“ ‘Heaven’s fire’!” announced Trian suddenly.
And at that moment all the machinery in the room came to life. The wheel on the wall began to turn of its own accord. The glass eyeballs started to blink and rove, shifting their gazes to different parts of the great machine. Arrows encased in glass boxes began to inch their way upward. On all parts of Drevlin, the Kicksey-winsey came back to life. Immediately the metal man left the large wheel and headed for the levers and the small wheels. The mensch scrambled to get out of its way, for the automaton let nothing stop it.
“Look, oh, look, Limbeck!” Jarre was sobbing and didn’t know it. The whirley-wheels were whirling, the ’lectric zingers zinging, the arrows arrowing, the flash-rafts flashing. The dig-claws began furiously digging; gears were gearing and pulleys pulling. The glimmerglamps burst into light. Bellows sucked in great breaths and whooshed them out, and warm air wafted once again through the tunnels.
The dwarves could be seen swarming out of their homes, hugging each other and whatever parts of the machine they could conveniently hug. The scrift-bosses appeared in their midst and immediately began bossing, which was what they were supposed to do, so no one minded. All the dwarves went back to work, just as they had before.
The metal man was working, too, the mensch taking care to keep out of its way. What it was doing, no one had any idea, when suddenly Limbeck pointed to one of the eyeballs.
“The Liftalofts!”
The storm clouds roiled and swirled around the circle of the nine huge arms, forming a hole through which the sun shone on a waterspout, which was no longer working.
In the old days, the spout had funneled the water collected from the Maelstrom into a water pipe lowered from Aristagon. Elves had seized control of the pipe, and of the life-giving water, thus bringing about the first of many wars. But when the Kicksey-winsey had ceased to work, the waterspout had no longer functioned—for anybody.
Would it begin working now?
“According to this,” said Jarre, reading from the book, “some of the water harvested from the storm will be heated until it turns to steam and hot water; then that steam and hot water will shoot up into the sky...” Slowly the nine hands attached to the nine arms rose straight up in the air. Each hand opened, its metal palm lifted to the sun. Then each hand seemed to catch hold of something, like an invisible string attached to an invisible kite, and began the motion of pulling the string, pulling the kite. Above, in the Mid Realms and the High, the continents shuddered, moved, began slowly to shift their positions.
And suddenly a sparkling geyser of water burst out of the waterspout. Higher it rose, higher and higher, clouds of steam billowing around it, obscuring it from view.
“It’s starting,” said Trian softly, reverently.
15
King Stephen stood on the battleground of Seven Fields, outside his royal pavilion, watching and waiting for what many in his realm believed would be the end of the world. His wife, Queen Anne, stood beside him, their baby daughter safe in her arms.
“I felt something that time,” Stephen said, peering down at the ground below his feet.
“You keep saying that,” Anne told him with fond exasperation. “I didn’t feel anything.”
Stephen grunted but didn’t argue. The two of them had decided to cease the constant bickering that had been all for show anyway. Now they publicly revealed their love for each other. It had been quite amusing, those first few weeks after the peace treaty with the elves had been signed, to watch the various factions, who had supposed they were playing the king and queen off each other, flop about in confusion.
A few barons were trying to stir up trouble and succeeding, in large part because most humans still distrusted the elves and had grave reservations about peace among the races. Stephen kept quiet, bided his time. He was wise enough to know that hatred was a weed that would not wilt just because the sun was shining on it. Patience would be needed to uproot it. With luck and care, his daughter might live to see the weed die. Stephen knew he probably would not.
Still, he had done what he could to help. He was pleased. And if this crazy machine of the dwarves worked, so much the better. If not, well, he and Rees’ahn and the dwarf—what was his name? Bolt-something—would find a way. A sudden hubbub from the shoreline attracted Stephen’s attention. The King’s Own were posted on watch, and now most of them were peering cautiously over the edge of the floating island, exclaiming and pointing.
“What the devil—” Stephen started forward to see for himself what was going on, and ran into a messenger coming to report.
“Your Majesty!” The messenger was a young page, so excited he bit his tongue trying to speak his piece. “W-w-water!”
Stephen had no need to move another step, for now he could see... and feel. A drop of water on his cheek. He stared in wonder. Anne, next to him, gripped his arm.
A fountain of water shot up past the island, soaring high into the sky. Stephen craned his neck, nearly fell over backward trying to see. The geyser ascended to a height that the king guessed must be somewhere below the Firmament, then cascaded downward in a sparkling shower like a gentle spring rain.
Steaming hot when it burst up out of Drevlin, the water was cooled by the air through which it passed, still more by the cold air near the ice floes that formed the Firmament. It was tepid when it hit the upturned faces of the humans, who stared in awe at the miracle showering down around them.
“It’s... beautiful!” Anne whispered.
Solarus’s bright rays burst through the clouds and struck the cascading water, transforming the transparent curtain into shining bands of color. Rings of rainbow hue surrounded the geyser. Droplets of water glittered and glistened, began to gather in the sagging tops of the tents. The baby laughed until a drop hit her squarely in the nose; then she wailed in dismay.
“I’m positive I felt the ground move that time!” Stephen said, wringing water from his beard.
“Yes, dear,” said Anne patiently. “I’m going to take the baby inside before she catches her death.”
Stephen stayed outside, reveling in the deluge, until he was soaking wet to his skin and then some. He laughed to see the peasants rushing around with buckets, determined to catch every drop of the commodity that was so precious it had become the monetary standard in human lands (one barl equaled one barrel of water). Stephen could have told them they were wasting their time. The water would fall and keep on falling without end, so long as the Kicksey-winsey kept working. And knowing the energetic dwarves, that would be forever.
He wandered for hours around the battlefield, which had now become a symbol of peace, for it was here that he and Rees’ahn had signed the peace accord. A dragon flashed down through the water, its wet wings shining in the sunlight. Coming to rest on the ground, it shook itself all over, appearing to enjoy its shower.
Stephen squinted against the sunlight, trying to see the rider. A female, to judge by the clothing. The King’s Own were giving her respectful escort. And then he knew her. Lady Iridal.
Stephen frowned, resentful. Why the devil was she here? Did she have to ruin this wonderful day? At the best of times, she made him damned uncomfortable. Now, since she’d been forced to kill her own son to save the king’s life, Stephen felt even worse. He glanced longingly toward his tent, hoping Anne would come to his rescue. The tent flap not only remained closed, but a hand could be seen popping out, tying it shut.
Queen Anne wanted even less to do with the Lady Iridal than the king. Lady Iridal was a mysteriarch, one of the most powerful magi in the land. Stephen had to be polite. He splashed through the puddles to meet her.