Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

Two good-sized tankards sat in front of his plate. The meat, he discovered, had a flavor like roast pork, although it was more heavily seasoned than he’d expected. It certainly wasn’t bland.

He tried the larger tankard and found that it contained a drink like thick hot chocolate with a faint hint of pepper.

He almost choked on it when September let out a whoop and clobbered him with a flying elbow. He thrust his own small tankard at Ethan and his eyes sparkled. “Now here, young feller-me-lad, is something worth fighting to preserve. Put some of this liquid starlight into your gullet. The thranx themselves never brewed half so good!” He turned and bellowed something to Hunnar.

Ethan stared at his own small tankard with a mixture of lust and terror, chewing slowly on some indefinable vegetable. He picked it up and peered inside. The contents were dark and had a startling silver color.

“Called Reedle,” September informed him. “Reedle-de-deedle-de…” he sang as Ethan hesitantly put metal to lips.

It went easily down his throat and into his stomach. There it must have encountered something flammable, because it burst like a stretched bubble and spewed tiny fireballs all over the place. One of them crawled right back up his throat and burned itself to a miniscule cinder right between his eyes. He let out a long whoosh.

“Reed… raw… reedle, huh?” September didn’t answer him. He was otherwise engaged, mentally. Shortly thereafter, Ethan was too.

A little while later he noticed a cloying sweetness in the air. It wasn’t a by-product of his dinner. Instead he discovered it emanated from several of the rather provocatively clad ladies seated nearby. The tran used perfume, then. Interesting. By Terran standards it was pretty crude stuff. By thranx standards it was a total loss. Here was another opportunity for trade, olfactory desires being equal.

For the hundredth—or maybe it was the thousandth—time, he lamented the loss of his goods, out of reach on board the Antares. He took another gulp of reedle and turned his concentration to the more interesting types seated at the great table.

Eventually his eyes traveled to the far corner of the U and to Darmuka Brownoak. The prefect was well into his own meal. He appeared to be enjoying it without becoming over-exuberant or soused. Mostly he was smiling and nodding at the shouts and comments of those seated around him. A cool, sharp, dangerous customer, Ethan reflected.

His gaze continued around the table and was startled to encounter a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring back into his own. They belonged to a beautiful, overpowering, hirsute valkyrie named Elfa.

Great credit! He’d almost managed to wipe his distressing—well, awkward—encounter with the Landgrave’s daughter from his mind. Hurriedly he averted his eyes and concentrated with full attention on dissecting a second chop—“vol,” Hunnar had called it.

He was on his third helping and second tankard of reedle when Sir Hunnar rose abruptly and bounded onto his seat. Ethan poked September, who’d subsumed enough reedle to float an elephant, and whispered across to the du Kanes.

“Now’s the time. Don’t do anything or say anything even if provoked. Brownoak and his cronies will be looking for the slightest opening.”

Hunnar put both paws in the air. Gradually the roar and howling subsided to a steady murmur, a grinding like surf on gravel. When it dropped further, to where a single voice could be heard easily, he began.

“So. Here you sit. The pride of Sofold. The wealth of its minds, the deciders of its fate, arbitrators of destiny. Pagh!” He spat “You collective dung-heaps! Offsprings of vols! Hoppers. Gleaners of lavatories!”

Angry murmurings swelled around him. There were a few cries in Trannish of “Bring him down!”

“Oh, you claim to be otherwise, eh?” Hunnar continued. “While we sit gorging our fat selves, at this moment the Horde moves on its trail of slime and blood to visit our homes. Yes, the Horde comes. Like it or not, the Horde comes. Straight as the path of a thunder-eater grazing, the Horde comes… What will happen when it reaches us? Will you sit and laugh so heartily, merrily, then? When your purses are emptied and your daughters filled? What then?”

An old tran rose halfway out of his seat across the table.

“We will pay our assigned levy, as we always have, Sir Hunnar, take a few weeks of misery and burden, as we always have, and survive, as we always have!”

Hunnar whirled and faced the oldster. “He does not ‘survive’ who lives on the sufferance and humor of another. What if this time our offerings should not satisfy the Death, eh? What if ill humor should visit Sagyanak in the night and tell him to raze Wannome to the earth-ice? For pleasure, mayhap. Burn the fields and towns of Sofold, for amusement? What then of your ‘survival,’ old man?”

“My!” interrupted a familiar, penetrating voice from across the table. “Don’t berate poor Nalhagen,” continued Darmuka Brownoak easily. The prefect paused, took a tiny sip from his tankard of reedle. It was quiet enough in the great hall for Ethan to hear the container hit the table gently as the prefect set it down. Some things, Ethan reflected, were the same from planet to planet. On the surface this was a conflict of philosophy. In reality it came down to a battle of wills between young and old, between the rich and content and the talented and impatient. Everyone in the hall knew it. They waited to see what would develop.

“He only wants to live, like the rest of us. Most of us, anyway.” Brownoak glanced around the table and there was a murmur of assent from the crowd. “Why,” the prefect continued, “such a thing as you postulate has not happened in the hundreds of years of Sofoldian history. Why would Sagyanak have reason to do such a thing now?” His stare was one of profound amazement. “To destroy Wannome and Sofold would be to destroy forever the tribute the Horde receives from us at regular intervals. Would the Scourge cut out the bottom of their purse?”

“They have done this to other towns,” Hunnar said.

“But never to Wannome.”

“So we continue to dig our noses in the dirt, year upon year, to gratify this monster?” the knight snorted. “I say no longer. Fight, this time!” He opened his claws and made tearing motions at the other. “Fight once, and have done with ignominy and hardship forever!”

“I think I should agree with you in that,” said Brownoak.

“What?” Hunnar was taken aback.

“If,” the prefect continued, daintily wiping his mouth with one of the rag-napkins, “I did not dislike suicide. Indeed, we would ‘have done with it.’ You and I would be no more. Truly, death would end ignominy and hardship, but I am not anxious to employ such a solution yet. I’m as brave as the next man,” and he glared sharply up at Hunnar, “but I am also a thoughtful being and a pragmatist. We would be outnumbered many times by a foe whose whole life is spent not in trading and growing, mailing and crafting, but in killing and fighting. We’d have as much chance of winning as a hopper caught in the path of a stampeding thunder-eater.”

Hunnar countered instantly. “In spite of what you may think, prefect, I too am a thoughtful person, and I say we would win. The walls of Wannome have grown too high for the Horde to scale, too thick for the Horde to break, these past years. Nor could they breach the nets and the new chain that guards the harbor entrance.”

“What of a siege?” asked Brownoak, sipping reedle.

“With a little preparation we could stand such far longer than they. No barbarian can sit on his haunches and stare placidly at his enemy. He is not mentally equipped for it. Sagyanak’s own tribesmen would throw out any leader who ordered such. The Scourge knows that as well as you or I.”