Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“Hospitality is never trouble,” their imperturbable guide replied. “If you will come this way, please.”

They continued down the hall and went up one more level, where Fahdig motioned them into another room. They seemed to be in one of the highest levels of the monastery. Evening light poured in from the huge skylight that occupied most of the ceiling.

Ethan wondered if the beautiful skylights had been developed and built by the scholars themselves or if they were a bit of art once known but long forgotten in Wannome. There was no way of telling, and it might not be good manners to ask.

The table was long and simple. So were the foods that other members of the Brotherhood were setting on it. The Prior sat at the head of the table with several other elderly tran. Williams and Eer-Meesach were there to greet them. The little schoolmaster fairly exploded out of his seat when they entered. He walked straight to Ethan.

“My dear friend, you have no idea, no idea what a treasure-house this place is! Malmeevyn and I have been overwhelmed by one amazing volume after another. Some of the older books stored here go back literally thousands of years… or so Malmeevyn tells me. There’s much I can’t translate. The books themselves are astonishing. But the amount of pure information and data stored inside… it would take a hundred xenologists years with a good computer just to properly document and catalogue the material the Brotherhood holds.”

“I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm,” replied Ethan, gazing at the fresh vegetables set in front of him with similar excitement, “but we’ll only be here another day. The repairs will be completed by then and we’ll be on our way back to civilization. You remember civilization?”

“Not with overwhelming fondness, Ethan. You’re right, of course. But the things we have discovered already… did you realize that at one time this world averaged a hundred-fifty degrees warmer? There was ice only at the poles. For some reason the climate changed suddenly. The seas froze and most of the land was pressed beneath the water. It was yesterday, geologically speaking.”

“That’s interesting,” agreed Ethan absently, his stomach growling for attention. He took a seat.

“And besides that…” Williams stopped, his tone changing to one of admonishment. “You weren’t even listening. You’re like the others, only interested in liquor and money and women.”

“Look, Milliken, I’m fascinated. But I’m also starving after those two climbs. Later, huh?” He fastened his gaze on the platter of steaming meat that magically appeared in front of him.

Williams ignored him and stalked away. He took his seat and seemed to forget the conversation entirely as he plunged into debate with Eer-Meesach. They might have been alone at the table.

They quieted, however, when the Prior raised a clawed old paw and gestured for silence. Ethan hadn’t expected a pre-meal prayer. What he got was just that, and a curious something else.

“We eat of the product of resourcefulness and thought,” said the Prior solemnly. “Our reason says that this is so. May the Brotherhood never falter in its purpose, nor its strength diminish, so that we may forever continue to hold back the ravages of the Dark One.”

That was all. Then the other Brothers—not servants, but members of the society acting in that capacity tonight—began to pass around the plates of meat, vegetables, and baked foods.

Ethan tried several dishes, found them bland but filling.

Hunnar and the two squires fidgeted noticeably at this polite departure from normal table manners. They were not used to eating in a restrained manner. Here, the “he who gets there firstest gets the bestest” theorem did not apply. They managed to keep from attacking the table and allowed themselves to be served like all the others.

For a while, then, no one did anything but eat. The members of the Brotherhood seemed willing to permit matters to continue that way.

But gradually, as stomachs were filled, thoughts other than of consumption occupied the minds of those seated around the table and they began to ask questions.

With Hunnar doing most of the talking, they explained to their attentive hosts how they fought and defeated the Horde, how they came to build the great ice clipper, and their subsequent use of a herd of thunder-eaters to destroy the remainder of the Horde.

When it came to the origin of the humans, Ethan thought a few of the Brothers looked more than just casually interested. One was unabashedly fascinated by the bowdlerized version of their initial landing and first contacts with Hunnar’s folk.

September chipped in with occasional comments and corrections. The du Kanes continued to eat and listen in silence. And the two wizards were off in their own private world, oblivious to human and tran alike.

“An amazing account,” commented the Prior finally, with becoming control. “And one that should be set down for the records… even though some of it taxes the credulity. Alas, you maintain you have not the time.”

“I’m afraid not,” said September, not at all contrite. “We ought to and will be on our way again as soon as repairs on the raft are completed.”

“What a shame,” the Prior added. He sipped easily of a mild brew from his large earthen mug. “Twould make a fine subject for a poem, would it not, Brother Hodjay?”

“Truly it would,” sighed Hodjay. “A pity existence is so brief. You are quite positive you cannot stay?” He looked at Ethan.

“I’m sorry, we really can’t. We should take advantage of the good weather, too.”

The Prior picked at something that looked like a baked pudding with his knife.

“How far have you still to travel?”

“Fifty or sixty satch,” said Hunnar. He added conversationally, “But first we have to reach the Place-Where-The-Earth’s-Blood-Burns.”

There was a crash.

“I… my clumsiness shames me,” said one of the Brothers. He pushed back his chair and knelt to help one of the servers gather up the shards of broken mug.

“Alas, Brother Podren’s development has gone wholly to the brain,” chuckled the Prior easily. The other Brothers made the tran laugh-equivalent. To Ethan it seemed a little forced.

The Prior continued as though nothing had happened.

“Do not be surprised at Brother Podren’s reaction. Not many folk travel to the Place-Where-The-Earth’s-Blood-Burns.”

“Why not?” asked September a little sharply, and then Ethan knew he wasn’t alone in detecting their hosts’ reactions.

The Prior spread his arms, opened his paws. “Superstition. The common folk say strange things about the great smoking mountain.”

“It is a volcano, then,” muttered Ethan to himself. They’d assumed as much all along, but it was nice to have additional confirmation.

“Could you elaborate, Prior?” September pressed.

“Surely. Those who pass too close are said to have their minds affected. Some report seeing odd visions, while others see nothing at all and remain untouched. Others, they say, are drawn toward the mountain as a starving being may be drawn to food. Again, their companions may experience nothing. There is no soil and little grows there. None would live there anyway.”

“Superstition is all that keeps them away?” asked Ethan.

“That, and the fact that the mountain throws out melted earth and choking black dust very often.”

“Oh.”

“But you’ve been there,” said September shrewdly.

The old tran nodded. “I have been close by the place,” he conceded. “I did not set foot on the ground.”

“Because of the superstitions?” September toyed with his pseudo-pudding.

“No. Because at the time it was throwing out melted stone in huge quantities and the heat was appalling. The danger was real and not imaginary. My spirit was quite safe, but there was a real danger to the body. So the ship I was on did not linger in the area. Hopefully, you will have better luck.”