Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“But couldn’t you have stopped him, legal or not? The man was your brother. Couldn’t he see what he was doing to the girl?”

“Feller-me-lad, emomen have their own code, their own set o’ morals. ’Cording to his way of thinkin’, he wasn’t doing a thing to her. She was doin’ it to herself. Commonwealth law sides with him. Emomen’s drugs have never proven addictive, not like something such as bloodhype, say. They’re big on legality. Not morality.”

“How can you act legally and not morally?” Ethan wanted to know.

September laughed, looking with pity at his young friend. “Feller-me-lad, you don’t know much about government, do you? Or law.”

“Government—that reminds me.” Ethan hastened to change the subject. He’d tunneled too deeply into another’s soul and had entered hollows he now wished he’d stayed out of. “How are we going to make our discoveries known to proper Commonwealth authorities without letting anyone cover them up?”

“So you’re finally as suspicious of Trell as I am, feller-me-lad?”

“Almost.”

“Good enough. Never trust an official who smiles that much.”

“He knows everything that happens in Brass Monkey. We need someone who can command a closed beam for off-world transmission.”

“Isn’t—anyone,” September grunted. He seemed hard at work on the problem, having already forgotten the moody discourse of moments ago. “Wait now.” He rose, towered over Ethan. “Ought to be one office that can send closed messages.”

“Don’t keep me guessing, Skua. Trell’s Commissioner, and he can—”

“Think a second, feller-me-lad. Brass Monkey’s large enough to rate a padre.”

Being only ah occasional church-goer, and less religious than most, Ethan hadn’t thought of the local representative of the United Church. No one, least of all a comparatively minor functionary like Trell, would dare tamper with a sealed Church communication.

“Now that that little gully’s crossed, let’s go back and see if we can’t help put our ship back together, eh, young feller-me-lad?”

They left the shore and headed toward the icerigger. The fifth and final duralloy runner, the steering skate, was being hoisted into place at her stern. Ethan snatched a surreptitious glance at his companion. The patina of indestructible confidence had returned to his expression, only slightly tarnished.

Skua September had turned out to be as vulnerable as any human. His huge frame simply gave him greater depths in which to hide his passions.

With typical lack of formality, the Moulokinese prepared no noisy demonstration to greet the return of the Slanderscree. The townsfolk went about their everyday business and the shipwrights who’d helped replace wheels with runners returned to their yards. Officially, the sole ceremony consisted of minister Mirmib and two aides meeting them at dockside.

“Landgrave Lady K’ferr Shri-Vehm bids you welcome again to Moulokin, my friends. Our breath is your warmth.

“There will be a feast tonight to celebrate your unexpected but nonetheless welcome return, at which time you may further enlarge on this wondrous history you have made for us.”

“Wondrous isn’t the word,” Ethan addressed the minister. “Significant would be better. Among other things, it shows that your new confederation isn’t as far-fetched as we first thought, because all Tran once lived within a far stronger union.”

“A union repeatedly scattered by weather stranger than I can believe, or so go the rumors our shipwrights have told me,” Mirmib replied.

As it developed, the feast of the night extended in various incarnations for several days, during which time the crew enjoyed the hospitality of Moulokin. Their tales engendered considerable, lively speculation and discussion among the townspeople. Some of the stories lined up neatly with local religions, which grew at once stronger for the confirmation and weaker for the reality of it.

When it was adjudged time for the Slanderscree to embark on its circuitous return to Arsudun, the Moulokinese finally abandoned their casual reserve. They took leave of their work to crowd around the harbor and voice enthusiastic, spontaneous wishes for the safe journey and good wind of their new friends and allies. With the last shouts of the watch patrolling the outer gate adding to the wind pouring down the canyon, the icerigger raced out onto the frozen sea.

Instead of paralleling the cliffs, Ta-hoding set a course northward. They would cross the endless pressure ridge of ice at a different point, to avoid possible confrontation with any lingering Poyolavomaar forces that might be guarding their first passageway through that broken, jumbled barrier.

Ethan stood on the helmdeck, watching the canyon that concealed Moulokin recede behind them. Ta-hoding animatedly waddled around the great wheel, happy as a pup. His steersmen also looked pleased at nothing in particular.

When asked to explain his beatific expression, the captain replied, “Why should we not be happy, friend Ethan? We sail with smooth, clean ice beneath us instead of unpredictable rock and dirt. I know now that if I order the mastmen to port a spar one jahn, the Slanderscree will react precisely so,” and he outlined air with a sweeping motion of one long arm.

“No longer need we guess at the results of our maneuvers. No more must I…”

“Below the deck!” came a shout from the mainmast lookout. “Sail five kijat to port!”

“Must be a merchantman, headed for the city.” Ta-hoding strained to look in the indicated direction. The horizon remained uninterrupted.

“Below the deck!” A note of urgency in the lookout’s yell sent idle sailors chivaning to the rail. “Four sails more traveling with the first… no, five! More still!”

“Do you suppose, friend Ethan…” A worried Ta-hoding let the sentence trail off. His jovial manner had faded.

Dan spread wide, Hunnar came shooting onto the helmdeck via one of the ice ramps leading up from the main deck. He dropped his arms and dan, lost speed, and braked in a shower of ice, then skated impatiently to join the captain and Ethan.

“Turn about, Captain.” His tone was grim. “They could be an unusually large group of merchants traveling together for protection, but we’d best not take chances.”

As if to confirm their worst suspicions, the lookout sounded again. “Eight, nine… I count at least fifteen sails, possibly more!”

“Must be the Poyolavomaar fleet. So they haven’t given up. They’ve waited all this time, hoping we’d return. Damn!”

“The girl Teeliam was right.” Hunnar’s gaze was fixed on the portside horizon. “Who should better know a madman’s desires than one who was subject to them? Turn about, Captain.”

But Ta-hoding had already begun unleashing a river of commands to all within earshot. When he concluded, he returned to stare in the same direction as Hunnar and Ethan.

“’Tis difficult to say what may happen.” The plump captain looked concerned. “We cannot swing to starboard, for it would take us into the cliffs. To make headway against the canyon winds, we need the westwind behind us. Yet they are already positioned to make use of it themselves. We have no choice but to swing toward them, catch the westwind on our starboard side, and swing back to Moulokin.” He stared up at Hunnar. “We may run into their point rafts before we can swing ’round to the west again.”

“Take care of your ship, captain friend. I will take care of other considerations.” Hunnar raised his arm and slid back toward the main deck, already organizing in his mind ways to repel potential boarders.

Off-watch crew came pouring onto the deck. Some of the sailors were buckling on swords and armor while double eyelids blinked away sleep.