Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

The south side of the island was precipitous here, and the castle of Wannome was built right to the edge. It was a killing fall to the ice below. With a little imagination he could almost see waves breaking against the cliff. Perhaps they had once, millions of years ago. This side of the castle, at least, was invulnerable.

Leaning out into the biting wind, he squinted and saw that the high cliff continued westward for a fair distance before dropping down to the ice. An occasional flash of green broke the whiteness.

A look at the sky. Let’s see, he thought. The tran have their evening meal at sunset. That should leave him a couple of local-time hours before he’d be expected to put in an appearance. When he had time it might be a good idea to revisit that tailor. Maybe he could make underclothes as well as coats. The outfit he’d been wearing on the Antares when he’d been abducted—was that one or two thousand years ago?—was not conducive to strenuous living.

The special survival parka he was wearing was holding up beautifully. But below the surface, so to speak, things were beginning to get a bit raunchy. There was a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” he said without turning.

The voice that replied did make him turn. It said, “Good wind,” and wasn’t human.

The Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata, heiress to the throne of Wannome, closed the door gently behind her. Her caution was disconcerting. She bolted it. That was ominous.

“I apologize for these rooms.” Her speech was husky. “They were the best father could do on such short notice. And we’ve little idea of your needs.”

Ethan walked away from the window and not incidentally put the bed between them. If that was supposed to faze her she didn’t show it She walked over and sat on the end. The human contour analog was astounding. She drew swirls in the silken coverlet.

“Do you really come from another world?” she asked breathlessly. Her outfit was done up like holiday packaging—by a clumsy six-year-old. The fact that the skin beneath was covered with light gray fur made it appear no less naked. Excepting the feline head and broad feet, and those piercing vertical pupils, she might have passed for a tridee starlet clad in skin-tight mink.

“Yes, we do,” he replied eventually, with some emphasis on the “we.” If she was expecting him to prolong the conversation she was sorely mistaken. He couldn’t for a moment forget that her father was not only a grouch with a reported short temper, but also had the power to remove head from shoulders with a wave of his hand. Until he knew a great deal more about local mores, he was going to be as quiet as a monk. This was no place to depend on mestaped information.

Besides, she was as tall as he was and much broader, which made for rather an intimidating personality.

“It’s surprising. You’re not so terribly different from us, it seems,” she said, her flashing yellow eyes fixed on him.

Dammit, if only she weren’t so farking attractive! Now watch that, he told himself. She isn’t even of the same species. Of course, there were aberrant humans who had a thing for other species. He knew one chap who…

Quit that!

“I think this is all very exciting,” she said finally into the growing silence. The finger paused in its silken whirlpool. “You don’t even have any fur on your bodies, except on top.”

“Actually,” Ethan responded, trying to be scientific, “that’s not entirely true. We do have some elsewhere.” He was about to mention “chest” when she interrupted him.

“Really? Let me see.” She made a spring that carried her halfway across the bed.

In dream-troubles most folk are the epitome of suaveness and sophistication. Ethan was no exception. Reality—cold reality, to say the least—had too many improvisations.

First of all, he couldn’t quite decide whether she was trying to kill him or kiss him. Apparently loveplay on this world was as aggressive as its climate.

He’d have told her to stop it, but his mouth kept getting full of gray fur. It seemed certain she was trying to bite him. At least, those four major canines gave that impression. Now, if someone like that Darmuka fellow or her father were to stroll in, bolt or no bolt…

He redoubled his efforts. Putting both hands out to push her away, his palms encountered something soft and warm. Human or not, it wasn’t a shoulder. She moved even faster. Shifting his hands, he shoved frantically.

The result was both gratifying and educational.

She seemed to fly off the bed, land on her feet, and slam into the far wall, where she crumpled slowly to the floor. For a horrible moment he thought she’d hit too hard. If he’d killed the Landgrave’s only cub, that would remove all the uncertainties from their immediate future.

Fortunately, she was only shaken, and stayed conscious.

“M… my, you are strong!”

He was torn between offering her a hand up and refusing further body contact. “Are you okay?”

“Y… yes, I think so, good knight.” She rose slowly and felt the back of her head and neck. Then she did some rearranging on her clothing, which had become delightfully disheveled. With a shoulder against the wall for support, she looked at him oddly.

“I hadn’t expected quite so… overwhelming a rejection,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan replied, unable to forgo some sort of apology. “Our situation is very serious and it’s hard for me to take anything lightly right now. I’m afraid, I, uh, don’t know my own strength.”

“Well, I certainly do.” She blinked. “I shall retire and consider this further,” she said cryptically. “I will see you again, Sir Ethan. Good day.”

Putting hand to forehead to wipe away the freezing sweat, he became aware that it was shaking badly. He grabbed the offending member. That only made the whole arm shake. Its companion was none too steady either. He let out a long breath, then put both hands under his backside and sat on them. That stopped the shaking and kept them warm too boot, but now he couldn’t do anything about the sweat.

Hopefully he’d handled the situation correctly. Now he’d worry about Elfa’s reaction and future feelings toward them. It was a damnable thing to have happen.

He was still pondering and sitting when September walked in.

“Well, young feller-me-lad,” he began, glancing back the way he’d come, “I just passed her highness in the hallway. Seems you’ve made something of a conquest, what?”

“Or a mortal enemy. I’m not sure. It was more on the order of an opening skirmish. Hey, how come you’re sure she came from my room?”

“You’ve just confirmed it.”

“It might have been a veiled murder attempt, too, you know.”

“I understand the penalty for playing around with the offspring of nobility is—”

“Dammit, Skua, I wasn’t playing around!” he said indignantly. “She was playing around with me. That is—”

“—death by slow torture, with all sorts of intriguing local variants on time-honored themes. Hunnar’s been filling me in on some blanks, since you were occupied.”

“Oh God. Does he know too?”

“I don’t think so. Someone was sent to fetch you, tried your door. Finding it bolted, they assumed you wanted privacy. Good thing, too.”

“Phew! Say, I found out something interesting, too. We were right about body composition. Almost certainly their skeletal system is less solid than ours, or whatever the proper medical term is. I gave her what I thought was a sharp shove and ended up throwing her halfway across the room. Scared the hell out of me.”

“Really?” grinned September, the gold ring in his ear flashing. “Tell me more. Are they covered with that fur all over? Or are there certain places where—”