The Hand of Chaos

19

Haplo raged inside a prison cell that was open and airy and wide as the world. He tried helplessly to batter his way through bars that were flimsy as strands of silken spiderweb. He paced a floor compassed round by no walls, he pounded on an open door, guarded by no guards. Yet a man who’d been born in a prison knew no worse prison than that in which he now found himself. By setting him free, by letting him go, by granting him the privilege of doing whatever he desired, the serpents had thrown him into a cage, bolted the door, tossed away the key.

For there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go, no way to escape. Feverish thoughts and plans raced through his mind. He had first wakened from his sleep to find himself on one of the elven dragonships, bound—according to Sang-drax—for the elven city of Paxaris, located on the continent of Aristagon. Haplo considered killing Sang-drax, considered taking over the elven ship, considered leaping off the ship himself, to fall to his death through the empty skies. When he reviewed his plans coldly and rationally, the last seemed the only one likely of accomplishing anything constructive. He could kill Sang-drax, but—as the serpents had told him—their evil would only return, and be twice as strong. Haplo could take over the elven ship; the Patryn’s magic was powerful, far too powerful for the puny ship’s wizard to counter. But Haplo’s magic couldn’t fly the dragonship, and where would he go anyway? Back to Drevlin? The serpents were there. Back to the Nexus? The serpents were there, too. Back to Abarrach? Most assuredly, the serpents would be there.

He could warn someone, but who?... Warn them of what? Xar? Why should Xar believe him? Haplo wasn’t sure he believed himself.

The fevered dreaming and plotting, the eventual ice-cold deliberation and rejection were not the worst of what Haplo suffered in his prison. He knew that Sang-drax knew every scheme, every desperate grasp. And Haplo knew that the serpent-elf approved of all of them, was actually mentally encouraging Haplo to act.

And thus, as his only form of rebellion against the serpent-elf and his prison, the Patryn did nothing. But he found little satisfaction in that, for Sang-drax thoroughly approved of this, too.

Haplo did nothing during the voyage, and did it with a grim ferocity that worried the dog, frightened Jarre, and apparently daunted Bane, for the child took care to keep clear of the Patryn’s path. Bane was up to other devices. Haplo’s one source of amusement was to watch the child working hard to ingratiate himself with Sang-drax.

“Not exactly the person I’d choose to put my trust in,” Haplo warned Bane.

“Who should I choose? You?” Bane sneered. “A lot of good you were to me! You let the elves capture us. If it hadn’t been for me and my quick thinking we’d all be dead by now.”

“What do you see when you look at him?”

“An elf.” Bane was sarcastic. “Why, what do you see?”

“You know what I mean. With that clairvoyant talent of yours. What images come to your mind?”

Bane looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Never mind what I see. It’s my business. And I know what I’m doing. Just leave me alone.”

Yeah, you know what you’re doing, kid, Haplo thought tiredly. And maybe you do, after all. I sure as hell don’t.

Haplo had one hope. It was a fleeting one, and he wasn’t certain it was hope or what to do about it. He had come to the conclusion that the serpents didn’t know about the automaton and its connection to the Kicksey-winsey. He’d discovered this by eavesdropping on a conversation taking place between Sang-drax and Jarre. Haplo found it darkly fascinating to watch the serpent in action, watch him spread the contagion of hatred and divisiveness, watch it infect those who might have once been immune.

Shortly after arriving in the Mid Realm, the dragonship flew to Tolthom, an elven farming community, to drop off a shipment of water.[39] They did not stay long, but unloaded their cargo as swiftly as possible, this isle being a favored target of human water pirates. Every elf on board stood armed and ready to fend off possible attack. The human galley slaves, who operated the dragonship’s gigantic wings, were brought up on deck, in plain view. Guards stood nearby, arrows nocked, prepared to shoot the prisoners through the heart should any humans attack. Tolthom’s own dragonships circled overhead as the precious water was pumped from the ship into giant holding tanks on the continent.

Haplo stood on deck, watching the water flow, watching the sun glisten on its sparkling surface, and imagined his life flowing like the water, pouring out of him, and knew he was as powerless to stop it as he was to stop the water. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Standing near him, the dog whined in anxious concern, rubbed its head against his knee, trying to get his attention.

Haplo would have reached down to pet the animal, but reaching took too much effort.

“Go away,” he told the dog.

Hurt, the animal wandered over to Jarre, curled up unhappily at her feet. Haplo leaned over the rail, watched the water.

“I’m sorry, Limbeck. I understand, now.”

The words came to Haplo through the dog’s ears.

Jarre stood some distance away from him, staring in awe at the coralite isle floating in the pearl-blue sky. The busy port town’s streets were filled with people. Small, neat houses lined the coralite cliffs. Wagons trundled down the streets, formed a row, each farmer waiting patiently for his or her share of water. The elves laughed and visited together, their children played and ran in the sunshine and open air.

Jarre’s eyes filled with tears.

“We could live here. Our people would be happy here. It might take some time—”

“Not as long as you think,” said Sang-drax. The elf walked in casual, leisurely fashion along the deck. The dog sat up, growled.

“Listen,” Haplo silently instructed it, though he wondered why he bothered.

“Once colonies of dwarves used to live on these isles. That was long ago,” the serpent-elf added, with a shrug of his slender shoulders, “but they prospered, at least so legend has it.”

“Unfortunately, the Gegs’ lack of magical talent proved your undoing. The elves forced the dwarves to leave the Mid Realm, shipped your people down to Drevlin, to work with the others already serving the Kicksey-winsey. Once you were gone, the elves took over your homes and lands.”

Sang-drax extended an elegant, shapely hand, pointed. “See that cluster of houses, the ones that burrow into the hillside? Dwarven-built. Who knows how old? And still standing. Those are the fronts of warrens that run far back into the hills. They are snug, dry. Your people found a way of sealing up the coralite,[40] to keep the rainwater from dripping through. The elves use the houses now for storage.”

Jarre examined the dwellings, barely visible on the distant hillside. “We could return, move in. This wealth, this paradise that should have been ours, could be ours again!”

“Why, so it could,” Sang-drax agreed, lounging against the rail. “If and when you Gegs develop an army large enough to push us elves off this isle. That’s what it would take, you know. Do you honestly think we’d let your kind live among us again?”

Jarre’s small hands clenched the slats of the rail. She was too short to see over the top, was forced to peer out between the bars. “Why torment me like this?” she demanded, her voice cold and tight. “I hate you enough already.” Haplo stood on the deck, watched the water flow, heard the words flow around him, and thought that it all amounted to pretty much the same: nothing. He noticed, as a matter of idle curiosity, that his magical defenses no longer reacted when Sang-drax was around. Haplo wasn’t reacting to anything. But deep inside, some part of him fought against his prison, struggled to break loose. And he knew that if he could only find the energy, he’d be able to free that part of him and then he could... he could... ...watch the water flow. Except that now the water had stopped flowing. The holding tanks were only about half full.

“You talk of hate,” Sang-drax was saying to Jarre. “Look down there. Do you know what is going on?”

“No,” Jarre said. “And I don’t care.”

The line of wagons, loaded with barrels, had begun moving past the storage tanks. But after the first few had gone by, the farmers pulled to a halt, began to shout angrily. Word spread rapidly, and soon a mob was milling about the holding tanks, fists raised.

“Our people have just been told that their water is being rationed. From now on, very little water will be coming from Drevlin. They’ve been told that you Gegs have shut off the supply.”

“But that’s not true!” Jarre cried, speaking before she thought.

“It isn’t?” Sang-drax said, interested.

Undoubtedly interested.

Haplo was roused from his lethargy. Listening through the dog, the Patryn glanced at the serpent-elf sharply.

Jarre stared at the water in the tanks. Her face hardened. She scowled, said nothing more.

“I think you’re lying,” said Sang-drax, after a moment’s pause. “I think you’d better hope you’re lying, my dear.”

Turning, he strolled off. The elves on board ship, their mission completed, were herding the human slaves back to the galley. Elven guards arrived to march Patryn, dwarf, and dog back to their quarters. Jarre clung to the bars, taking one last, long look, her eyes fixed on the tumbledown buildings on the hillside. The elves were forced to wrench her hands loose, practically had to drag her below.

Haplo grinned sourly, shook his head. Built by dwarves! Centuries old. What a crock. She believes it, though. And she hates. Yes, Jarre is beginning to hate in earnest. Can’t get enough hate, can you, Sang-drax?

Haplo drifted along, going docilely where he was led. What did it matter where? His cell was always around him. The dog left Jarre, returned to its master’s side, growled at any elf who came too close.

But Haplo had learned something. The serpents didn’t know the truth about the Kicksey-winsey. They assumed the dwarves had shut it down. And that was good, he supposed, although what difference it might make was beyond him to figure out.

Yes, good for him. Good for Bane, who would be able to get the machine up and running. Good for the dwarves and for Limbeck.

But not, probably, good for Jarre.

That was the only incident worthy of note during the entire voyage, except for one last conversation with Sang-drax, shortly before the dragonship arrived in the imperial capital.

Once they left Tolthom (after beating off the angry mob, who discovered that there was more water on board, bound for the main continent), the trip to Aristagon was completed rapidly. The human galley slaves were worked to the point of exhaustion, at which point they were flogged and ordered to work some more. The dragonship was alone in Deepsky, an easy target.

Only a year before, lumbering, water-laden dragonships such as these would have been escorted by a fleet of small warships. Built along the same lines as the larger dragonships, the warships were able to maneuver quickly in the air and carried various pyrotechnic magicks designed to battle human raiders. But not anymore. Now the dragonships were on their own.

The emperor’s official public position was that the humans had become such a weak threat that escorts were no longer necessary.

“The truth of the matter,” Sang-drax informed Haplo on the final night of their voyage, “is that the armies of the Tribus elves are spread too thin. The warships are being used to keep Prince Rees’ahn and his rebels bottled up in the Kirikai Out-lands. So far, it’s working. Rees’ahn hasn’t a dragonship to his name. But if he allies with King Stephen, Rees’ahn will have dragons, enough to launch an all-out invasion. So the warships are not only keeping Rees’ahn in, they’re busy keeping Stephen out.”

“What’s stopped them from allying before this?” Haplo asked churlishly. He detested talking to the serpent-elf, but he was forced to do so in order to find out what was going on.

Sang-drax grinned. He knew Haplo’s dilemma, and reveled in it. “Old fears, old mistrust, old hatred, old prejudices. Flames that are easy to kindle, hard to douse.”

“And you serpents are busy fanning them.”

“Naturally. We have people working for both sides. Or should I say against both sides. But I don’t mind telling you that it’s been difficult and that we are not easy in our minds. One reason we appreciate Bane. A remarkably clever child. A credit to his father. And I don’t mean Stephen.”

“Why? What has Bane got to do with it? You must know that rigmarole he told you in the tunnel was a pack of lies.” Haplo was uneasy. Had Bane said anything to Sang-drax about the Kicksey-winsey?

“Oh, yes, we know he’s lying. But others don’t. Nor will they.”

“My lord has taken a fancy to the child,” Haplo warned quietly. “He won’t like it if anything happens to Bane.”

“Implying that we might do something to harm him. I assure you, Patryn, that we will guard this human child with as much care as if he were one of our own hatchlings. It’s all been his idea, you see. And we find that you mortal beings work much more efficiently when your own greed and ambition fuel the engine.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Come, come. Life must hold a few surprises, master. I wouldn’t want you to grow bored.”

The following morning, the dragonship landed in Paxaria, whose name means Land of Peaceful Souls.

Anciently, the Paxaria (Souls at Peace) were the dominating clan in the elven realms.

The founder of the clan, according to elven legend, was Paxar Kethin, who purportedly “fell from the firmament” when he was a baby and landed in a beautiful valley, from which he took his name. Minutes were to him as years. He grew to manhood on the spot and determined that he would found a great city here, having seen the three riverbeds and the Everwell in a vision while still in his mother’s womb.

Each clan on Aristagon has a similar story, differing in almost all points with one exception. All elves believe that they “came from above,” which is, essentially, the truth. The Sartan, on first arriving in the World of Sky, settled the mensch in the High Realms while they worked to build the Kicksey-winsey and waited for the signal from the other worlds. This signal was, of course, a long time coming. The Sartan were forced to resettle the mensch—whose populations were growing rapidly—to the Mid and Low realms. In order to bring water to the mensch (until the Kicksey-winsey could be made to work), they built the Everwell.

The Sartan constructed three huge towers at Fendi, Gonster, and Templar. These rune-covered towers, working through Sartan magic, collect rainwater, store it, and parcel it out on a controlled basis. Once every month, the three towers open their floodgates and send three rivers of water cascading down channels cut into the coralite, channels that have been magically sealed to keep the water from seeping away into the porous material.

The rivers converge at a central point, forming the shape of a Y, and plummet in a magnificent fall down into the Everwell—an underground cavern lined with rock brought from the Ancient Earth. A fountain called “Wal’eed” gushes from the center, providing water to all who need it.

This system was designed to be temporary, was intended to provide water to a small populace. But the mensch populations grew, and the Sartan population dwindled. The water supply—once so plentiful no one thought of conserving it—was now counted almost drop by drop.

Following the War of the Firmament,[41] the Paxar elves, reinforced by the Kenkari, emerged as strongest of the clans. They claimed the Everwell, set guards over the Wal’eed fountain, and built their king’s palace around the site.

The Paxar continued to share water with the other elven clans and even the humans, who had once lived on Aristagon, but who had moved to Volkaran and Ulyndia. The Paxar never cut the water off, never charged for it. Paxar rule was benevolent and well-intentioned, if patronizing. But the threat to disrupt vital water supplies was omnipresent.

The hot-blooded Tribus clan considered it demeaning and humiliating to be forced to beg—as they considered it—for water. They were not pleased at having to share water with humans, either. This dispute eventually resulted in the Brother-blood, a war between the Tribus and the Paxar elves that lasted three years and resulted in the Tribus clan taking over Paxaria.

The final blow came to the Paxar when the Kenkari, self-proclaimed neutrals in the conflict, secretly threw the support of the elven souls, held in the Cathedral of the Albedo, to the Tribus. (The Kenkari have always denied that they did this. They insist that they remained neutral, but no one, particularly the Paxar, believes them.)

The Tribus razed the Paxar king’s palace and built a larger one on the site of the Everwell. Known as the Imperanon, it is almost a small city within itself. It includes the Palace, the Sanctuary Parks, used exclusively by the royal family, the Cathedral of the Albedo, and, below ground, the Halls of the Unseen.

Once a month, the towers built by the Sartan sent forth life-giving water. But now the Tribus controlled it. Other elven clans were forced to pay a tax, supposedly for upkeep and maintenance costs. The humans were denied water altogether. Tribus coffers were getting rich. Other elven clans, angered at the tax, sought their own supplies of water and found them, down below, in Drevlin.

The other clans, particularly the Tretar, who invented the famous dragonships, began to prosper. Tribus might have withered on its own vine, but, fortunately for them, desperate humans began to attack the dragonships, steal the water. Faced with this threat, the various elven clans forgot old differences, banded together, and formed the Tribus empire, whose heart is the Imperanon. The war against the humans was going well for the elves. They were near victory. Then their charismatic and most skilled military general, Prince Rees’ahn, fell under the influence (some say the magic) of a song sung by a black-skinned human known as Ravenlark. This song made the elves remember the ideals of Paxar Kethin and Krenka-Anris. Elves who hear this song see truth, see the corrupt, dark heart of the dictatorial Tribus empire, and know that it means the destruction of their world.

Now, the towers of the Sartan continue to send forth water, but armed elves stand guard along its route. Rumor has it that large parties of human slaves and captured elven rebels are building secret aqueducts that lead from the rivers directly into the Imperanon. Every month, the water flowing from the towers is less than the amount that flowed last month. The elven wizards, who have studied the towers at length, report that for some unknown reason, their magic is starting to fail.

And none knows how to save it.