Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

It had been nearly two weeks, for certain, since the epic defeat of Sagyanak and the memorable battle in which the Sofoldians had shattered the power of the great Horde forever. In other words, the local population was just about sobered up.

Now he was making his way up to the vile-smelling rooms that Eer-Meesach called home. He passed an open balcony and spared a glance for the scene below.

Once again rafts were moving across the ice of the great harbor. Most of the frozen blood from the thousands of corpses had been chipped and melted away, the rough spots on the surface smoothed over. Hundreds of Wannomian stonemasons, carpenters, and other craftsmen were at work repairing the extensive damage to the harbor wall. Even the huge gap where the monstrous ram had broken through was beginning to be filled as loose stone was gathered off the ice and fresh rock brought from quarries in the mountains.

He turned from the balcony down a short hall, began to ascend a spiral ramp. He vaguely recalled that at the start of the victory celebration Williams had mumbled something about another surprise. Well, it couldn’t be more of a shock than the introduction of gunpowder had been to their hosts. Heaven help the social system of this feudal ice-world if the little schoolmaster’s subsequent revelations were half as overpowering!

The multitude of traveling rafts in the harbor would take the news of the Sofoldians’ unprecedented defeat of one of the great nomadic Hordes back to their own towns and distant cities. They would also carry samples of gunpowder and formula for same so they could resist the bands which plagued their home provinces.

The elimination of those utterly ruthless, bloodthirsty groups would probably be a good thing for the body politic, not to mention individual political bodies. At least, it would until Tran-ky-ky ran out of barbarians. Then the various barons, landgraves, and dukes would be stuck with their new toys and no one to look at except each other.

Unless, of course, the barbarians managed to get hold of some gunpowder for themselves, in which case…

He gave it up. It was too complicated. Nor was he especially inclined toward sociological speculation. All he wanted to speculate on was getting over to Brass Monkey in one piece. Then, hopefully, to pick up his sample cases, dispose of a few thousand credits worth, and acquire a few decent orders. Smiling, he’d be off for the next world, definitely one with a generous sun and nothing more disturbing meteorologically than an occasional sensuous zephyr. Not a continual hurricane screaming eternally eastward.

He gained the top of the spiral, walked a few paces down the hall, and entered the wizard’s apartments. He considered this time that there were no guards at the door. It hadn’t impressed him until after the attempt on the Landgrave’s life. All the nobles had guards also. Not Eer-Meesach. The inhabitants of Sofold were a thinking, practical people, but still sufficiently superstitious to hold a healthy respect for demons, elves, and wizards like Eer-Meesach. It would take a gutsy cutpurse indeed who would try for a few pieces of gold or some such when the wizard had threatened to turn any thief he caught into a swart worm.

The wizard was one of a little group gathered around a stumpy, weatherbeaten table. And on this world, “weather-beaten” identified something shaky or ancient indeed. The antiquing on this archaic desk hadn’t been put there by the local equivalent of terran or thranx professionals. Such contrivances are only practiced by advanced races.

Present along with the wizard were Williams and September. Monumental hooked nose, jutting chin, gold earring—the big man took up half the available space in his billowing hessavar fur. He looked up when Ethan entered.

“Hello, young feller-me-lad.” He was radiating obvious enthusiasm over something. “Come have a peek at what our two intellectuals have been up to, what?”

Ethan rubbed his gloved hands together—that seemed to help a little—and edged in between September and the schoolmaster.

A sheet of vellum was tacked to the smooth tabletop. The drawing on it was not too complex, but it was sufficiently alien in nature for Ethan to have to scan it twice before he could guess what it might be.

“Looks like a raft,” he said finally. “Of sorts.”

“Of sorts indeed, cub,” commented Eer-Meesach excitedly. “Twas your friend Williams who conceived the basic idea that lies gloriously before us. I merely executed it.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of an artist,” Williams apologized.

Ethan had another look at the sketch. “It certainly looks different.”

“My principal area of study was early Terran history,” Williams confessed, squirming embarrassedly. “That’s how I happened to know that old formula for gunpowder.” He pointed at the drawing. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since we were picked up by Sir Hunnar and his men. As you know, three-quarters of Terra is covered with water.”

“I’ve seen pictures,” said Ethan, nodding.

“Well,” the schoolteacher continued, “this particular kind of ship was developed and raised to almost poetic heights by a young Terran named Donald McKay, who lived and worked on the east coast of the North American continent. They were called clipper ships.”

“Funny name,” said Ethan. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Williams shrugged. “The derivation has been lost. As you can see, I’ve modified the original design so that instead of having a curved bottom, as in an ocean-going boat, we will have a raft with a flat base. It will run on five runners—two fore, two aft, and one slightly further aft for steering purposes.”

“It may not be quite as maneuverable as some of the local craft,” put in September, “but it’s going to be a damn sight faster than any kind of surface transportation this icebox world’s ever seen before.”

“Not an unreasonable expectation,” agreed Williams cautiously. “It will require a considerable amount of wood compared to local rafts. Several large trees will have to be banded together to make the masts, and a great deal of sailcloth is needed.”

“I’m no engineer,” said Ethan bluntly, “but it just looks to me as if in a good blow, with all that sail, she’d turn over.”

“The base will be carefully counterbalanced with just such a possibility in mind,” the teacher replied. “But I think the double runners will give it a good deal of stability.”

“And who’s going to pay for it?” Ethan was on familiar ground now.

September grinned. “Despite all those glory holy-hosannas the Landgrave ladled on us, lad, he hemmed and hawed like a penniless beggar when we put an estimate to him. Went on and on about how repairs to the fortifications in the harbor and reparations to debilitated families were leaving the treasury empty as the inside of his promises. You’d have thought we were going to take his gold-inlaid shirt, too.

“Hunnar and Balavere were there. They listened quietly to the whole thing, real dignified and proper. When his majesty was finished they gave him a tongue-lashing that must have flayed his ancestors forty generations back! Then I pointed out to him that the moment we were delivered safe, healthy, and relatively unfrozen to Arsudun Island, the ship would become property of the Sofoldian navy. He’d managed to neglect that little item in his tale of woe.

“The raft’s captain-to-be, Ta-hoding… you remember him?” Ethan nodded. “Ta-hoding enumerated the tremendous commercial advantages such a vessel would have over all competitors, especially with the forever sharp duralloy runners, and—”

“Wait a minute,” Ethan interrupted. “I thought they couldn’t work the metal.”