Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

In the noise and confusion, Brownoak rose and said something to the Landgrave. A frozen smile on his face, he retired. Those tran who had been seated close to him accompanied the prefect in exit. In the explosion of congratulations and excitement hardly anyone noticed their withdrawal.

Ethan finally succeeded in drawing Hunnar’s attention. He pointed out the prefect’s abrupt departure.

“You’re going to have trouble with that guy,” he warned. But the knight was too overcome at the final realization of his hopes to take cognizance of Ethan’s warning.

“The vote in Council is against him,” he said absently. “What can he do now? Nothing! He is more helpless than a cub, and embarrassed besides. Forget him. Do you not understand? We’re going to fight !”

Ethan turned away and noticed General Balavere standing in a circle of older tran. Solemnly there was a gentle touch on the shoulders, quiet conversation with first one, then another. Closer inspection revealed another interesting anthropological fact about their hosts, which was that they did actually cry. Ethan turned away.

Meanwhile, the Landgrave had been attempting almost desperately to restore some semblance of order since the prefect had left. He pounded his staff on the floor and enlisted the vocal services of the herald. Then, apparently deciding it was hopeless, he signaled something to the musicians in the balcony.

A wild, strongly rhythmic tune replaced the pseudo-march. With a yell, the councilmen and knights separated the two long arms of the great table, turning it into a wide “V” shape. Instantly the funneled dance floor was occupied by swirling, flying couples.

It was interesting to note that the dancing, while highly energetic, did not last long at all by terran standards. No matter how husky-looking, many of the dancers seemed to get quickly out of breath. Apparently, with the wind to move them, the tran had not developed their lung-power overmuch. By the same token, the acrobatics of the lighter-than-they-looked dancers verged on the appalling. Their sense of timing and balance, logically enough, was inhuman. He’d keep that in mind if he ever found it necessary to dodge the local police. It had happened before.

On the ice, they would run circles around him.

Laughter and handclapping added to the feeling of merriment. Right now everyone was in the best of spirits. Later, when the enormity of their decision had sunk in, there would be time for quiet contemplation and thought.

Ethan was thoroughly enjoying the scene when there was a tap on his shoulder. He turned and was confronted with the copious bosom of Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata. He hurriedly elevated his gaze, finding no relaxation in the return stare at the top.

“As thou can see, good Sir Ethan,” she purred, “I have not yet been asked to dance.” This was not entirely true, as several young tran with bruised shins could attest.

“Perhaps Sir Hunnar?…” Ethan suggested desperately.

“Foo! He’s too busy accepting congratulations for the way in which he outmaneuvered the prefect. Anyhow, I want to dance with you.” She lowered her voice. “I have not forgotten your mastery at… hand-to-hand combat. Are you equally adept at dancing, mayhap?”

“Oh no,” be said, shrinking back and finding the table blocking his retreat. “I know nothing of your local dances. I’ve got two left feet. And I’m naturally clumsy besides.”

“That, for sure, I cannot believe,” she said smokily. She reached out and grabbed his arm with a paw that might have been lighter than his own, but was backed by muscles of iron. Rather than be yanked from the chair, he got up peacefully.

“Come then, and we will disport ourselves with the others.”

Before he could protest he found himself in the middle of the floor, trapped in a whirlpool of fur and giant shoulders. The music was alien but not impossibly exotic. The steps of Sofoldian dance were fairly simple. After a bit he was actually enjoying himself. Never mind that he was flirting with disaster.

A strange sort of rescue was provided by Sir Hunnar. The knight stepped up behind him, put a paw on his shoulder, and said in the cheeriest voice imaginable, “Sir Ethan, I challenge you.”

“Beg pardon?” Ethan responded, stumbling over his own feet

“A challenge! Yea, a challenge!” came the cry from the crowd. Almost as soon as he caught his balance, it seemed, the floor had been cleared around them. Everyone was staring expectantly at him and Hunnar.

Meanwhile, the knight was removing his cloak, decorations, and dress jacket.

“Wait a minute,” began Ethan confusedly. “I was just starting to get the hang of the dance. What’s this challenge business?”

“In truth, ’tis really nothing, friend Ethan,” replied Hunnar, flexing his massive arms and stretching his wings. “Just a simple custom. Tis good manners for guests and hosts to fight. I was reminded that this pleasantry had not yet occurred. Tis an opportune time as any to perform such.”

“I disagree,” countered Ethan cautiously. “Anyhow,” he continued, backing up a couple of steps, “why pick on me? Why not exchange blessings of good fellowship with Sir September?”

“I would have,” the knight grinned. “But look.”

Ethan turned. September reclined full-length across the table. His flowing white hair lay half-in and half-out of a bowl of cold soup. A tankard was gripped limply in one massive hand. He was snoring with the melodious buzz of a broken bearing.

“I’ll waken the good knight,” Ethan stalled. “Really, Sir Hunnar, I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. Now, if you’d like to have a go on the links… would there be a course about?”

“Ah, your modesty is truly worthy of you, Sir Ethan,” said Hunnar admiringly. He was now naked to the waist. The resulting pectoral panorama would give any barber pause.

“Let us to combat!” He came barrelling across the room, arms forming a great hairy crescent.

Well, at least it wasn’t supposed to be a lethal conflict, Ethan rationalized. It was the least he could do in the interests of good fellowship, wasn’t it? Besides, he’d seen the ease with which September had hoisted the knight, chair and all.

He tried to ignore the roar of the crowd—they sounded just like a bunch of inebriated conventioneers, he decided—and duck the roundhouse blow Hunnar threw at him. He stepped in and tried to get a grip on the knight’s waist. What he got instead was a solid buffet on the side of the head. His vision was momentarily restricted to sights galactic—black spaces and colored stars.

He sat up and refocused his eyes. Sir Hunnar was standing several meters away, panting and grinning down at him. Obviously more subtle tactics were required. Cries of “Well struck!” and “Good blow!” came from the appreciative crowd. His opponent might not weigh in as heavy as he, but he could still knock your head off while you were looking up the proportionate discrepancies, Ethan reflected.

All right, he would try something else—if he could remember that far back.

Sir Hunnar came on again. He feinted with his left paw and swung the right. Ethan stepped to one side, blocked the blow with his left arm, and hit the other gently in the ribs, just behind the wing membrane, and then in the jaw. He spun and hit him in the lower back with his heel, almost falling down in the process.

His own weight and the blow combined to send the knight sprawling. For an awful moment Ethan thought he’d broken something. The tran were tougher than that, however. Hunnar rolled over and grunted.

“How did you do that, Sir Ethan?”

“Come on and find out,” invited Ethan, breathing heavily.

Hunnar climbed to his feet and advanced again, more cautiously this time. Ethan let him grab his right shoulder. Then he spun into the other’s charge, driving an elbow up and into the broad chest. Hunnar let out a whoosh, surprised. Ethan bent and grabbed a bladed foot by the ankle, yanked and straightened up, putting the knight on his back. Ethan turned and drove the heel of his foot into the other’s midriff—gently. He walked away while Hunnar was trying to catch his breath.