“Why don’t you escape?” asked Sang-drax, with his infuriating habit of intruding on Haplo’s thoughts. “I’d be delighted to assist you. I can’t think why you don’t.”
“Maybe because you serpents seem so damn eager to get rid of me.”
“That’s not the reason. It’s the boy. Bane won’t leave. You don’t dare leave him. You don’t dare leave without him.”
“Your doing, no doubt.”
Sang-drax laughed. “I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I can’t take the credit. This scheme is all his own. Quite a remarkable child, that Bane.” Haplo yawned, closed his eyes, grit his teeth. Even through the closed lids, he could see Sang-drax grinning.
“The Gegs have threatened to destroy the Kicksey-winsey,” the serpent-elf said.
Haplo flinched involuntarily, cursed himself for doing so, and forced himself to lie still, every muscle in his body rigid.
Sang-drax continued talking in a low voice, meant for Haplo’s ear alone. “The elves, laboring under the delusion that the dwarves have shut down the machine, have delivered an ultimatum to that dwarf leader—what’s his name?” Haplo remained silent.
“Limbeck.” Sang-drax answered his own question. “Odd name for a dwarf. It never sticks in my mind. The elves told this Limbeck that he either starts operating the Kicksey-winsey again or they will send his female dwarf friend back to him in various assorted pieces.
“The dwarves, laboring under a similar delusion that it is the elves who have caused the machine to cease operations, were understandably confused by this ultimatum, but eventually came to decide, by reason of a few hints, passed on by us, that the ultimatum was a trick, some sort of subtle elven plot against them.
“Limbeck’s reply—which, by the way, I’ve just heard from Count Tretar—is this: If the elves harm one whisker on Jarre’s chin, the Gegs will destroy the Kicksey-winsey. Destroy the Kicksey-winsey,” Sang-drax repeated. “I fancy they could do it, too. Don’t you?”
Yes, Haplo was damn well sure they could do it. They had worked on the machine for generations, kept it running even after the Sartan had abandoned it. The dwarves kept the body alive. They could make it die.
“Yes, so they could,” agreed Sang-drax conversationally. “I can picture it now. The Gegs let the steam build up in the boilers, they send the electricity running amok. Parts of the machine would explode, unleashing such a terrible destructive force that the dwarves might unwittingly destroy the entire continent of Drevlin, to say nothing of the machine itself. And there go Lord Xar’s plans for conquering the four worlds.”
He began to laugh. “I find it all so amusing. The true irony in all this is that neither dwarves nor elves could start the fool machine if they wanted to! Yes, I did some investigating, based on what Jarre told me on board the ship. Up until then, I believed—as do the elves—that the dwarves had shut off the Kicksey-winsey. But they didn’t. You discovered the reason. The opening of Death’s Gate. That’s the key, isn’t it? We don’t know how, yet, or why. But, to be honest, we serpents really don’t care.
“You see, Patryn, it occurred to us that the destruction of the Kicksey-winsey would plunge not only this world into chaos but the others, as well.
“ ‘Why don’t you destroy it yourselves, then?’ you ask.
“We could. Perhaps we will. But we much prefer to leave the destruction to the dwarves, to feed off their rage, their fury, their terror. As it is, Patryn, their frustration and anger, their feelings of helplessness and fear have been strong enough to sustain us for a cycle, at least.”
Haplo lay unmoving. His jaw muscles were beginning to ache from the strain of keeping them clenched shut.
“The emperor hasn’t made up his mind what to do yet,” Sang-drax informed him.
“Limbeck gave the elves two cycles to decide. I’ll let you know what the decision is. Well, sorry to leave, but duty calls. I’ve promised to teach Bane to play rune-bone.”
Haplo heard the serpent-elf’s light footfalls walking away. They stopped, came back.
“I grow fat off your fear, Patryn.”
29
The elven ship, The Seven-Eyed Dragon, named after a legendary monster of elven folklore,[62] made a safe, if somewhat ponderous landing, in Paxaua. The ship was heavily loaded. Flying weather had not been good, with rain, wind, and fog the entire distance. They were a cycle late getting into port. The crew was edgy and ill-tempered, the passengers—muffled to the eyes against the cold—looked slightly green. The human galley slaves, whose muscles provided the energy that propelled the gigantic wings, slumped in their bonds, too exhausted to make the march to the prison house, where they were kept until the next voyage.
A customs official, looking bored, left his warm office on shore, strolled up the gangplank. Tripping on his heels in haste to get aboard ship was an overwrought Paxar merchant. He had invested a considerable fortune in a load of pua fruit, to be delivered fresh, and was positive that delay and damp had caused it to rot.
The ship’s captain strolled over to meet the customs official.
“Any contraband, Captain?” inquired the official languidly.
“Certainly not, Excellency,” answered the captain, with a smile and a bow.
“Will you examine the ship’s log?” He gestured to his cabin.
“Thank you, yes,” said the customs official stiffly. The two left the deck, entered the cabin. The door shut behind them.
“My fruit! I want my fruit!” gabbled the merchant, dashing excitedly about the deck, tangling himself in the ropes, and nearly tumbling headfirst down an open hatch.
A crew member took the merchant in tow, steered him to the lieutenant, who was accustomed to dealing with such matters.
“I want my fruit!” the merchant gasped.
“Sorry, sir,” answered the lieutenant, with a polite salute, “but we cannot off-load any cargo until we receive approval from customs.”
“How long will that take?” demanded the merchant, in agony. The lieutenant glanced at the captain’s cabin. About three glasses of wine, he could have said. “I can assure you, sir—” he began. The merchant sniffed. “I can smell it! The pua fruit. It’s gone bad!”
“That would be the galley slaves, sir,” said the lieutenant, keeping a straight face.
“Let me see it, at least,” begged the merchant, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his face.
The lieutenant, after some thought, agreed that this would be possible and led the way across the deck toward the stairs leading down to the hold. They walked past the passengers, who stood lining the rail, waving to friends and relatives who’d come to meet them. The passengers, too, would not be allowed to leave the ship until they had been questioned, their luggage inspected.
“The market price on pua fruit is the highest I’ve seen it,” said the merchant, floundering along in the lieutenant’s wake, tripping and stumbling over coils of rope, careening off casks of wine. “It’s due to the raiding, of course. This will be the first shipment of pua to reach Paxar safely in twelve cycles. I’ll make a killing. If it’s just not rotted—Holy Mother!” The alarmed merchant made a grab for the lieutenant, nearly sent the officer overboard.
“H-humans!” the merchant quavered. The lieutenant, seeing the merchant’s white face and popping eyes, reached for his sword and searched the skies for dragons, assuming that there must be an army of them, at the very least. Finding nothing more ominous than the dismal overcast, he regarded the merchant with a grim stare. The merchant continued to tremble and point. He had discovered humans—two of them. Two passengers, standing apart from all the others. The humans were clad in long black robes. They kept their hoods up over their heads; one in particular, the shorter of the two, had his pulled low over his face. Though the merchant could not see their features, he knew them for humans. No elf had such broad and well-muscled shoulders as the taller of the two robed men, and no one except a human would wear clothing made of such coarse cloth, in such an ill-omened and unlucky color as black. Everyone on board ship, including the human slaves, gave these two a wide berth.
62
A monster sent by Krenka-Anris to test the courage and skill of the mythical elven warrior Mnarash’ai. In each of the dragon’s eyes, Mnarash’ai beheld seven deaths. She had to overcome her fear of each before she could, at last, slay the dragon.