Haplo had traveled this route once before, the last time they’d sneaked into the Factree. He could not have remembered the way, however, and was glad to have a guide. Time and wonders witnessed on other worlds had blurred the wonder of the Kicksey-winsey. His awe returned at the sight of it, however; awe tinged now with a sense of unease and disquiet, as if he were in the presence of a corpse. He remembered the great machine pounding with life: Mectric zingers zapping, whirly-wheels whirling, iron hands smashing and molding, dig claws digging. All still now. All silent.
The tunnels led him past the machine, beneath it, over it, around it, through it. And the thought came to him suddenly that he’d been wrong. The Kicksey-winsey wasn’t a corpse. The machine was not dead.
“It’s waiting,” said Bane.
“Yes,” said Haplo. “I think you’re right.”
The boy edged nearer, looking at him through narrowed eyes. “Tell me what you know about the Kicksey-winsey.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“But you said there was another explanation—”
“I said there could be. That’s all.” He shrugged. “Call it a guess, a hunch.”
“You won’t tell me.”
“We’ll see if my guess is right when we get there, Your Highness.”
“Grandfather put me in charge of the machine!” Bane reminded him, scowling. “You’re only here to protect me.”
“And I intend to do just that, Your Highness,” Haplo replied.
Bane darted him a sullen, sidelong glance, but said nothing. He knew it would be useless to argue. Eventually, however, the boy either forgot his grievance or decided it wasn’t suited to his dignity to be caught sulking. Leaving Haplo’s side, Bane ran up to walk with Limbeck. Haplo sent the dog along, to keep an ear on both of them.
As it was, the dog heard nothing interesting. In fact, it heard very little at all. The sight of the Kicksey-winsey motionless and quiet had a depressing effect on all of them. Limbeck stared at it through his spectacles, his face grim and hard. Jarre regarded the machine she had once attacked with fond sadness. Coming to a part she had worked on, she would sidle close and give it a comforting pat, as though it were a sick child.
They passed numerous dwarves standing about in enforced idleness, looking helpless and frightened and forlorn. Most had been coming to their work every day since the machine quit running, though there was now no work to do.
At first they’d been confident that this was all a mistake, a fluke, a slipped cog of monumental proportions. The dwarves sat or stood about in the darkness, lit by whatever source of light they could manufacture, and watched the Kicksey-winsey expectantly, waiting for it to roar to life again. When their shift ended, the dwarves went home and another shift took their place. But by now, hope was beginning to dim.
“Go home,” Limbeck kept telling them as they walked along. “Go to your homes and wait. You’re only wasting light.”
Some of the dwarves left. Some of the dwarves stayed. Some left, then came back. Others stayed, then left.
“We can’t go on like this,” said Limbeck.
“Yes, you’re right,” said Jarre, for once agreeing with him. “Something terrible will happen.”
“A judgment!” called out a deep and ragged voice from the too-quiet darkness. “A judgment, that’s what it is! You’ve brought the wrath of the gods upon us, Limbeck Bolttightner! I say we go to the Welves and surrender. Tell the gods we’re sorry. Maybe they’ll turn the Kicksey-winsey back on.”
“Yes,” muttered other voices, safely hidden by the shadows. “We want everything back the way it was.”
“There, what did I tell you?” Limbeck demanded of Jarre. “This kind of talk is spreading.”
“They surely can’t believe the elves are gods?” Jarre protested, glancing behind her to the whispering shadows, her face drawn in concern. “We’ve seen them die!”
“They don’t,” Limbeck answered gloomily. “But they’ll be ready enough to swear they do if it means heat and light and the Kicksey-winsey working once again.”
“Death to the High Froman!” came the whispers.
“Give him to the Welves!”
“Here’s a bolt for you to tighten, Bolttightner.”