Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

Yes, alien though he may be, here was a being that was one with him in spirit, Ethan reflected. A race of philosophers with long beards who scorned material wealth might exist in the galaxy—somewhere. Thus far they remained undiscovered.

“I think that’s it,” said September with satisfaction, and it was. Ethan found himself looking forward to the sight of Hunnar’s home.

Hunnar watched the last of the humans clamber aboard. “We are ready then?” He turned to the captain.

“Let out, Ta-hoding! We are aboarded!”

“As your boldness commands,” effused the skipper. “I bask in the light of—”

“I’m not one of your customers, Hoding,” Hunnar barked in reply. “The Landgrave is paying you, so don’t waste any of your flattery on me.” He turned to his first squire.

“Suaxus, take Smjör and report in for us. If the wind blows true, we should follow you by ten tuvits. Make also a report to the Longax and see that the wizard is aroused. If he awaits you not already with slavering tongue. Straight this time, with none of your bloodthirsty embellishments, mind.”

“Done, sir,” acknowledged Suaxus, a trifle coldly, Ethan thought. “Thou canst depend on me.”

Hunnar replied with another of those tight-lipped smiles. He exchanged breath with the other. Although there was no obvious difference in their age, Hunnar seemed to Ethan years the eldest.

“I know I can, Suaxus. Wind with you.”

Suaxus clapped his knight on one shoulder. Then he yelled for Smjör and disappeared over the side of the raft. Leaning over the rail, Ethan could see them streaking off at an angle to the southwest. Soon they’d probably begin tacking back against the wind, eating up the distance to their home.

It was no surprise that a single native could move faster than the bulky raft. He turned away from the wind and rubbed at the ice crystals that had formed on his upper lip.

The raft boasted a single wooden cabin. It rested squat against the back of the single thick mast. A summer day to the locals it might be, but he was just plain cold. Inside, the du Kanes were huddled up against a residual pile of trading goods, well away from the tiny windows.

The purpose of some of the objects in the pile was obvious. And what looked like a small stove had a pipe leading into the flat roof. It wasn’t lit.

Williams was sitting by the door. As usual, Walther had crammed himself into the furthest, darkest corner.

“Well, it’s a long way from first class,” Ethan essayed in a feeble attempt at humor, “but on such short notice…”

Colette just glared back at him. Williams said nothing either. He was totally absorbed in examining the interior of the cabin.

“See?” he said, pointing to a joint in one wall. “They use notched logs and wooden pegs, reinforced in the difficult places with iron and bronze nails. Most of the implements on that stove are bronze, but a few are beaten copper and the stove itself is iron. There are one or two steel-tipped spears in that locker, back there. The handles have the most beautiful scroll-work.”

“Must be Ta-hoding’s pride and joy,” Ethan commented, mentally guessing at the artifact’s curio value.

“I should not be at all surprised,” the schoolmaster agreed. “I found nothing like pottery. Water would freeze on the potter’s wheel.”

The raft gave a sudden lurch. Colette squeaked.

“ Now what’s happening?” she moaned.

“I,” said Ethan with commendable enterprise, “will go and see.”

“I think the captain has turned his vessel slightly into the wind,” informed Williams. “Shortly we should…”

His voice faded as Ethan left the sheltering cabin. He rounded the side and stepped into the wind. He wasn’t used to it but it was no longer unique enough to warrant a curse. September was up near the pointed bow, in conversation with Hunnar.

The sail cracked. They were following the course taken by Suaxus and Smjör, who by now were well out of sight. The two turned as he came up to them.

“Be your companions well?” inquired the knight solicitously.

“As well as can be expected, Hunnar.” He glanced up at September. “Walther sits in his corner and glares at nothing in particular. Colette is alternately brazen and scared, her father says nothing until he has to, and Williams is too busy taking mental notes to notice much of anything.”

“And you, young feller-me-lad?” The wind whipped a single loose strand of white hair across his forehead.

“Me? Well, I’m…” Come to think of it, he’d been so busy he hadn’t had time to consider his own feelings. “I’m cold.”

“A pithy summation, lad.” He moved to clap Ethan on the back again. This time Ethan avoided it, grinning. The wind clawed at his face.

“We’re really picking up speed.” The sail fluttered and rattled between the bracing spars.

One sailor was positioned at either end of the lower spar while Ta-hoding and the other manhandled the double wheel. The captain was carefully trying to match wind speed with desired direction. His eye moved continually from sky to sail to ice.

“Stand ready!” he bellowed above the howling atmosphere. Then, “Hard over!” and he was straining furiously at the wheel, forcing it to the right.

The raft slowly began to move to starboard. There was a split second when it was facing directly into the wind and the mainsail snapped back against the mast with a crack like shattered planking. The two spar men pushed and pulled as one, the sail snapped into a new configuration, and they were traveling at high speed to the northwest.

“Nicely done!” yelled September admiringly. He pulled himself sternward, bracing against the railing. Ethan followed curiously. He wanted to have a closer look at the sail. Anything that could take the kind of continuous pounding it was being subjected to might have commercial value.

It was thicker than sailcloth, a material Ethan had no formal knowledge of. Despite this it seemed flimsy for taming the high winds it had to take on this world. It was a bright yellow—surely not the natural color. Hunnar came up behind him and confirmed it.

“The inside of the pika-pina is soft, but the exterior is tough and thin. When dried, treated, and drawn out through looms, it makes a very strong fiber. Sails, ropes, a dozen useful things.”

“You don’t say?” commented September, who’d returned from his brief examination of the raft’s steering mechanism. Then he did something that almost gave Ethan impetus to scream.

Gripping the lower edge of the sail in two powerful hands, he wrenched suddenly in opposite directions. At any moment Ethan expected to see the big man go down under a swarm of four angry sailors.

No one paid him the least heed. Ta-hoding didn’t even glance up from his post at the wheel. Neither did the other sailors. Budjir and the other soldiers continued their story-swapping.

Eventually September let out a deep breath and let go. As near as Ethan could tell, he hadn’t made so much as a tiny rip in the material.

“Strong is the word,” September wheezed. ”I’d think that several layers of this stuff, tightly woven and laid over each other, would make a very respectable shield, what?” Hunnar looked at him with new respect.

“You are a military man, then, friend September?”

“Let’s say I’ve had occasion to do some scrapping.”

“It might,” admitted the knight, “except that treated hessavar hides laid to wood or bronze or iron are better. For one thing, they’re harder to burn.”

“Um. I didn’t think of that.”

“Would you like to try my sword?” Hunnar offered, leaning into a particularly violent gust.

September looked tempted. But rather than risk exciting attention, or give away any hidden abilities, or lack of same, he politely declined.