Standing next to the damaged hull, the High Froman was momentarily at a loss. He’d never spoken to a god before. At the monthly sacred docking ceremonies, the Welves appeared in their huge winged ships, sucked up the water, threw down their reward, and departed. Not a bad way of doing things, the High Froman thought regretfully. He was just opening his mouth to announce to the small, puny-looking god inside the ship that his servants were here when there emerged a god who was anything but small and puny-looking.
The god was tall and dark, with a black beard that hung in two braids from his chin and long black hair that flowed over his shoulders. His face was hard, his eyes as sharp and cold as the coralite on which the Geg stood. The god carried in his hand a weapon of bright, glittering steel.
At the sight of this formidable, frightening creature, the Head Clark, forgetting completely about church protocol, turned and fled. Most of the coppers, seeing the church abandoning the field, figured doom had descended and took to their heels. Only one stalwart copper remained—the one who had sighted the god and had reported it to be small and puny. Perhaps he thought he had nothing to lose.
“Humpf! Good riddance,” muttered Darral. Turning to the god, he bowed so low his long beard dragged the wet ground. “Your Wurship,” said the High Froman humbly, “we welcome you to our realm. Have you come for the Judgment?” The god stared at him, then turned to another god (the Froman inwardly groaned—how many of these were there?) and spoke something to this second god in words that were a meaningless babble to the High Froman. The second god—a bald, weak, soft-looking god, if you asked Darral Longshoreman—shook his head, a blank expression on his face.
And it occurred to the High Froman that these gods hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
In that instant, Darral Longshoreman realized that Mad Limbeck wasn’t mad after all. These weren’t gods. Gods would have understood him. These were mortal men. They had come in a dragonship, which meant that the Welves in their dragonships were most likely mortal. If the Kicksey-Winsey had suddenly ceased to function, if every whirly had stopped whirling, every gear stopped grinding, every whistle stopped tooting, the High Froman could not have been more appalled. Mad Limbeck was right! There would be no Judgment! They would never be lifted up to Geg’s Hope. Glowering at the gods and at their wrecked ship, Darral realized that the gods themselves couldn’t even get off Drevlin!
A low rumble of thunder warned the High Froman that he and these “gods” didn’t have time to stand around and stare at one another. Disillusioned, angry, needing time to think, the High Froman turned his back on the “gods” and started to head for his city.
“Wait!” came a voice. “Where are you going?” Startled, Darral whirled around. A third god had appeared.
This must have been the one the copper had seen, for this god was small and frail-looking. This god was a child! And had Darral only imagined it, or had the child spoken to him in words he understood?
“Greetings. I am Prince Bane,” said the child in excellent but halting Geg, sounding almost as if he were being prompted. One hand was clasped tightly around a feather amulet he wore on his breast. He held out his other hand, palm open, in the ritual Geg gesture of friendship. “My father is Sinistrad, Mysteriarch of the Seventh House, Ruler of the High Realm.” Darral Longshoreman drew in a deep, shivering breath. Never in his life had he seen such a beautiful being as this. Bright golden hair, bright blue eyes—the child glistened like the shining metal of the Kicksey-Winsey. Perhaps I’ve been mistaken. Mad Limbeck is wrong, after all. Surely this being is immortal! Somewhere from deep within the Geg, buried beneath centuries of Sundering, holocaust, and rupture, came a phrase to Darral’s mind, “And a little child shall lead them.”
“Greetings, Prince B-Bane,” returned the High Froman, stumbling over the name that held, in his language, no meaning. “Have you come to pass Judgment on us at last?”
The child’s eyelids flickered; then he said coolly, “Yes, I have come to judge you. Where is your king?”
“I am the High Froman, Your Wurship, ruler of my people. It would be a great honor if you would deign to visit our city, Your Wurship.” The High Froman’s gaze strayed nervously to the approaching storm. Gods probably weren’t bothered by bolts of lightning sizzling down from the heavens, and Darral found it somewhat embarrassing to hint that high fromen were. However, the child appeared to be cognizant of the Geg’s plight and to take pity on it. Casting a glance back at his two companions, whom Darral now took for the god’s servants or guards, Prince Bane indicated he was ready to travel and glanced about for the conveyance.
“I’m sorry, Your Wurship,” muttered the High Froman, flushing warmly, “but we have to ... er ... walk.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the god, and jumped gleefully into a puddle.
30
Limbeck was sitting in the drafty headquarters of WUPP writing the speech he would deliver at the rally tonight. His spectacles perched precariously on his head, the Geg scribbled his words onto the paper, happily spattering ink over everything and completely oblivious of the chaos erupting around him. Haplo sat near him, the dog at his feet.
Quiet, taciturn, unobtrusive—indeed, going almost unnoticed—the Patryn lounged in a Geg chair that was too short for him. His long legs extending out in front of him, he idly watched the organized confusion. His cloth-wound hand dropped occasionally to scratch the dog on the head or to pat it reassuringly in the event that something startled it.
WUPP Headquarters in the Geg capital city of Wombe was—literally—a hole in the wall. The Kicksey-Winsey had once decided it needed to expand in a certain direction, knocked a hole in the wall of a Geg dwelling, then had apparently decided, for some unknown reason, that it didn’t want to go that way after all. The hole in the wall remained and the twenty or so Geg families who had occupied the dwelling had moved, since one could never be certain but that the Kicksey-Winsey might change its mind again.
Beyond a few minor inconveniences—such as the perpetual draft—it was, however, ideal for the establishment of WUPP Headquarters. There had been no WUPP
Headquarters in the capital of Drevlin. The High Froman and the church both held crushing power here. But after Limbeck’s triumphant return from the dead-bringing with him a god who claimed he wasn’t a god-reached Wombe via the newssingers, the Gegs clamored to know more about WUPP and its leader. Jarre herself traveled to Wombe to establish the Union, distribute pamphlets, and find a suitable building to serve both as center of operations and a place to live. Her primary, secret goal, however, was to discover if the High Froman and/or the church was going to give them trouble, Jarre hoped they would. She could almost hear the newssingers across the land warbling, “Coppers Crush Converts!” Nothing of the sort had occurred, much to Jarre’s disappointment, and Limbeck and Haplo (and the dog) were met by cheering crowds when they entered the city. Jarre hinted that this was undoubtedly a dark and subtle plot by the High Froman to ensnare them all, but Limbeck said it simply proved that Darral Longshoreman was fair and open-minded.
Now crowds of Gegs stood outside the hole in the wall, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the famous Limbeck or of his god-who-wasn’t. WUPP members rushed importantly in and out, bearing messages to or from Jarre, who was so busy running things that she didn’t have time to make speeches anymore. Jarre was in her element. She led WUPP with ruthless efficiency. Her skills in organization, her inherent knowledge of the Gegs, and her management of Limbeck had been responsible for setting the Gegs’ world aflame with anger and the call for revolution. She poked, prodded, and pummeled Limbeck into shape, shoved him forth to issue words of genius, and hauled him back When it was time to quit. Her awe of Haplo soon faded and she began to treat him the same way she treated Limbeck, telling him what to say and how long to say it. Haplo submitted to her in everything with easy, casual pliability. He was, Jarre discovered, a man of few words, but those Words had a way of searing into the heart, leaving a mark that burned long after the iron had grown cool.