Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

“If only they had seen what I saw!” Limbeck mourned. “If only they knew what I know. If only I could tell them!”

The sound of shouting broke in on his thoughts again. Raising his head, Limbeck smiled with fond pride. Jarre’s speech was having its usual effect. She doesn’t need me, Limbeck reflected, not sadly but with the pleasure of a teacher who takes pride in seeing a promising student blossom. She’s doing fine without me. I’ll just go ahead and finish.

During the next hour, Limbeck—smeared with ink and inspiration—was so absorbed in his project that he no longer heard the shouts and therefore did not notice that they changed in tone from cheers of approval to roars of anger. When a sound other than the monotonous whump and whuzzle of the Kicksey-Winsey did finally attract his attention, it was only because it was the sound of a door banging. Occurring some three feet away from him, it startled him immensely.

“Is that you, my dear?” he said, seeing a dark and shapeless blur that he assumed was Jarre.

She was panting as if from an undue amount of exertion. Limbeck patted his pocket for his glasses, couldn’t find them, and groped with his hand over the table. “I heard the cheers. Your speech went well tonight, I gather. I’m sorry I wasn’t there as I promised, but I got involved . . .” He waved a vague and ink-splattered hand at his work.

Jarre pounced on him. The Gegs are small in stature, but wide of girth, with large strong hands and a tendency to square jaws and square shoulders that give a general overall impression of squareness. Male and female Gegs are equally strong, since all serve the Kicksey-Winsey until the marrying age of about forty years, when both are required to retire and stay home to bear and raise the next generation of Kicksey-Winsey worshipers. Jarre was stronger even than most young women, having served the Kicksey-Winsey since she was twelve. Limbeck, not having served it at all, was rather weak. Consequently, when Jarre pounced on him, she nearly carried him out of his chair.

“My dear, what is the matter?” Limbeck said, gazing at her myopically, aware for the first time that something was the matter. “Didn’t your speech go well?”

“Yes, it went well. Very well!” Jarre said, digging her hands into his tattered and ink-stained tunic and attempting to drag him to his feet. “Come on, we’ve got to get you out of here!”

“Now?” Limbeck blinked at her. “But my speech—”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. We shouldn’t leave it behind for evidence.” Letting loose of Limbeck, Jarre hastily caught up the sheets of paper that were a by-product (no one knew why) of the Kicksey-Winsey and began stuffing them down the front of her gown. “Hurry, we haven’t much time!” She glanced around the dwelling hastily. “Is there anything else lying around that we should take?”

“Evidence?” questioned Limbeck, bewildered, searching for his glasses.

“Evidence of what?”

“Of our Union,” said Jarre impatiently. Cocking an ear, she listened and ran over to peer fearfully out one of the windows.

“But, my dear, this is Union Headquarters,” began Limbeck when she shushed him.

“There! Hear that? They’re coming.” Reaching down, she picked up his glasses and stuck them hastily and at a precarious slant on his nose. “I can see their lanterns. The coppers. No, not the front. The back door, the way I came in.” She began to push and hustle Limbeck along.

Limbeck stopped, and when a Geg stops dead in his tracks, it is almost impossible to shift or budge him. “I’m not going anywhere, my dear, until you tell me what’s happened.” He calmly adjusted his spectacles. Jarre wrung her hands, but she knew the Geg she loved. Limbeck had a stubborn streak in him that not even the Kicksey-Winsey could have knocked out. She had learned to overcome this on former occasions by moving fast and not giving him time to think, but, seemingly, that wasn’t going to work tonight.

“Oh, very well,” she said in exasperation, her eyes darting constantly to the front door. “We had a big crowd at the rally. Bigger than anything we’d expected—”

“That’s marvel—”

“Don’t interrupt. There isn’t time. They listened to my words and—oh, Limbeck, it was so wonderful!” Despite her impatience and fear, Jarre’s eyes shone. “It was like setting a match to saltpeter. They flared up and exploded!”

“Exploded?” Limbeck began to get uneasy. “My dear, we don’t want them to explode—”

“You don’t!” she said scornfully. “But now it’s too late. The fire’s burning and it’s up to us to guide it, not try to put it out again.” Her fist clenched, her square chin jutted forward. “Tonight we attacked the Kicksey-Winsey!”

“No!” Limbeck stared, aghast. So shaken was he by this news that he sat down quite suddenly and unexpectedly.

“Yes, and I think we damaged it permanently.” Jarre shook her thick mane of short-cut curly brown hair. “The coppers and some of the clarks rushed us, but all of our people escaped. The coppers’ll be coming to the Union Headquarters in search of you, my dear, and so I came to take you away. Listen!” Sounds of blows could be heard hammering on the front door; hoarse voices were shouting to open up. “They’re here! Quickly! They probably don’t know about the back—”

“They’re here to take me into custody?” Limbeck said, pondering. Jarre, not liking the expression on his face, frowned and tugged at him, trying to pull him back up on his feet. “Yes, now come—”

“I’ll stand trial, won’t I?” he said slowly. “Most likely before the High Froman himself!”

“Limbeck, what are you thinking?” Jarre had no need to ask. She knew all too well. “Punishment for hurting the Kicksey-Winsey is death!” Limbeck brushed this aside as a minor consideration. The voices grew louder and more persistent. Someone called for a chopper-cutter.

“My dear,” said Limbeck, a look of almost holy radiance illuminating his face, “at last I’ll have the audience I’ve sought all my life! This is our golden opportunity! Just think, I’ll be able to present our cause to the High Froman and the Council of the Clans! There’ll be hundreds present. The newssingers and the squawky-talk—”

The blade of the chopper-cutter smashed through the wooden door. Jarre turned pale. “Oh, Limbeck! This is no time to play at being a martyr! Please come with me now!”

The chopper-cutter wrenched itself free, disappeared, then smashed through the wood again.

“No, you go ahead, my dear,” said Limbeck, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll stay. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Then I’ll stay too!” Jarre said fiercely, entwining her hand around his. The chopper-cutter crashed into the door, and splinters flew across the room.

“No, no!” Limbeck shook his head. “You must carry on in my absence! When my words and my example inflame the worshipers, you must be there to lead the revolution!”

“Oh, Limbeck”—Jarre wavered—“are you sure?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Then I’ll go! But we’ll spring you!” She hastened to the doorway, but could not forbear pausing for one final glance behind her. “Be careful,” she pleaded.

“I will, my dear. Now, go!” Limbeck made a playful shooing motion with his hand.

Blowing him a kiss, Jarre disappeared through the back door just as the coppers crashed through the splintered door in the front.

“We’re looking for one Limbeck Bolttightner,” said a copper, whose dignity was somewhat marred by the fact that he was plucking splinters of wood out of his beard.

“You have found him,” said Limbeck majestically. Thrusting out his hands, wrists together, he continued, “As a champion of my people, I will gladly suffer any torture or indignity in their names! Take me to your foul-smelling, blood-encrusted, rat-infested dungeon.”