Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“I rarely misconstrue any information consigned to my care, Mr. September. Rest assured that I shall convey the message to the captain with the utmost precision. What if you should be detected gesticulating with your garments?”

“Then he’s to raise sail and get the hell out of here!” September snorted and turned to their guide, speaking in Trannish.

“All right, friend Fahdig, let’s go meet your Brotherhood.”

Ethan was quite sure that heights held no terror for him. He’d sipped cocktails on transparent balconies ninety stories above steaming swampland.

However, he’d been completely enclosed in a comfortable tower suite at the time. It was rather different mounting hundreds of steps with a sheer drop of hundreds of meters on your right, then on your left. Almost unconsciously he edged away until he was walking with a decided preference for the section of stairway nearest the mountainside.

The stairs themselves had been cut from the bare rock, an agonizing task that probably took more years than he cared to speculate at. At least it was broad enough for several men or tran to walk side by side. So he didn’t feel cramped. There was also a wide, if low, stone railing on the cliffside.

But as the raft, which now seemed to sit directly below them, and the harbor grew smaller and smaller, so did his stomach.

Halfway up he found himself beginning to pant. September still looked fresh, but Sir Hunnar was gritting his teeth at the pain shooting through his thighs and calves. The tran were not constructed for steady climbing. Fahdig, on the other hand, was clearly inured to the pain.

There was no guard at the simple, solemn archway which framed the entrance to the monastery. The door was of unadorned wood, through which Fahdig led them.

Ethan spared a last glance over the side of the stairway. They were now nearly five hundred meters above the harbor. The raft was a child’s toy resting on a plate of waxen crystal.

Then he was through the door and standing in a darkish, tomb-like hallway. Lamps glowed along the walls even though it was bright day outside.

“Kind of a gloomy atmosphere you fellas take to,” said September as they strolled down the hall.

“We are in the lower levels of the monastery,” their guide informed them. “As we go higher it will become lighter. Windows here are neither necessary nor would they be structurally sound.”

Fahdig was as good as his word. They soon found themselves walking through well-lit, high-beamed rooms and halls. Occasionally they encountered another of the Brotherhood, some older, some younger than their guide. A few were mere cubs. They reacted to the presence of the humans with a lot more open surprise than had Fahdig. A few stopped to stare after them long after they’d passed by.

“I didn’t see an ice-path outside,” September said to Hunnar. “On the stairway.”

“I am not surprised, friend Skua. There are limits to any tran’s skill with dan and chiv. Coupled with a tricky breeze and sharp turns, such a steep descent would tax the skill of the most accomplished soldier. Nay, even of a Dancer.”

“I thought so. But there could be other reasons why they’ve dispensed with it Aesthetic, maybe, or ascetic.”

“That is possible,” the knight agreed. “It may be considered virtuous among them to move only on foot.”

They hadn’t been walking too long before Fahdig bade them wait outside an iron-banded door. He disappeared within, reappeared several moments later.

“The Prior will see you now.” They followed him in.

Ethan didn’t know what to expect—another throne room, perhaps, like Kurdagh-Vlata’s. But the room they entered was plainly furnished, without being spartan. Only the wide, richly carved and polished table hinted at wealth of any kind. A few chairs completed the alcove’s furnishings.

They were obviously in one of the upper levels of the monastery now. Light poured in through windows set in the eastern and southern walls. But most of the illumination came from the skylight, another first for Tran-ky-ky.

The startling feature, however, was the walls. From floor to ceiling on all sides, save the one they’d entered from, the walls were solid with shelves, crammed row upon row with meticulously kept, neatly aligned books.

He’d encountered tough, long-wearing paper of pika-pina fiber in Wannome, but very little. The Sofoldians seemed to prefer vellum and parchment for writing, since the fibrous paper was difficult to write on without constant blotting.

Obviously the Brotherhood had solved that problem. Or else it had been solved for them, because the open books on the table were filled with neither parchment nor vellum.

He whispered to September. “We’d better reconsider before bringing Williams or Eer-Meesach up here. We might never drag them away.”

“Huh!” September gave the shelves a quick survey, “Wonder if they just collect and store them, or if they really bother to read any.”

The Prior himself turned out to be a placid-looking old tran. He sported a beard much longer than Hunnar’s. His mane was pure white and his manner pleasant and relaxed. If he was shocked by Ethan and September’s appearance he was too courteous to show it.

He also retained one of the ubiquitous staves. It rested against the table.

“You’ll forgive my not rising to greet you, gentlesirs. I am not in the best of health today.”

“We sorrow for you and wish your Priorship to recover vibrant as the winter wind,” Hunnar said smoothly.

The oldster smiled a little. “Fahdig has told me of your magnificent ship and your request to remain with us for a few days. And of your haste.”

“Especially our haste,” put in September. “Now, about this vote or whatever…” The Prior waved him down.

“It will not be necessary to consult the Brotherhood, to draw them from their daily labors on so simple a matter. You may remain as long as you wish. Our fare here at Evonin-ta-ban is simple but nourishing. Do us the honor of taking evening meal with us and enjoying our hospitality for a night!”

Hunnar nodded before either of the humans could speak, so Ethan assumed the knight anticipated the food’s being edible, if not up to the level of the royal chefs.

“Retire now, gentlesirs, and leave me to rest. We will talk more tonight, of your plans and needs and journey.”

They walked out.

“Thanks, Fahdig,” said Ethan sincerely, “for your help in speeding things through for us.”

“Your thanks are welcome but ill-directed, gentlesir. No one ‘speeds’ anything past the Prior. I merely repeated to him what you told me. He decided in your favor by himself.”

“You’d already agreed to let us stay the day,” declared September. “What if he’d overridden that decision and told us to leave immediately?”

Fahdig looked shocked. “He would not do that! Not even the Prior will counter a decision previously reached by a Brother. We live by reason and logic here. This trust in one another’s rationality is an integral part of the Brotherhood.”

“Yeah, sure. But let’s say he had… differed severely with your evaluation of the situation.”

“Why then,” said Fahdig, obviously struggling with an unfamiliar concept, “it would be good manners for me to withdraw my recommendation.”

“The Prior keeps a very impressive library,” put in Ethan to change the subject.

“Oh, that was not the Prior’s library.” Their guide seemed amused. “Twas merely the room in which he is studying today. There are a great many similar rooms in the monastery. All are filled with histories, studies, and scientific papers accumulated over thousands of years.”

“I see,” Ethan murmured. “There are two men with us of identical sentiment with the Brotherhood. One of your kind and one of mine.”