Brian Murphy - The Search For Magic

“What do you think they’re thinking right now?” he said.

Raegel grinned. “They’re likely wondering what a big berg like this is doing so far from Icewall!”

The ship, a tubby two-master flying the colors of Solamnia, closed rapidly. It crossed the narrow “bow” of the island and drove down the length of the iceberg, barely a cable’s length away. Mixun and Raegel waved cheerfully to the astonished sailors working the rigging of the merchant ship.

The two-master sailed on, and so did the floe. The vast, bulky berg could not manage much speed, but the gnomish machines were tireless, and drove them at a tireless pace. Within three days, they were passing through the Sirrion Straits into the southern sea. The farther north they went, the more shipping they encountered. Five days after the Splash, the iceberg entered the major trading route between the western islands and the mainland. An hour did not pass without some vessel in sight-fat argosies with scarlet sails, trim sloops with brightly striped hulls, and dull gray fishing smacks from the coast of Kharolis. Their reaction to the mighty floe was the same: all put their helms over and steered wide of the glistening apparition.

All but one ship, that is. At sunset on the fifth day, a lugger appeared astern, loafing in the wake created by the iceberg’s paddles. Its green hull and dark blue sails made the craft hard to see against the water or evening sky. Mixun spotted the lugger and hunted up Raegel to get his opinion. The gangling redhead, munching a frozen fish fritter from the Efficient Eatery (every day was experimental food day, it seemed), climbed the ridge and followed his friend’s pointing finger until he spied the small ship.

“Pirates,” he said flatly.

“My thought too!” Mixun said. He dodged to and fro, nervously flexing his hands. “I wish I had a sword!”

“Why?”

“Why? Why? Pirates, that’s why!”

“I don’t think they’ll bother us,” said Raegel, pulling an uneaten fish tail out of his mouth and tossing it aside. “We’re not exactly a rich merchant ship.”

Mixun insisted on warning the gnomes, and Raegel agreed. They slipped and slid down the hill to camp. It was much warmer in the Sirrion Sea, and the iceberg was melting noticeably. Every surface was covered with a thin sheen of water, rendering everything slicker than an old gnome’s bald pate. Raegel and Mixun got used to falling down, but the gnomes embarked on an orgy of invention, trying to come up with devices to provide sure and steady walking. As the two men made their way to the Chief Designer’s house, they passed through a mob of bizarrely equipped gnomes. Some were on stilts. Others had fastened various spiky protuberances to their feet, while some merely sought to lessen the damage of frequent falling by covering their bottoms with pads and pillows.

Upon reaching the Chief Designer’s door, they saw a hand-lettered sign that read PULL STRING. There was no string in sight.

“Now what?” asked Mixun.

Raegel pointed to another, smaller sign over the doorknob: IN CASE OF STRING FAILURE, RING BELL.

“What bell?” Mixun demanded, voice rising.

As if in answer, a young gnome appeared through a swinging flap cut in the bottom of the door. He handed Mixun a brass hand bell, bowed, and crawled back through the door flap. The stocky fighter looked to his friend for guidance.

“Ring it,” said Raegel.

Mixun tried. He swung the bell hard, but instead of “ding-ding” or “clang,” the bell made a sweetly musical sound, like a songbird. It contrasted so sharply to the expected sound of a bell Mixun almost dropped it. He tried again, and the bell again went “tweet-tweet.”

“Even their bells are crazy!” he said.

The young gnome reappeared, opening the door this time. He did not admit the men but emerged with a step ladder and a ball of twine. Without a word, he set up the ladder and used it to replace the broken cord on a bracket beside the door. Once more he bowed and went back inside.

“Oh no,” said Mixun. “I’m not pulling any string. It’s your turn!”

With much affected dignity, Raegel grasped the string. “Twine waits for no man,” he said, giving the line a yank. No bell rang. There was a flat, flatulent sound, and a strange, unnatural voice boomed, “Come in!”

Mixun opened the door. Inside, he saw the string was attached to a bellows. When pulled, it forced air through a series of carved, flute-like tubes. Wind passing through the holes made the device speak two understandable words. Muttering, Mixun and Raegel went inside.

The Chief Designer, whose beard was longer than its owner was tall, was perched on a tall stool in the center of a round table. He was drawing furiously on a long roll of parchment, and when he finished what he was doing, he tore off that portion of the roll and handed it to a waiting assistant. This room, and the room beyond, was filled with young gnomes seated at long communal tables, busily scratching away with long quill pens.

“Ah, hmm,” Raegel said, clearing his throat.

“Yes, what is it?” said the Chief Designer, not looking up from his frantic scribbling.

Raegel stopped. He didn’t know how to address the gnome properly. While he dithered, Mixun burst out, “There’s a pirate ship following us!”

“Is there?”

The gnome’s mild response surprised both men. “Yes, I’m quite sure,” said Mixun.

“That’s interesting. Of course, we are passing within ten nautical miles of Cape Enstar. I understand the region is infested with maritime malefactors.”

“What?”

“Pirates,” said Raegel. “Cape Enstar crawls with pirates like flies on horse dung. Can we change course, steer wide of the cape?”

The Chief Designer finally looked up. “Change course? No.” He resumed drawing.

“But why? There may be danger if we stay on this heading!”

“Give me the rate figures for surface alluviation,” he commanded. Six gnomes slid off their benches and came running with sheaves of paper covered in close columns of figures. The Chief Designer ran through four sheets, tossing the unwanted pages in the air, until he came to the one he sought.

“Can’t change course,” he said. “We’ll lose too much ice if we do. Must get home with the maximum amount of ice.”

“What if the pirates attack?” asked Mixun.

The head gnome shrugged. “The ice must be defended.”

“How? Do you have weapons?”

“No, but we will invent some. I will appoint an Emergency Committee for Iceberg Defense.”

Both men were about to protest, but the Chief Designer turned his back on them and resumed work. The other gnomes ignored them too, so they left.

“Little fools,” Mixun said when they were outside. “I could take this berg with fifty good men.”

“No doubt, but what would you do with this gnome-man’s land?” Raegel said. Mixun winced and changed the subject.

By night, lights appeared to the north-colored and, in some cases, blinking. Mixun was sure the Enstar pirates were signaling the lugger on their tail. He hunted through the gnomes’ trash heap, looking for a suitable weapon. He found a staff of seasoned wood and lashed Tamaro’s dagger to it, making a workable spear. It seemed mighty inadequate for defending an island three miles long from an unknown number of pirates.

Dawn came with slate gray clouds towering in the southwest, and the low green coast of Enstar was in sight. It was warm enough now for Mixun to discard his mantle and go about in his shirt. He sat atop the slowly melting ridge, watching the sea. There were now two luggers tailing them. The wind had died when the sun rose, but the luggers had run out oars and were rowing to keep up with the iceberg.