Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [141]
Surrounding the catapults, over the catapults, under the catapults, and through the catapults were strung miles and miles of rope which operated a crazed assortment of gears and wheels and pulleys, all turning and squeaking and cranking. Out of the floor, out of the machines themselves, and thrusting out from the sides of the walls were huge levers which scores of gnomes were either pushing or pulling or sometimes both at once.
“I don’t suppose,” Fizban asked in a hopeless tone, “that the Examination Room would be on the ground level?”
Gnosh shook his head. “Examination Room on level fifteen—”
The old mage heaved a heart-rending sigh.
Suddenly there was a horrible grinding sound that set Tas’s teeth on edge.
“Ah, they’re ready for us. Come along,” Gnosh said.
Tas leaped after him gleefully as they approached a giant catapult. A gnome gestured at them irritably, pointing to a long line of gnomes waiting their turn. Tas jumped into the seat of the huge sling catapult, staring eagerly up into the shaft. Above him, he could see gnomes peering down at him from various balconies, all of them surrounded by great machines, whistles, ropes, and huge, shapeless things hanging from the sides of the wall like bats. Gnosh stood beside him, scolding.
“Elders first, young man, so get out of there this instant and let”—he dragged Tasslehoff out of the seat with remarkable strength—“the magic user go first—”
“Uh, that’s quite all right,” Fizban protested, stumbling backward into a pile of rope. “I—I seem to recall a spell of mine that will take me right to the top. Levitate. How did that g-go? Just give me a moment.”
“You were the one in a hurry—” Gnosh said severely, glaring at Fizban. The gnomes standing in line began to shout rudely, pushing and shoving and jostling.
“Oh, very well,” the old mage snarled, and he climbed into the seat, with Gnosh’s help.
The gnome operating the lever that launched the catapult yelled something at Gnosh which sounded like “whalevel?”
Gnosh pointed up, yelling back. “Skimbosh!”
The chief walked over to stand in front of the first of a series of five levers. An inordinate number of ropes stretched upward into infinity. Fizban sat miserably in the seat of the catapult, still trying to recall his spell.
“Now,” yelled Gnosh, drawing Tas closer so he could have the advantage of an excellent view, “in just a moment, the chief will give the signal—yes, there it is—”
The chief pulled on one of the ropes.
“What does that do?” Tas interrupted.
“The rope rings a bell on Skimbosh, er, level fifteen, telling them to expect an arrival—”
“What if the bell doesn’t ring?” Fizban demanded loudly.
“Then a second bell rings telling them that the first bell didn’t—”
“What happens down here if the bell didn’t ring?”
“Nothing. It’s Skimbosh’sproblemnotyours—”
“It’s my problem if they don’t know I’m coming!” Fizban shouted. “Or do I just drop in and surprise them!”
“Ah,” Gnosh said proudly, “you see—”
“I’m getting out …” stated Fizban.
“No, wait,” Gnosh said, talking faster and faster in his anguish, “they’re ready—”
“Who’s ready?” Fizban demanded irritably.
“Skimbosh! With the net to catch you, you see—”
“Net!” Fizban turned pale. “That does it!” He flung a foot over the edge.
But before he could move, the chief reached out and pulled on the first lever. The grinding sound started again as the catapult began pivoting in its mooring. The sudden motion threw Fizban back, knocking his hat over his eyes.
“What’s happening?” Tas shouted.
“They’re getting him in position,” Gnosh yelled. “The longitude and latitude have been precalculated and the catapult set to come into the correct location to send the passenger—”
“What about the net?” Tas yelled.
“The magician flies up to Skimbosh—oh, quite safely, I assure you—we’ve done studies, in fact, proving that flying is safer than walking—and just when he’s at the height of his trajectory, beginning to drop a bit, Skimbosh throws a net out underneath