Dragon Wing

12

“Visitor” said the turnkey through the iron bars.

“What?” Limbeck sat up on his cot.

“Visitor. Your sister. Come along.”

Keys jangled. The closer clicked and the door swung open. Limbeck, considerably startled and extremely confused, rose from the cot and followed the turnkey to the visitors’ vat. As far as he knew, Limbeck didn’t have a sister. Admittedly, he’d been gone from home a number of years, and he didn’t know all that much about rearing children, but he had the vague impression that it took a considerable length of time for a child to be born, then be up walking about, visiting brothers in jail.

Limbeck was just performing the necessary calculations when he entered the visitors’ vat. A young woman flung herself at him with such force that she nearly knocked him down.

“My dear brother!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with more attachment than is generally displayed between siblings.

“You’ve got till the whistle-toot blows the next scrift change,” said the turnkey in bored tones as he slammed shut and locked the closer behind him.

“Jarre?” said Limbeck, blinking at her. He’d left his spectacles in the cell.

“Well, of course!” she said, hugging him fiercely. “Who else did you think it would be?”

“I... I wasn’t sure’ Limbeck stammered. He was extremely pleased to see Jarre, but he couldn’t help experiencing a slight twinge of disappointment at the loss of a sister. It seemed that family might be a comfort at a time like this. “How did you get here?”

“Odwin Screwloosener has a brother-in-law who serves on one of the flashraft runs. He got me on. Didn’t it make you furious,” she said, releasing her grip on Limbeck, “to see the enslavement of our people exhibited before your eyes?”

“Yes, it did,” answered Limbeck. He was not surprised to hear that Jarre had experienced the same sensations and thought the same thoughts he had during the flashraft journey across Drevlin. The two often did this. She turned away from him, slowly unwinding the heavy scarf from around her head. Limbeck wasn’t certain—Jarre’s face was pretty much a blur to him without his spectacles—but he had the feeling that her expression was troubled. It might be, of course, the fact that he was sentenced to be executed, but Limbeck doubted it. Jarre tended to take things like that in stride. This was something different, something deeper.

“How is the Union getting along?” Limbeck asked.

Jarre heaved a sigh. Now, Limbeck thought, we’re getting somewhere.

“Oh, Limbeck,” Jarre said, half-irritable, half-sorrowful, “why did you have to go and tell those ridiculous stories during the trial?”

“Stories?” Limbeck’s bushy eyebrows shot up into the roots of his curly hair.

“What stories?”

“You know—the ones about the Welves being dead and books with pictures of heaven in them—”

“Then the newssingers sang them?” Limbeck’s face glowed with pleasure.

“Sang them!” Jarre wrung her hands. “They shouted them at every scrift change! Those stories were all we heard—”

“Why do you keep calling them stories?.” Then, suddenly, Limbeck understood.

“You don’t believe them! What I said in court was true, Jarre! I swear by—”

“Don’t swear by anything,” Jarre interrupted coldly. “We don’t believe in gods, remember?”

“I swear by my love for you, my dear,” said Limbeck, “that all I said was true. All those things really happened to me. It was that sight and the knowledge it brought—the knowledge that these Welves aren’t gods at all, but mortals just like us—that gave me the inspiration to start our Union. It’s the memory of that sight which gives me the courage to face what I am facing now,” he said with a quiet dignity that touched Jarre to the heart. Weeping, she threw herself into his arms again.

Patting her comfortingly on her broad back, Limbeck asked gently, “Have I hurt the cause a great deal?”

“No-o-o,” hedged Jarre in a muffled voice, keeping her face buried in Limbeck’s now-tear-sodden tunic. “Actually, uh . . . You see, my dear, we let it ... urn ... be known that the torture and hardship you suffered at the hands of the brutal imperialist—”

“But they haven’t tortured me. They’ve really been very nice to me, my dear.”

“Oh, Limbeck!” cried Jarre, pushing away from him in exasperation. “You’re hopeless!”

“I’m sorry,” said Limbeck.

“Now, listen to me,” Jarre continued briskly, wiping her eyes. “We don’t have much time. The most important thing we’ve got going for us right now is this execution of yours. So don’t mess that up! Don’t”—she raised a warning finger—“say anything more about dead Welves and suchlike.” Limbeck sighed. “I won’t,” he promised.

“You’re a martyr for the cause. Don’t forget that. And for our cause’s sake, try to look the part.” She cast a disapproving eye over his stout figure. “I believe you’ve actually gained weight!”

“The prison food is really quite—”

“Think of someone besides yourself at a time like this, Limbeck,” Jarre scolded. “You’ve got only tonight left. You can’t look emaciated by that time, I suppose, but do the best you can. Could you manage to bloody yourself up?”

“I don’t think so,” Limbeck said abjectly, aware of his limitations.

“Well, we’ll have to make the best of it.” Jarre sighed. “Whatever you do, try to at least look martyred.”

“I’m not sure how.”

“Oh, you know—brave, dignified, defiant, forgiving.”

“All at once?”

“The forgiving part is very important. You might even say something along those lines as they’re strapping you onto the lightning bird.”

“Forgiveness,” muttered Limbeck, committing it to memory.

“And a final defiant shout when they shove you off the edge. Something about ‘WUPP forever . . . they’ll never defeat us.’ And you returning, of course.”

“Defiance. WUPP forever. Me returning.” Limbeck peered at her myopicalty. “Am I? Returning?”

“Well, of course. I said we’d get you out and I meant it. You didn’t think we’d let them execute you, did you?”

“Well, I—”

“You’re such a druskh,” Jarre said, playfully ruffling up his hair. “Now, you know how this bird thing works—”

The whistle-toot went off, its blast resounding through the city.

“Time!” shouted the turnkey. His fat face pressed against the iron bars of the door to the visitors’ vat. He began to rattle the opener in the closer. Jarre, a look of annoyance on her face, walked over to the door and peered through the bars. “Five more tocks.”

The turnkey frowned.

“Remember,” said Jarre, holding up a formidable-looking fist, “that you’ll be letting me out.”

The turnkey, muttering something unintelligible, walked away.

“Now,” said Jarre, turning around again, “where was I? Oh, yes. This bird contraption. According to Lof Lectric—”

“What does he know about it?” demanded Limbeck jealously.

“He’s with the Lectriczinger scrift,” replied Jarre in lofty tones. “They fly the lightning birds to harvest lectric for the Kicksey-Winsey. Lof says that they’ll put you on top of what looks like two giant wings made out of wood and tier feathers with a cable attached. They strap you to this thing and then shove you off above the Steps of Terrel Fen. You float around in the storm and get hit by hail and driving rain and sleet—”

“Not lightning?” asked Limbeck nervously.

“No.” Jarre was reassuring.

“But it’s called a lightning bird.”

“It’s only a name.”

“But with my weight on it, won’t it sink instead of fly up into the air?”

“Of course! Will you stop interrupting me?”

“Yes,” said Limbeck meekly.

“The contraption will begin to fall, snapping the cable. The lightning bird will eventually crash into one of the isles of the Terrel Fen.”

“It will?” Limbeck was pale.

“But don’t worry. Lof says that the main frame is almost certain to withstand the impact. It’s very strong. The Kicksey-Winsey produces the wooden sticks—”

“Why, I wonder?” mused Limbeck. “Why should the Kicksey-Winsey make wooden sticks?”

“How would I know!” Jarre shouted. “And what does it matter anyway! Now, listen to me.” She put both hands on his beard and tugged until she saw tears in his eyes, long experience having taught her that this was one sure way of getting his mind off its latest tangent. “You’ll land on one of the islands of the Terrel Fen. These islands are being mined by the Kicksey-Winsey. When the dig-claws come down to dig up the ore, you must put a mark on one of them. Our people will be watching for it, and when the dig-claw comes back up, we’ll see your mark and know which island you’re on.”

“That’s a very good plan, my dear!” Limbeck smiled at her in admiration.

“Thank you.” Jarre flushed with pleasure. “All you have to do is stay away from the dig-claws so that you won’t get mined yourself.”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

“The next time the dig-claws come down, we’ll make certain that a help-hand is lowered.” Seeing Limbeck look puzzled, Jarre patiently explained. “You know—one of the claws with a bubble clutched in it that carries a Geg down to the isle to free a stuck claw.”

“Is that how they do it?” Limbeck marveled.

“I wish you’d served the Kicksey-Winsey!” Jarre said, tugging on his beard in irritation. “There, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” She kissed him and rubbed his cheeks to erase the pain. “You’re going to be all right. Just remember that. When we bring you up, we’ll put it out that you were judged innocent. It will be obvious that Mangers support you, and that therefore they support our cause. We’ll have Gegs flocking to join us! The day of revolution will dawn!” Jarre’s eyes gleamed.

“Yes! Wonderful!” Limbeck was caught up in her enthusiasm. The turnkey, nose thrust between the bars, coughed meaningfully.

“All right, I’m coming!” Jarre wound her scarf back around her head. With some difficulty, muffled by the scarf, she kissed Limbeck a final time, leaving fuzz in his mouth. The turnkey opened the door. “Remember,” Jarre said mysteriously, “martyred.”

“Martyred,” Limbeck agreed good-naturedly.

“And no more stories about dead gods!” The last was said in a piercing whisper as the turnkey hustled her away.

“They’re not”—Limbeck began—“stories.”

He said the last with a sigh. Jarre was gone.