Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

“There weren’t any fierce storms in the area just then, and I thought I’d take a little look around, sort of distract myself from my trouble. It was difficult walking and I guess I was concentrating on keeping my footing, because suddenly a storm struck. I needed shelter and I saw a large object lying on the ground, so I ran for it.

“You can imagine my surprise, Yonor,” said Limbeck, blinking at the High Froman from behind the thick glass lenses, “when I discovered that it was one of the Welves’ dragonships.”

The words, echoing from the squawky-talk, resounded in the Factree. Gegs stirred and muttered among themselves.

“On the ground? Impossible! The Welves never land on Drevlin!” The Head Clark was pious, smug, and self-satisfied. The High Froman appeared uneasy, but knew—from the reaction of the crowd—that he had allowed this to proceed too far to stop now.

“They hadn’t landed,” Limbeck explained. “The ship had crashed—” This created a sensation in the court. The Head Clark leapt to his feet. The Gegs were talking in excited voices, many shouting, “Shut him up!” and others answering, “You shut up! Let him talk!” The High Froman gestured to the warders, who shook the “thunder,” and order was resumed.

“I demand that this travesty of Justick stop!” boomed the Head Clark. The High Froman considered doing just that. Ending the trial now accomplished three things: it would rid him of this mad Geg, end his headache, and restore the circulation in his lower extremities. Unfortunately, however, it would appear to his constituents as if he had caved in to the church, plus, his brother-in-law would never let him forget it. No, better to let this Limbeck fellow go ahead and speak his piece. He would undoubtedly string together enough rope to hang himself before long.

“I have made my ruling,” said the High Froman in a terrible voice, glaring at the crowd and the Head Clark. “It stands!” He transferred the glare to Limbeck. “Proceed.”

“I admit that I don’t know for certain the ship had crashed,” amended Limbeck, “but I guessed that it had, for it was lying broken and damaged among the rocks. There was nowhere to go for shelter except inside the ship. A large hole had been torn in the skin, so I entered.”

“If what you say is true, you were fortunate that the Welves did not strike you down for your boldness!” cried the Head Clark.

“The Welves weren’t in much position to strike anyone down,” returned Limbeck.

“These immortal Welves—as you call them—were dead.” Shouts of outrage, cries of horror and alarm, and a muffled cheer rang through the Factree. The Head Clark fell back into his seat, stricken. The Offense fanned him with her handkerchief and called for water. The High Froman sat bolt upright in shock and managed to wedge himself firmly and inextricably in his chair. Unable to rise to his feet to restore order, he could only wriggle and fume and wave the flashglamp, half-blinding the warders, who were attempting to pull him free.

“Listen to me!” Limbeck shouted in the voice that had quelled multitudes. No other speaker in WUPP, Jarre included, could be as compelling and charismatic as Limbeck when he was inspired. This speech was the reason he had allowed himself to be arrested. This was, perhaps, his last chance to bring his message to his people. He would make the most of it.

Jumping onto the iron drum, scattering his papers beneath his feet, Limbeck waved his hands to attract the crowd’s attention.

“These Welves from the realms above are not gods, as they would have us believe! They are not immortal, but are made of flesh and blood and bone like ourselves! I know, because I saw that flesh rotting away. I saw their corpses in that twisted wreckage.

“And I saw their world! I saw your ‘glorious heavens.’ They had brought books with them, and I looked at some of them. And truly, it is heaven! They live in a world of wealth and magnificence. A world of beauty that we can only begin to imagine. A world of ease that is supported by our sweat and our labor! And let me tell you! They have no intention of ever ‘taking us up to that world’ as the clarks keep telling us they will, ‘if we are worthy’! Why should they? They have us to use as willing slaves down here! We live in squalor, we serve the Kicksey-Winsey so that they can have the water they need to survive. We battle the storm every day of our miserable lives! So that they can live in luxury off our tears!

“And that is why I say,” shouted Limbeck over the rising tumult, “that we should learn all we can about the Kicksey-Winsey, take control of it, and force these Welves, who are not gods at all, but mortals, just like us, to give us our proper due!”

Chaos broke out. Gegs were yelling, screaming, shoving, and pushing. Appalled at the monster he’d unwittingly unleashed.

The Froman—finally freed from his chair—stomped his feet and pounded the butt-end of his flashglamp on the concrete with such ferocity that he yanked the tail free of the statue and doused the light.

“Clear the court! Clear the court!”

Coppers charged in, but it was some time before the excited Gegs could be made to leave the Factree. Then they milled around in the corridors for a while, but fortunately for the High Froman, the whistle-toot signaled a scrift change and the crowds dispersed—either going to perform their service for the Kicksey-Winsey or returning home.

The High Froman, the Head Clark, the Offensive Voice, Limbeck, and the two warders with smeared face paint were left alone in the Factree.

“You are a dangerous young man,” said the High Froman. “These lies—”

“They’re not lies! They’re the truth! I swear—”

“These lies would, of course, never be believed by the people, but as we have seen this day when you recite them, they lead to turmoil and unrest! You have doomed yourself. Your fate is now in the hands of the Manger. Hold on to the prisoner and keep him quiet!” the High Froman ordered the warders, who latched on to Limbeck firmly, if reluctantly, as though his touch might contaminate them.

The Head Clark had recovered sufficiently from his shock to appear smug and pious again, this expression mingling with righteous indignation and the certain conviction that sin was about to be punished, retribution exacted. The High Froman, walking somewhat unsteadily on feet to which the circulation was only now returning, made his way with aching head over to the statue of the Manger. Led along by the warders, Limbeck followed. Despite the danger, he was, as usual, deeply curious and far more interested in the statue of the Manger itself than in whatever verdict it might hand down. The Head Clark and the Voice crowded close to see. The High Froman, with many bowings and scrapings and mumbled prayers that were echoed reverently by the Head Clark, reached out, grasped the left hand of the Manger, and pulled on it. The eyeball that the Manger held in the right hand suddenly blinked and came to life. A light shone, and moving pictures began to flit across the eyeball. The High Froman cast a triumphant glance at the Head Clark and the Voice. Limbeck was absolutely fascinated.

“The Manger speaks to us!” cried the Head Clark, falling to his knees.

“A magic lantern!” said Limbeck excitedly, peering into the eyeball. “Only it isn’t really magic, not like the magic of the Welves. It’s mechanical magic! I found one on another part of the Kicksey-Winsey and I took it apart. Those pictures that seem to move are frames revolving around a light so fast that it fools the eyes—”

“Silence, heretic!” thundered the High Froman. “Sentence has been passed. The Mangers say that you shall be given into their hands.”

“I don’t think they’re saying any such thing, Yonor,” protested Limbeck. “In fact, I’m not certain what they’re saying. I wonder why—”