Haplo was searching for the Liftalofts, nine huge mechanical arms made of gold and steel that thrust up into the swirling storm clouds. These Liftalofts were the most important part of the Kicksey-winsey, at least as far as the mensch on Arianus were concerned, for it was the Liftalofts that provided water to the dry realms above. The Liftalofts were located in the city of Wombe, and it was in Wombe that Haplo hoped to find Limbeck.
Haplo had no idea how the political situation might have changed during his absence, but when he’d last left Arianus, Limbeck had made Wombe his power base. It was necessary that Haplo find the leader of the dwarves, and he judged that Wombe would be as good a place to start searching as any.
The nine arms, each with an outstretched golden hand, were easy to spot from the air. The storm had died down, though more clouds were massing on the horizon. Lightning reflected off the metal, the frozen hands were silhouetted against the clouds. Haplo landed on a patch of empty ground, bringing the ship down in the shadow of an apparently abandoned portion of the machine. At least he assumed it was abandoned, no light shone from it, no gears were grinding, no wheels turning, no “lectricity,” as the Gegs termed it, was rivaling the lightning with its blue-yellow voltage.
Once safely on the ground, Haplo noticed that there were no lights anywhere. Puzzled, he peered out the rain-streaked window. As he recalled, the Kicksey-winsey turned the storm-ridden darkness of Drevlin into artificial, perpetual day. Glimmerglamps shone everywhere, ‘lectric zingers sent jagged bolts sparking into the air.
Now, the city and its surroundings were lit only by the light of the sun, which, by the time it had been filtered down through the clouds of the Maelstrom, was leaden and sullen and more depressing than darkness.
Haplo stood staring out the window, recalling his last visit here, trying to remember if there had been lights on this part of the Kicksey-winsey, or if he was, in fact, thinking about another portion of the great machine.
“Maybe that was in Het,” he muttered, then shook his head. “No, it was here. I definitely remember—”
A thump and a warning bark jolted him out of his reverie.
Haplo walked back to the ship’s stern. Bane was standing beside the hatch, holding a sausage just out of the dog’s reach.
“You can have this,” he was promising the dog, “but only if you quit barking. Let me get this open. All right? Good dog.”
Bane shoved the sausage in a pocket, turned to the hatch, and began to fumble with the sliding latch that would, ordinarily, have opened the door.
The latch remained stuck firmly in place. Bane glared at it, beat on it with his small fists. The dog kept its eyes fixed intently on the sausage.
“Going somewhere, Your Highness?” Haplo asked, leaning casualty against one of the bulkheads. He had decided, in the interests of portraying Bane as rightful heir to the Volkaran throne, to use the title due to a human prince. He supposed he might as well get used to it now, before they appeared in public. Of course, he’d have to blunt the ironic edge.
Bane glanced reproachfully at the dog, gave the recalcitrant latch one final, futile push with his hands, then looked up coolly at Haplo.
“I want to go outside. It’s hot and stuffy in here. And it smells of dog,” he added scornfully.
The animal, hearing its name and thinking it was being referred to in a friendly manner—perhaps in regard to the sausage—wagged its tail and licked its chops.
“You used magic on it, didn’t you,” Bane continued accusingly, giving the latch another push.
“The same magic I’ve used throughout the ship, Your Highness. I had to. It wouldn’t do to let one part remain unprotected, just as it wouldn’t do to ride to battle with a gaping hole in your armor. Besides, I don’t think you want to go outside just yet. There’s another storm coming. You remember the storms on Drevlin, don’t you?”
“I remember. I can see when a storm’s coming, same as you. And I wouldn’t have stayed out that long. I wasn’t going that far.”
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