Into the Labyrinth (22 page)

The dwarves could be seen swarming out of their homes, hugging each other and whatever parts of the machine they could conveniently hug. The scrift-bosses appeared in their midst and immediately began bossing, which was what they were supposed to do, so no one minded. All the dwarves went back to work, just as they had before.

The metal man was working, too, the mensch taking care to keep out of its way. What it was doing, no one had any idea, when suddenly Limbeck pointed to one of the eyeballs.

“The Liftalofts!”

The storm clouds roiled and swirled around the circle of the nine huge arms, forming a hole through which the sun shone on a waterspout, which was no longer working.

In the old days, the spout had funneled the water collected from the Maelstrom into a water pipe lowered from Aristagon. Elves had seized control of the pipe, and of the life-giving water, thus bringing about the first of many wars. But when the Kicksey-winsey had ceased to work, the waterspout had no longer functioned—for anybody.

Would it begin working now?

“According to this,” said Jarre, reading from the book, “some of the water harvested from the storm will be heated until it turns to steam and hot water; then that steam and hot water will shoot up into the sky …”

Slowly the nine hands attached to the nine arms rose
straight up in the air. Each hand opened, its metal palm lifted to the sun. Then each hand seemed to catch hold of something, like an invisible string attached to an invisible kite, and began the motion of pulling the string, pulling the kite.

Above, in the Mid Realms and the High, the continents shuddered, moved, began slowly to shift their positions.

And suddenly a sparkling geyser of water burst out of the waterspout. Higher it rose, higher and higher, clouds of steam billowing around it, obscuring it from view.

“It’s starting,” said Trian softly, reverently.

VOLKARAN ISLES
ARIANUS

K
ING STEPHEN STOOD ON THE BATTLEGROUND OF SEVEN FIELDS
, outside his royal pavilion, watching and waiting for what many in his realm believed would be the end of the world. His wife, Queen Anne, stood beside him, their baby daughter safe in her arms.

“I felt something that time,” Stephen said, peering down at the ground below his feet.

“You keep saying that,” Anne told him with fond exasperation. “
I
didn’t feel anything.”

Stephen grunted but didn’t argue. The two of them had decided to cease the constant bickering that had been all for show anyway. Now they publicly revealed their love for each other. It had been quite amusing, those first few weeks after the peace treaty with the elves had been signed, to watch the various factions, who had supposed they were playing the king and queen off each other, flop about in confusion.

A few barons were trying to stir up trouble and succeeding, in large part because most humans still distrusted the elves and had grave reservations about peace among the races. Stephen kept quiet, bided his time. He was wise enough to know that hatred was a weed that would not wilt just because the sun was shining on it. Patience would be needed to uproot it. With luck and care, his daughter might live to see the weed die. Stephen knew he probably would not.

Still, he had done what he could to help. He was pleased. And if this crazy machine of the dwarves worked, so much the better. If not, well, he and Rees’ahn and the dwarf—what was his name? Bolt-something—would find a way.

A sudden hubbub from the shoreline attracted Stephen’s attention. The King’s Own were posted on watch, and now most of them were peering cautiously over the edge of the floating island, exclaiming and pointing.

“What the devil—” Stephen started forward to see for himself what was going on, and ran into a messenger coming to report.

“Your Majesty!” The messenger was a young page, so excited he bit his tongue trying to speak his piece. “W-w-water!”

Stephen had no need to move another step, for now he could see … and feel. A drop of water on his cheek. He stared in wonder. Anne, next to him, gripped his arm.

A fountain of water shot up past the island, soaring high into the sky. Stephen craned his neck, nearly fell over backward trying to see. The geyser ascended to a height that the king guessed must be somewhere below the Firmament, then cascaded downward in a sparkling shower like a gentle spring rain.

Steaming hot when it burst up out of Drevlin, the water was cooled by the air through which it passed, still more by the cold air near the ice floes that formed the Firmament. It was tepid when it hit the upturned faces of the humans, who stared in awe at the miracle showering down around them.

“It’s … beautiful!” Anne whispered.

Solarus’s bright rays burst through the clouds and struck the cascading water, transforming the transparent curtain into shining bands of color. Rings of rainbow hue surrounded the geyser. Droplets of water glittered and glistened, began to gather in the sagging tops of the tents. The baby laughed until a drop hit her squarely in the nose; then she wailed in dismay.

“I’m positive I felt the ground move that time!” Stephen said, wringing water from his beard.

“Yes, dear,” said Anne patiently. “I’m going to take the baby inside before she catches her death.”

Stephen stayed outside, reveling in the deluge, until he
was soaking wet to his skin and then some. He laughed to see the peasants rushing around with buckets, determined to catch every drop of the commodity that was so precious it had become the monetary standard in human lands (one barl equaled one barrel of water). Stephen could have told them they were wasting their time. The water would fall and keep on falling without end, so long as the Kicksey-winsey kept working. And knowing the energetic dwarves, that would be forever.

He wandered for hours around the battlefield, which had now become a symbol of peace, for it was here that he and Rees’ahn had signed the peace accord. A dragon flashed down through the water, its wet wings shining in the sunlight. Coming to rest on the ground, it shook itself all over, appearing to enjoy its shower.

Stephen squinted against the sunlight, trying to see the rider. A female, to judge by the clothing. The King’s Own were giving her respectful escort.

And then he knew her. Lady Iridal.

Stephen frowned, resentful. Why the devil was she here? Did she have to ruin this wonderful day? At the best of times, she made him damned uncomfortable. Now, since she’d been forced to kill her own son to save the king’s life, Stephen felt even worse. He glanced longingly toward his tent, hoping Anne would come to his rescue. The tent flap not only remained closed, but a hand could be seen popping out, tying it shut.

Queen Anne wanted even less to do with the Lady Iridal than the king.

Lady Iridal was a mysteriarch, one of the most powerful magi in the land. Stephen had to be polite. He splashed through the puddles to meet her.

“My Lady,” he said gruffly, giving her his wet hand.

Iridal took it coolly. She was extremely pale, but composed. She kept the hood of her cape over her head, protecting herself from the water. Her eyes, which had once shone as brightly as the rainbows in the water, were now gray, clouded with a sorrow that would remain with her until she died. But she seemed at peace both with herself and with the tragic circumstances of her life. Stephen still felt uncomfortable around her, but now the feeling was one of sympathy, no longer guilt.

“I bring you news, Your Majesty,” said Iridal when the
polite formalities and exchange of wonderments over the water were finished. “I have been with the Kenkari on Aristagon. They sent me to tell you that the Imperanon has fallen.”

“Is the emperor dead?” Stephen asked eagerly.

“No, Sire. No one is quite certain what happened, but from all indications, Agah’rahn disguised himself in the magical garments of the Unseen and, with their aid, managed to slip away in the night. When his people discovered that the emperor had fled, leaving them to die alone, they surrendered peacefully to Prince Rees’ahn.”

“That is welcome news, My Lady. I know the prince was loath to have to kill his own father. Still, it is a shame Agah’rahn escaped. He could yet cause mischief.”

“There is much in this world that will yet cause mischief,” Iridal said, sighing. “And always will. Not even this miracle of water can wash it away.”

“Yet perhaps now we are armored against it,” Stephen told her, smiling. “There!” He stamped his foot. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what, Sire?”

“The ground shake. This island is moving, I tell you! Just as the book promised.”

“If so, Your Majesty, I doubt you could feel it. According to the book, the movement of the isles and continents would take place very, very slowly. Many cycles will go by before all are in their proper alignment.”

Stephen said nothing; the last thing he wanted to do was argue with a mysteriarch. He was convinced he had felt the ground move. He was certain of it. Book or no book.

“What will you do now, Lady Iridal?” he asked, changing the subject. “Will you return to the High Realms?”

He was immediately uncomfortable asking this question, wished he hadn’t thought of it. Her son was buried up there, as was her husband.

“No, Your Majesty.” Iridal grew paler, but answered him quite calmly. “The High Realms are dead. The shell that protected them has cracked. The sun parches the land; the air is too hot to breathe.”

“I’m sorry, Lady,” was all Stephen could think of to say.

“Do not be sorry, Your Majesty. It is better this way.
As for me, I am going to serve as a liaison between the mysteriarchs and the Kenkari. We are going to pool our magical talents and learn from each other, to the benefit of all.”

“Excellent!” said Stephen heartily. Let the blasted wizards keep to themselves, leave decent people alone. He’d never really trusted any of them.

Iridal smiled slightly at his enthusiasm. Undoubtedly she guessed what he was thinking, but was polite enough to say nothing. Now it was she who changed the subject. “You have just returned from Drevlin, haven’t you, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, Lady. Her Majesty and I were there with the prince, looking things over.”

“Did you, by chance, see the assassin, Hugh the Hand?” A crimson stain spread over Iridal’s cheeks when she spoke the name.

Stephen scowled. “No, thank the ancestors. Why would I? What would he be doing down there? Unless he has another contract—”

Iridal’s flush deepened. “The Kenkari …” she began, then bit her lip, fell silent.

“Who’s he supposed to kill?” Stephen asked grimly. “Me or Rees’ahn?”

“No … please … I … must have been mistaken.” She looked alarmed. “Don’t say anything …”

Making him a low curtsy, she drew her hood farther over her face, turned, and hurried back to her dragon. The creature was enjoying its bath and didn’t want to fly. She rested her hand on its neck, said soothing words to it, keeping it under her magical control. The dragon shook its head, flapped its wings, a blissful expression on its face.

Stephen hastened for his tent, planning to reach it before Iridal thought of something else to tell him and came back. Once there, he would inform the guard that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He should probably find out more about the assassin, but he wasn’t going to get the information from her. He’d put Trian on the mystery, when the wizard returned.

As it was, though, Stephen was glad he had spoken to Iridal. The news she brought was good. Now that the elven emperor was gone, Prince Rees’ahn would be able to take over and work for peace. The mysteriarchs would, Stephen
hoped, become so interested in Kenkari magic that they would stay out of his hair. As for this business with Hugh the Hand, perhaps the Kenkari had wanted the assassin out of the way, sent him to his doom in the Maelstrom.

“Trust a bunch of elves to dream up something sneaky like that!” Stephen muttered into his beard. Realizing what he’d said, he glanced around hurriedly to make certain no one had heard.

Yes, prejudice was going to take a long time to die.

On his way to his tent, he took out his purse and dumped all the barls into a puddle.