“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.
CHAPTER 13
WOMBE, DREVLIN, LOW REALM
THE GEGS, A VERY GENTLE AND GOOD-NATURED PEOPLE, HAD NEVER, IN THEIR ENTIRE history (that they could remember), been to war. Taking another Geg’s life was unheard-of, undreamt-of, unthinkable. Only the Kicksey-Winsey had the right to kill a Geg, and that was generally by accident. And, although the Gegs had execution down on their lawbooks as a punishment for certain terrible crimes, they couldn’t ever bring themselves to actually put another one of their fellows to death. Therefore they dumped it in the laps of the Mangers, who weren’t around to protest. If the Mangers wanted the condemned to live, they’d see to it that he lived. If they didn’t, he didn’t.