Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

Ethan stared curiously across the table at Hellespont du Kane. One of the wealthiest men in the Arm. Yet he still wore the same expression Ethan had observed back on the Antares, the day they’d had their private destinies inextricably altered by a pair of indecisive kidnappers. Nor was his appetite affected. He downed a delicately carved slice of roast with the same precision he doubtless employed in the finest restaurants of Terra or Hivehom.

Ethan felt an urge to put a fist in that robotic face. For a wild moment he thought du Kane might really be a clever robot, and that the flesh-and-blood du Kane was somewhere else, perfectly comfortable except for a mild upset at the loss of one valuable piece of machinery. It would explain several of the odder things about the industrialist.

But no. He may have been robot-like in some respects, but he was definitely human. Like his daughter. He was just a nice, slightly dotty, schizophrenic old man with several hundred million credits and a daughter as cool-headed as he probably was—once.

Ethan was discovering the interesting side effects which the steady consumption of reedle could produce in the human system when Hunnar came over. Standing between the two humans, the tran put a paw on each man’s shoulder and leaned close.

“It is necessary that I see you both in private,” he whispered.

“Aw, don’t be a party-pooper,” September huffed. “Sit yourself down with us and—” He broke off in mid-sentence when he saw the look on the knight’s face. It was solemn—and something more.

They left the grand hall, the masquerading torchlight, the flashing, jeweled cloaks and blouses; left the polished dress armor of the nobles and knights and the gowns of their ladies; left them to follow Hunnar down quiet cold hallways and mocking stairs.

“Isn’t this the way to our rooms?” said Ethan unquestioningly.

“That is so,” Hunnar replied, but Ethan’s probe failed to elicit any more information.

From distant chambers Ethan could hear shouts and laughter. The other inhabitants of the castle were celebrating the victory in their own fashion. Once, when they passed a chill open balcony, he had a glimpse down into the town itself. Bonfires blazed in open squares, and every torch and lamp and candle in Wannome was burning. The city wore a necklace of light.

Celebrating would continue for days, General Balavere had told him. Or until everyone was too drunk to lift another tankard or mug.

He wondered where Williams had gone. The schoolmaster hadn’t been seen since he’d been introduced as a co-guest of honor. When the Landgrave had presented him and proceeded to make a flowery speech full of lavish praise and sugary compliment, the little professor had fidgeted and squirmed like a five-year-old posing for his first pre-school soloid.

On the other hand, old Eer-Meesach had expanded in the light of praise like a fat sunflower.

“Sulfur from the volcanic vents and springs,” Williams had nervously explained to the rapt audience of chromatically clad nobles and ladies, “saltpeter from dry old vents, and charcoal from the townspeople burning cut wood and even furniture.”

“But not any of the beds!” a voice had bellowed from downtable. Williams’s voice was drowned in raucous laughter and he’d slipped away quietly.

Only to reappear behind Ethan and whisper, “Later perhaps… something rem… show you th… big… okay?…”

Ethan had mumbled a clever reply, something along the lines of “Yeah, sure,” and ignored the schoolmaster. Williams and Eer-Meesach had then left the room. Maybe to resume the trannish wizard’s lessons in galactic astronomy or to do new work on the big telescope Williams had promised to help him design.

They turned down a hall that in the past weeks had become as familiar to Ethan as his home apartment on Moth. They passed his room, then September’s, then the du Kanes’, and continued on down a slight ramp, around a corner…

A little knot of soldiers was clustered just ahead. The passage here was brightly lit. A heavy door to an apartment Ethan had never entered stood wide open.

The group parted when one of its members spotted Hunnar and the two humans. Parting revealed a single soldier crumpled on the floor. He lay on an uneven frame of dark scarlet. It centered at a spot on his back and the small but fatal stiletto imbedded therein.

“We’ve looked all over the castle for him,” Hunnar explained awkwardly. “We’ve no idea of where he has gone to, nor how, or why. He may have slipped out some time during the fighting and caught an arrow, tumbled over the cliffs. Tis little point in searching fully til morning.”

“You think Walther killed this one, then?” asked Ethan.

“I did not say that… but we would like to find him,” Hunnar added unnecessarily.

“Did any of the nomads penetrate this far into the castle?” September queried.

“We do not believe so. But there were those of the vermin who tried to gain the interior. One or two might have been bold and daring enough to crawl along the stone to the side and thence slip through a window.”

“I wonder if Walther could handle a small raft by himself?” mused Ethan aloud.

“Think he might have made off in the confusion and hopes to make Brass Monkey ahead of us, eh, young feller-me-lad? Beat us to his friends and maybe salvage their whole original plan… must have tempted him,” the big man said thoughtfully. “I know I wouldn’t try it. A few thousand kilometers of virgin ice to cross, scrapping with Droom and gutorrbyn and windstorm and pirates and who knows what else all the way. Crazy little punk might have tried it, though. If so, I expect he’s saved us some trouble. He knew the best he could expect if we got back was at least partial mindwipe. Man’ll do superhuman things for intangibles like memories.”

“I don’t see how he could have escaped the nomads,” commented Ethan, shaking his head.

“Nor do I,” agreed Hunnar. “However, that knife,” and he gestured at the protruding hilt, “is no barbarian device. Twas made in our own foundry.”

“What should we do, Skua?” asked Ethan.

“Do? Well, me, I’m going back to that hall and slobber reedle until I float… physically or otherwise.” He turned on a heel and called back over his shoulder. “And I heartily suggest, young feller-me-lad, you come ahead and do likewise!”

Ethan glanced down again at the stone-still body. A gust of icy atmosphere sucked at his body heat and he shivered. Torchlight rippled like chiffon dolls’ skirts.

Then he shrugged, said a bad word, and turned to follow September.

Ethan crossed his arms and flailed opposite shoulders. It didn’t make him any warmer. As a method of raising his body temperature it proved effectively nil. But it did better psychologically. Excellent! He would freeze to death nice and sane. This self-flagellation is making you warmer, he repeated unconvincingly, it’s making you warmer.

His skin fought the supposition tooth and nail.

It was a fairly cool day—minus ten or so outside. While it was perhaps thirty degrees warmer in the castle, it was still a long way from tropic. Modified to fit his human frame, his new hessavar-fur coat gave him considerable protection. They’d even managed to persuade the royal tailor to sew on real sleeves and leggings. At least now they could worry a little less about the dangers of frostbite.

Frost-nibble, however, was driving him crazy.

And he’d been wearing the coat for weeks now. Every so often an uncomfortable feeling crawled up his back as if the long-dead fur was beginning to take root to his chafed, abused body.

If it weren’t for their occasional jaunts to the foundry for a really hot bath, the encrusted dirt and sweat could have doubled as a heat-sealing coating in itself. They hadn’t fallen that far—yet.