Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

“You’ll get your chance to speak, young man. Until then you’ll sit quietly or you’ll be taken from the court. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Yonor,” Limbeck answered meekly, and subsided.

“Anything else?” the High Froman asked the Offense peevishly. He couldn’t feel his left foot at all, and the right one was beginning to tingle strangely.

“It was after Limbeck’s return that the accused formed the aforementioned organization known as WUPP. This so-called union advocates, among other things: the free and equal distribution of the Welves’ payment, that all worshipers get together and pool their knowledge about the Kicksey-Winsey and so learn ‘how’ and ‘why—’ ”

“Blasphemy!” cried the shuddering Head Clark in hollow tones.

“And that all Gegs cease to wait for the Judgment day and work to improve their lives themselves—”

“Yonor!” The Head Clark leapt to his feet. “I ask that the court be cleared of children! It is appalling that young and impressionable minds should be subjected to such profane and dangerous notions.”

“They’re not dangerous!” protested Limbeck.

“Hush up!” The Froman scowled and gave the matter some thought. He hated to concede another point to his brother-in-law, but this did offer an ideal way to escape from his chair. “Court recessed. No children under the age of eighteen will be allowed back in. We’ll break for lunch and return in an hour.”

With help from the warders—who had to literally pull him free—the High Froman heaved his bulk out of his chair. He removed the iron crown from his head, rubbed life back into his tortured posterior, stomped on his foot until he could feel it again, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Court resumed, minus children and those parents who were force to stay home and take care of them. The High Froman, with a resigned and martyred expression, put on his crown and once more wedged himself into the torturous chair. The prisoner was brought in, and the Voice of the Offense concluded her case.

“These dangerous ideas, so seductive to impressionable minds, actually swayed a group of young people as rebellious and discontented as the accused. The local Froman and the clarks—knowing, Yonor, that young people are by nature somewhat rebellious, and hoping that this was just a phase through which they were passing—”

“Like pimples?” suggested the High Froman. This brought the desired laugh from the crowd, although they seemed somewhat uncertain about chuckling in the presence of the frowning Head Clark, and the laughter ended in a sudden spate of nervous coughing.

“Er . . . yes, Yonor,” said the Voice, resenting the interruption. The Head Clark smiled with the patient air of one who tolerates a dullard in his presence. The High Froman, seized with the sudden urge to throttle the Head Clark, missed a considerable portion of the Offensive Voice’s speech.

“—incited a riot during which the Kicksey-Winsey, Sector Y-362, sustained minor damage. Fortunately, the Kicksey-Winsey was able to heal itself almost immediately and so no lasting harm was done. At least to our revered idol!” The Offensive Voice rose to a screech. “What harm may have been done to those who dared do such a thing cannot be calculated. It is, therefore, our demand that the accused—Limbeck Bolttightner—be removed from this society so that he can never again lead our young people down this path that can only take them to doom and destruction!”

The Voice of the Offense, having rested her case, retired behind the iron drum. Thunderous applause reverberated throughout the Factree. Here and there, however, came hisses and a boo, which caused the High Froman to look stern and brought the Head Clark to his feet.

“Yonor, this outburst only goes to prove that the poison is spreading. We can do one thing to eradicate it.” The Head Clark pointed at Limbeck. “Remove the source! I fear that if we do not, the Day of judgment that many of us feel to be at last close to hand will be postponed, perhaps indefinitely! I would urge you, in fact, Yonor, to prohibit the accused from speaking in this assembly!”

“I don’t consider four hisses and a boo an outburst,” said Darral testily, glaring at the Head Clark. “Accused, you may speak in your own defense. But take care, young man, I’ll tolerate no blasphemous harangues in this court.” Limbeck rose slowly to his feet. He paused, as if pondering a course of action, and finally, after profound deliberation, laid the sheaf of papers down on the iron drum and removed his spectacles.

“Yonor,” said Limbeck with deep respect. “All I ask is that I be allowed to relate what happened to me the day that I was lost. It was a most remarkable occurrence and it will, I hope, serve to explain why I have felt the need to do what I have done. I have never told this to anyone before,” he added solemnly, “not my parents, not even the person I hold most dear in all the world.”

“Will this take long?” asked the Froman, putting his hands on the arms of the chair and endeavoring to find a certain amount of relief from his cramped situation by leaning to one side.

“No, Yonor,” said Limbeck gravely.

“Then proceed.”

“Thank you, Yonor. It happened the day I was thrown out of school. I had to get away, to do a lot of thinking. You see, I didn’t consider that my ‘why’ had been blasphemous or dangerous. I don’t hate the Kicksey-Winsey. I revere it, truly. It fascinates me! It’s so wonderful, so big, so powerful.” Limbeck waved his arms, his face lit by the holy radiance. “It draws its source of energy from the storm and does it with incredible efficiency. It can even take raw iron from the Terrel Fen below and turn that iron into steel and mold that steel into parts so that it is continually expanding. It can heal itself when it is injured.

“It accepts our help gladly. We are its hands, its feet, its eyes. We go where it can’t, help it when it gets into trouble. If a claw gets stuck on Terrel Fen, we have to go down and shake it loose. We push bleepers and turn whirly-wheels and raise the raisers and lower the lowers and everything runs smoothly. Or seems to. But I can’t help,” added Limbeck softly, “wondering why.”

The Head Clark, scowling, rose to his feet, but the High Froman, pleased to have an opportunity to gain one on the church, regarded him with a stern air.

“I have given this young man permission to speak. I trust our people are strong enough to hear what he has to say without losing their faith. Don’t you? Or has the church been derelict in its duties?”

Biting his lip, the Head Clark sat back down and glared at the High Froman, who smiled complacently.

“The accused may proceed.”

“Thank you, Yonor. You see, I’ve always wondered why there are parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are dead. In some sectors it sits idle, rusting away or getting covered over with coralite. Some parts haven’t moved in centuries. Yet the Mangers must have put them there for a reason. Why? What were they supposed to do and why aren’t they doing it? And it occurred to me that if we knew why the parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are alive are alive, and if we knew how they were doing it, then we might be able to understand the Kicksey-Winsey and its true purpose!

“And that’s one reason that I think all the scrifts should get together and pool their knowledge—”

“Is this leading somewhere?” asked the High Froman irritably. His headache was starting to make him nauseous.

“Er, yes.” Limbeck nervously put his spectacles back on. “I was thinking these thoughts and wondering how I could make people understand, and I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going, and when I looked around, I discovered I had wandered completely outside of the Het town limits. Quite by accident, I assure you!