,[26] he fumbled about at the top of the sock, searching for the knot that marked the end of the thread. He found it without much trouble, not having bothered to try to incorporate it into the fabric. Giving the knot a good swift wrench with his teeth, he tugged it loose. His next problem was: how to anchor the end of the thread? The walls were smooth, as was the door. Limbeck groped about in the dark, hoping to find some protrusion, but discovered nothing. At length, he wrapped the thread around the buckle on his boot, then stuffed the top of the heavy boot beneath the door until only the sole could be seen, sticking out.
“Just leave that alone, will you?” he called to the metal man within the room, thinking that perhaps the automaton might take it into its steel head to either shove the boot back out or (if it took a fancy to the boot) pull it the rest of the way inside.
The boot remained in place. Nothing disturbed it.
Hastily, Limbeck took hold of his sock, began to unravel it. He started down the hall, leaving a trail of woolen thread behind.
He had gone under about three sigil-marked archways and unraveled about half his sock when the flaw in his plan occurred to him.
“Bother,” said Limbeck, irritated.
For, of course, if he could find his way back, following the trail of the sock, then so could the elves. But there was no help for that now. He could only hope he came across Haplo and Bane quickly, then he could take them back to the Heart Room before the elves discovered it.
The sigla over the archways continued to give off their faint glow. Limbeck followed their lead, used up one sock. Taking off the other, he tied the end of its thread to the end of the thread of the first and continued on. He was trying to figure out what he would do when he ran out of socks. He was considering starting on his sweater and even thinking that he must be somewhere near the stairs that led to the statue, when he rounded a corner and almost ran smack into Haplo.
The Patryn was no help to Limbeck, however, for two reasons: Haplo wasn’t alone and he didn’t look at all well. An elf was half-carrying the Patryn. Startled, Limbeck ducked back into a recessed doorway. Pattering about on his bare feet, the dwarf made hardly a sound. The elf, who had slung Haplo’s limp arm across his shoulders, was talking to Haplo and did not hear Limbeck’s approach or his retreat. The elf and Haplo continued without pause on down a hallway that branched off from Limbeck’s.
Limbeck’s heart sank. The elf was moving confidently through the tunnels, which meant that the elves must know all about them. Did they know about the Heart Room and the metal man? Were the elves the ones responsible for shutting down the Kicksey-winsey?
The dwarf had to find out for certain and the one way to find out was to spy on the elves. He would see where they took Haplo and, if possible, what they did to him. And what he did to them.
Wadding what was left of his sock into a ball, Limbeck wedged the sock into a corner and, moving more quietly (without his boots) than any dwarf had ever moved in the history of the race, he crept down the hall after Haplo and the elf.
Haplo had no idea where he was, except that he had been brought to one of the underground tunnels dug by the Kicksey-winsey. Not a Sartan tunnel... No. A quick glance at the wall confirmed his thinking. No Sartan runes, anywhere. He banished the thought as swiftly as it came. Of course, the serpents now knew about the secret Sartan tunnels, if they didn’t know about them before. But best not to let them know anything else, if he could help it. Except that Bane...
“The boy?” The serpent-elf glanced at Haplo. “Don’t concern yourself. I sent him back with my men. They’re real elves, of course. I’m their captain—Sang-drax is my name in elven. Rather clever, don’t you agree?[27] Yes, I’ve sent Bane along to the real elves. He’ll be of far more value to us in their hands. Quite a remarkable mensch, that Bane. We have great hopes for him.
“No, no, I assure you, master.” The red eyes flickered. “The child’s not under our control. No need. Ah, but here we are. Feeling better? Good. We want you to be able to concentrate fully on what the Royal One has to say.”
“Before you kill me,” Haplo mumbled.
Sang-drax smiled, shook his head, but he made no response. He cast a casual glance up and down the corridor. Then, keeping a firm grip on the Patryn, the serpent-elf reached out, knocked on a door.
A dwarf opened it.
“Give me a hand,” said Sang-drax, indicating Haplo. “He’s heavy.” The dwarf nodded. Between them, they manhandled the still-groggy Patryn into the room. The dwarf kicked at the door to shut it, but didn’t bother to see if he’d succeeded. Apparently, they felt secure in their hideout.
“I have brought him, Royal One,” called Sang-drax.
“Enter and welcome to our guest,” was the response, given in human. Limbeck, stealing along behind the two, soon became completely lost. He suspected the elf had doubled back on his own trail, and he watched anxiously, half afraid that the elf would come across the woolen thread. But Limbeck concluded he must have been mistaken, for they never did.
They traveled a great distance through the tunnels. Limbeck grew tired of walking. His bare feet were icy cold and bruised from stubbing his toes on walls in the dark. He hoped that Haplo would start to feel better; then, with Limbeck’s help, they could both jump the elf and escape.
Haplo groaned, didn’t look particularly energetic, however. The elf didn’t appear concerned over his prisoner. He would pause occasionally, but that was only to shift his burden more comfortably on his shoulders. He’d then continue on, an eerie red glow—coming from some unknown source—lighting his way.
26
Since the lives of the dwarves on Drevlin revolve solely around the Kicksey-winsey, male and female dwarves divide household chores such as child rearing, cooking, sewing, and cleaning. Thus all dwarves are adept at knitting, crocheting, darning, and, in fact, consider such skills a form of recreation. All dwarves must have something to do with their hands; to sit idle, dreaming (such as Limbeck did as a youth), is considered a terrible sin. Limbeck knew how to knit, but he evidently wasn’t much good at it, as is evidenced by the fact that his socks unravel with such ease.