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.
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