Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

Once he was wedged into the extremely uncomfortable chair, the High Froman gestured for the prisoner to be led forward, inwardly hoping—for the sake of his squeezed posterior and his already aching head—that the trial would be a short one.

A young Geg of about twenty-five seasons who wore thick bits of glass perched on his nose and carried a large sheaf of papers, stepped respectfully into the presence of the High Froman. Darral stared-narrow-eyed and suspicious—at the pieces of glass covering the young Geg’s eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what the samhill they were, but then it occurred to him that Fromans were supposed to know everything. Irritated, the High Froman took out his frustration on the warders.

“Where’s the prisoner?” he roared. “What’s the delay?”

“Begging the Froman’s pardon, but I am the prisoner,” said Limbeck, flushing in embarrassment.

“You?” The High Froman scowled. “Where’s your Voice?”

“If the Froman pleases, I am my own Voice, Yonor,” said Limbeck modestly.

“This is highly irregular. Isn’t it?” asked Darral of the warders, who appeared perplexed at being thus addressed and could only shrug their shoulders and look—in their face paint—incredibly stupid. The Froman snorted and sought help in another direction.

“Where’s the Voice for the Offense?”

“I have the honor of being the Offensive Voice, Yonor,” said a middle-aged Geg, her shrill tones carrying clearly over the distant whumping of the Kicksey-Winsey.

“Is this sort of thing—” the Froman, lacking words, waved a hand at Limbeck—“done?”

“It is irregular, Yonor,” answered the Geg, coming forward and fixing Limbeck with a grim, disapproving stare. “But it will have to do. To be honest, Yonor, we couldn’t find anyone willing to defend the prisoner.”

“Ah?” The High Froman brightened. He felt immensely cheered. It was likely to be a very short trial. “Then carry on.”

The Geg bowed and returned to her seat behind a desk made out of a rusting iron drum. The Voice of the Offense was dressed in a long skirt, and a smock tucked in tightly at the waist [7] Female Gegs wear skirts—traditional dress—only on formal occasions and only when the whirling gears of the Kicksey-Winsey are far away. At all other times female Gegs wear loose-fitting trousers bound by bright-colored ribbons. . Her iron-gray hair was coiled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and was held in place with several long, formidable-appearing hairpins. She was stiff-backed, stiff-necked, stiff-lipped, and reminded Limbeck—much to his discomfiture—of his mother. Subsiding into his seat behind another iron drum, Limbeck felt his confidence oozing from him and was suddenly conscious that he was tracking mud all over the floor.

The Voice of the Offense called the High Froman’s attention to a male Geg seated beside her. “The Head Clark will be representing the church in this matter, Yonor,” said the Offensive Voice.

The Head Clark wore a frayed white shirt with a starched collar, sleeves whose arms were too long, breeches tied by rusty ribbons at the knees, long stockings, and shoes instead of boots. He rose to his feet and bowed with dignity.

The High Froman ducked his head and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. It was not often that the church sat in on trials, rarer still for them to be part and parcel of the Offense. Darral might have known his self-righteous brother-in-law would be in on this, since it was a blasphemous crime to attack the Kicksey-Winsey. The High Froman was wary and suspicious of the church in general and his brother-in-law in particular. He knew that his brother-in-law thought that he himself could do a better job running the nation than he-Darral. Well, he wouldn’t give them an opportunity to say that about this case! The High Froman fixed Limbeck with a cold stare, then smiled benignly at the Prosecution.

“Present your evidence.”

The Offensive Voice stated that for several years the Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity—she pronounced the name in severe and disapproving tones—had been making a nuisance of themselves in various small towns among the northern and eastern scrifts.

“Their leader, Limbeck Bolttightner, is a well-known troublemaker. From childhood, he has been a source of grief, sorrow, and disappointment to his parents. For example, with the aid of a misguided elderly clark, young Limbeck actually learned to read and to write.”

The High Froman took advantage of the opportunity to cast a reproachful glance at the Head Clark. “Taught him to read! A clark!” said Darral, shocked. Only clarks learned to read and write, in order that they could pass the Word of the Mangers in the form of the Struction Manal on to the people. No other Gegs, it was assumed, had time to bother with such nonsense. There were murmurs in the courtroom, parents pointing out the unfortunate Limbeck to any children who might be tempted to follow his thorny path.

The Head Clark flushed, appearing deeply chagrined at this sin committed by a fellow. Darral, grinning despite his pounding head, shifted his pinched bottom in the chair. He did not succeed in making himself comfortable, but he felt better, having the satisfactory knowledge that in the contest between himself and his brother-in-law he was ahead one to nothing.

Limbeck gazed around with a smile of faint pleasure, as if finding it entertaining to relive the days of his childhood.

“His next act broke his parents’ heart,” continued the Offensive Voice sternly. “He was enrolled in Prentice School for Bolttightners and one infamous day, during class, Limbeck, the accused”—she pointed a quivering finger at him—“actually stood up and demanded to know why.” Darral’s left foot had gone numb. He was endeavoring to work some feeling into it by wriggling his toes when he heard that tremendous why shouted by the Voice of the Offense and came back to the trial with a guilty start.

“Why what?” asked the High Froman.

The Offense, considering she had made her point, appeared taken aback and uncertain how to proceed. The Head Clark rose to his feet with a supercilious sneer that promptly evened the score between church and state. “Just ‘why,’ Yonor. A word that calls into question all our most cherished beliefs. A word that is radical and dangerous and could, if carried far enough, lead to a disruption of government, the downfall of society, and very possibly the end of life as we know it.”

“Oh, that why” said the High Froman knowingly, frowning at Limbeck and cursing him for having given the Head Clark an opportunity to score a point.

“The accused was thrown out of school. He then upset the town of Het by disappearing for an entire day. It was necessary to send out search parties, at great expense. One can imagine,” said the Voice feelingly, “the anguish of his parents. When he wasn’t found, it was believed that he had fallen into the Kicksey-Winsey. There were some who said at the time that the Kicksey-Winsey, angered at the ‘why,’ had seen fit to deal with him itself. Just when everyone believed he was dead and all were busy planning a memorial, the accused had the audacity to turn up alive.”

Limbeck smiled deprecatingly, and appeared embarrassed. The Froman, after an indignant snort, returned his attention to the Offense.

“He said he had been Outside,” said the Voice in hushed and awe-filled horror that carried well over the squawky-talk.

The assembled Gegs gasped.

“I didn’t mean to be gone that long,” Limbeck put in mildly. “I got lost.”

“Silence!” roared the Froman, and instantly regretted yelling. The pounding in his head increased. He turned the flashglamp on Limbeck, nearly blinding him.