Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

Or was he? Ethan strained, heard only the rush of wind and sizzle of runner against ice.

September and Hunnar made their way onto the deck. Ethan wondered if his oversized companion had actually watched the procedure. At times he felt a tremendous fondness for the giant, for his easy good humor, his utter disregard for danger and willingness to risk himself for a friend. At other times…

Skua September, he reflected, was kin to the Tran in ways other than physical size. When those ways manifested themselves, they made Ethan and Milliken Williams more than a little uncomfortable. He viewed September’s personality as an apple. The skin of civilization was bright and polished, but very, very thin.

“Well, young feller-me-lad, we’ve learned what needed to be learned.”

“I’m sure you did,” Ethan replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. But he couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Who did the final killing? You, Sir Hunnar?”

The Tran knight looked upset. “I, friend Ethan? I would not break courtesy so! It was not my place, the honor of dispatching one who had gained much merit not rightfully mine. That was left,” he added casually, “to the one most offended in the matter.”

Refusing to allow Ethan to ignore the obvious, September finished with fine, indifferent brutality, “The girl did it. Who else? She wanted to do it slowly,” he continued conversationally, “but Hunnar and Balavere overruled her. Since the captive held out long and bravely, she had to be satisfied with cutting off his—”

Ethan put his hands over his ears beneath the suit, moved them only when September’s mouth stopped moving. He felt sick.

“You didn’t hear,” the giant said gently, “how they treated her.”

“What items of enormous value did you beat out of him?” Ethan muttered disconsolately.

September moved to the railing, looked down at the lightly snow-dusted ice whisking past beneath the ship. “That attack on us was about as accidental and unpremeditated as the one back in the tavern in Arsudun.

“Our prisoner held a rank somewhere between knight and squire. The commander of the fortress was not quite a full knight. They received orders—the prisoner didn’t know exactly when—to assault the Slander-scree as it rounded the island’s southern headland and take it if possible.”

“He did not know,” Hunnar broke in, “who sent the orders. His commander never told him. But when it was mentioned that you and friend September were aboard, human outlanders, there were questions from the common garrison. They had been taught that humans were not to be harmed.”

September, turning from the railing, continued. “For the purposes of this one attack, it seems that that special admonition was to be ignored. Such instructions suggested to our prisoner and to us that the order for the attack came from someone very important and influential, perhaps even the Landgrave of Arsudun. The prisoner refused to believe this.

“I suspect something more than that, feller-me-lad.” The railing groaned with his weight. “The Slanderscree ’s a rich prize for any locals. But for the local Landgrave to countenance the murder of us happy hairless ones, he must feel pretty confident of his position. Matter of fact, he’d have to be almost positive that if the attack failed and word of it got back to Brass Monkey, he wouldn’t be subject to reprisals from the local Commonwealth authorities. Which suggests to me that there’s collusion between this Landgrave and someone mighty important inside the station hierarchy.”

“Trell?”

September considered Ethan’s suggestion uncertainly. “I dunno. He was nice enough to us. I’d think someone immediately below him, maybe even that portmaster Xenaxis. He supervises every kilo of trade. It could be anyone with a stake in maintainin’ the present monopoly on Tran trade.

“What’s important is this means we can’t expect help from anyone in Brass Monkey while we’re outside the station confines. It’s open season until the next Commonwealth ship arrives in orbit. That’s two months away. If we return and report now, we’ll spend two months fending off assassinations in one form or another. Now that we’ve been openly attacked, whoever’s covering for the Landgrave or high Arsudun native official will take steps to cover his tracks.” He glanced down toward the central cabin, where Eer-Meesach and Williams were engaged in frenetic conversation.

“I’d like more discussion, though, before we decide for sure.”

Ethan had to give September that. He wasn’t afraid to ask for another’s opinions, and to change his own if their arguments proved better.

“I think our best bet is to proceed with our original plan and try to get this confederation of island-states started. If we go back to Brass Monkey and present Trell with a fait accompli, I don’t think he or whoever’s behind all this will try anything. No point in killing us when the monopoly’s effectively broken. Leastwise, I hope he’ll be that sensible.”

“Of course, this may all be so much endophin-swill and it may’ve been a local attack pure and simple.” He looked astern, to where the southern cliffs of Arsudun Isle had shrunk to the size of a modest bump on the horizon.

“We would have taken the ship,” the half-angry, half-frightened voice insisted, “were it not for the intervention of the sky-outlanders. They had with them the short knives that fight with pieces of sun.” Disgust colored the voice now.

“Of what use is sword or arrow against weapons that can pierce shields and set rafts afire?”

Calonnin Ro-Vijar slumped against the back of the massively timbered armchair and gazed out the third-floor window of the castle. From here, he could see down across the irregular roofs of the city and out across the harbor, could see up the strait almost to the open ice sea. By moving to another window nearby he could study the strange, smooth buildings of the humans and the three glassy bowls where their tiny vessels touched down out of the sky, vessels which brought riches beyond conception every time one arrived.

Riches now threatened.

He became aware of the other’s waiting stare, turned to face the worried noble who attended on him. They were alone in the Landgrave’s private quarters. This was necessary. The words they exchanged now were too dangerous to be overheard even by the most trusted members of his court. Hence he chose to receive Obel Kasin here and not in the chamber of formal audience.

He knew his continued silence was increasing Kasin’s nervousness. Still he did not speak, but watched the slim noble, noting the bandage across the side of his neck, the ragged tear badly patched in the membrane of his left dan, the bare places on his body where fur had been cut away.

“Be at your ease, noble Kasin. You did the best you could.”

“I am not,” the noble asked unsteadily, “to be punished for my failure?”

“I so promise.” Using both hands to help himself rise, Ro-Vijar then walked to stand next to the window. The glassalloy pane stretched from floor to ceiling and framed him unintentionally. It was larger than any other single piece of glass either made or imported into Arsudun. It was larger than any piece of glass Calonnin had ever heard of or imagined. Yet it was here, in his castle, come down to him from the heavens in one of the humans’ sky-ships. And he had been told and had come to believe that though it was no thicker than his smallest claw, it was stronger than the walls that bordered it.

“As you said,” he finally continued, “we cannot fight with swords and shields against the sky people’s light knives.” He looked back over a shoulder.

“But for all that, we will have that ship, Obel Kasin of Arsudun. One day our flag will fly from its stern and masts and it will stand at the front of the Arsudun fleet.” He did not add that some day in the future even the Slanderscree could be dispensed with. There were dreams he could as yet share with no one.