Dragon Wing

10

An ordinary felon on Drevlin would have been brought before his local Froman for judgment. Petty thefts, drunk—and-disorderlies, the odd brawl—these were considered to fall under the domain of the head of the defendant’s own scrift. A crime against the Kicksey-Winsey, however, was considered high treason and therefore the defendant was required to go before the High Froman. The High Froman was head of the most important scrift in Drevlin—at least that was how his clan viewed themselves and that was how other Gegs were expected to view them. It was their scrift which was in charge of the Palm—the hallowed altar where, once a month, the Welves descended from the heavens in their powerful winged dragon ships and accepted the homage of the Gegs, given in the form of holy water. In return, the Welves left behind “blessings” before they departed.

The capital city of Wombe was very modern, compared to other cities on Drevlin. Few of the original buildings constructed by the Mangers remained standing. The Kicksey-Winsey, needing to expand, had leveled and built over them, thus destroying much of the existing housing of the Gegs. Nothing daunted, the Gegs had simply moved into sections of the Kicksey-Winsey that the Kicksey-Winsey had abandoned. It was considered quite fashionable to live in the Kicksey-Winsey. The High Froman himself had a house in what had once been a holding tank.

The High Froman held court inside a building known as the Factree. A huge structure, one of the largest on Drevlin, the Factree was made of iron and corrugated steel and was, so legend had it, the birthplace of the Kicksey-Winsey. The Factree had long since been abandoned and partially demolished, the Kicksey-Winsey having fed parasitically off that which gave it birth. But here and there, standing silent and ghostly within the eerie light of the glimmerglamps, could be seen the skeleton of a clawlike arm. The Factree was a sacred and holy place to the Gegs. Not only was it the Kicksey-Winsey’s birthplace, but it was in the Factree that the Gegs’ most hallowed icon was located—the brass statue of a Manger. The statue, which was the figure of a robed and hooded man, was taller than the Gegs and considerably thinner. The face had been carved in such a way that it was shadowed by the hood. There was a suggestion of a nose, and the outlines of lips and prominent cheekbones and the rest blended into the metal. In one of its hands the Manger grasped a huge, staring eyeball. The other arm, held in a crooked position, was hinged at the elbow.

Standing on a raised dais next to the statue of the Manger was a tall overstuffed chair. It had obviously been constructed for those built along different dimensions than the Gegs, for its seat was some three Geg-feet off the floor, its back was nearly as tall as the Manger, and it was extremely narrow. This chair was the High Froman’s ceremonial sit-up-high, and he squeezed his large body into it on occasions of state. He overlapped the sides and his feet dangled well above the dais, but these minor detractions in no way reduced his dignity.

The Froman’s audience sat cross-legged on the concrete floor beneath the dais or perched on ancient limbs of the Kicksey-Winsey or stood around on the balconies overlooking the main floor. On this day, a considerable crowd had jammed into the Factree to witness the trial of the Geg who was a reputed troublemaker, the leader of an insurrectionist, rebellious group which had finally gone so far as to inflict injury on the Kicksey-Winsey. Most of the night scrifts for every sector were present, as were those Gegs over forty who were no longer working on the Kicksey-Winsey but were staying home raising young. The Factree was filled over and beyond capacity, and those who could not see or hear directly were kept informed of the proceedings by the squawky-talk—a sacred and mysterious means of communication developed by the Mangers.

A whistle-toot, blowing three times, called for relative silence. That is, the Gegs kept quiet, the Kicksey-Winsey didn’t.

The proceedings were interspersed with whoosh, thump, whang, zizzt, occasional sharp cracks of thunder, and howling gusts of wind from Outside. Being accustomed to these noises, the Gegs considered that quiet had descended and the ceremony of Justick could be commenced.

Two Gegs-one’s shaved face painted black, the other white-stepped out from behind the statue of the Manger, where they had been standing, waiting for the signal. In their hands they held between them a large metal sheet. Casting their stern gazes over the crowd to see that all was in order, the two Gegs began to vigorously shake the metal, creating the effect of thunder. Real thunder was not in the least impressive to the Gegs, who heard it every day of their lives. Artificial thunder, reverberating through the Factree over the squawky-talk, sounded eerie and wonderful and drew gasps of awe and murmurs of approval from the crowd. When the last vibrations of the quivering sheet had faded away, the High Froman made his appearance.

A Geg of some sixty turns, the High Froman was from the wealthiest, most powerful clan in Drevlin—the Longshoremans. His family had held the title of High Froman for several generations, despite attempts by the Dockworkers to wrest it from them. Darral Longshoreman had given his years of service to the Kicksey-Winsey before taking over the duties of his office upon his own father’s death. Darral was a shrewd Geg, nobody’s fool, and if he enriched his own clan at the expense of others in Drevlin, he was merely carrying on a time-honored tradition.

High Froman Darral was dressed in the ordinary working clothes of the Gegs-baggy trousers falling over thick, clumping boots, and a high-collared smock that fit rather tightly over his stout middle. This plain outfit was incongruously topped by a crown of cast iron—a gift from the Kicksey-Winsey—which was the High Froman’s pride (despite the fact that after about fifteen minutes it gave him a pounding headache). Around his shoulders he wore a cape made of large and ugly bird feathers—the feathers of the tier—(a gift from the Welves), which signified the Gegs’ symbolic desire to fly upward to heaven. In addition to the feathered cape, which appeared only at trials of Justick, the High Froman had painted his face gray, a symbolic blending of the black and white faces of the Geg warders now standing on either side of him and designed to prove to the Gegs that Darral—in all things—was neutral.

In his hand, the High Froman held a long stick from which dangled a long, pronged tail. At a signal from Darral, one of the warders took the end of this tail and inserted it reverently and with muttered words of prayer to the Manger into the base of the statue. A bulbous glass ball affixed on top of the stick hissed and sputtered alarmingly for an instant, then sullenly began to glow with a bluish-white light. The Gegs murmured appreciatively, many parents drawing the attention of children in the audience to similar glimmerglamps that hung upside-down like bats from the ceiling and lit the Gegs’ storm-ridden darkness.

After the murmurs again died down, there was a brief wait for a particularly violent whoosh-whang from the Kicksey-Winsey to subside; then the High Froman launched into his speech.

Facing the statue of the Manger, he raised his flashglamp. “I call upon the Mangers to descend from their lofty realm and guide us with their wisdom as we sit in judgment this day.”

Needless to say, the Mangers did not respond to the call of the High Froman. Not particularly surprised at the silence—the Gegs would have been tremendously astounded if anyone had answered—High Froman Darral Longshoreman determined that it was his duty by default to sit in judgment, and this he did, clambering up into the seat with the assistance of the two warders and a footstool.

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]. 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.

“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.