The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers (15 page)

“And Walther, um … ”

“You’re still not going to learn my last name, buddy, until it’s too late to do you any good,” the kidnapper muttered in Terranglo.

“Yes?” prompted the Landgrave.

Ethan looked uncertainly to September.

“A criminal in our custody,” said the big man easily. “One not to be trusted and to be watched every moment. He secreted himself aboard our ship and …”

“It’s all a lie!” shouted Walther abruptly. “They’re the criminals, not me! I was taking them all to justice, when—”

September turned on him. “Quiet, punk,” he said in Terranglo. “I can break your head right now. The Landgrave and I can argue about who was telling the truth afterwards. I’ll let your spirit know how it comes out.”

The little kidnapper shut up.

“Sir Hunnar?” queried the Landgrave. “What means this outburst?”

“I believe what Sir Ethan and Sir Skua say to be the right truth, your Lordship. The hysterical one is evil and clever.”

“Well then, can we not do our new-welcomed guests a service? Order him dispatched out of hand!”

“Ah, that is not the way of our people, your Lordship,” put in Ethan hastily. “He must present himself and his crimes before a special machine. The machine, being impartial and unemotional, will give justice fairly.”

“Where is justice if your emotions are not involved?” the Landgrave countered. “Not to mind. We have but just met and here find I discussing the fine points of jurisprudence. Other matters attend. I welcome you as friends and allies. You shall be given rooms and whatever you need for personal comfort. Tonight dine with my knights and I. Your home is here now.” Whereupon he sat down with great dignity and obvious satisfaction.

Ethan paused. “There is one matter we should discuss now, your Lordship. The question of aid for our continuing journey westward.”

“Journey? Journey? What is this, Sir Hunnar?” said the Landgrave gruffly. “Squire Suaxus, you said nothing to me of a journey.”

“I did not have time, my Lord, for—”

Sir Hunnar broke in “They do not understand, my Lord. Remember, they are truly from another world.”

“Be that as it may,” said Kurdagh-Vlata stiffly, “we know nothing of moving from one world to another.”

“That is so, my Lord,” continued Hunnar. “Yet they say their folk have a town aways from Wannome. ’Tis there they wish to travel. Some eight or nine thousand satch.”

“An afternoon jaunt, yes.”

“But if they could reach their friends, Lord, they might bring more metal and perhaps other—”

“Enough!” snorted the Landgrave. “They would no doubt require a raft for this journey, perhaps several?”

“Possibly more than one, Lord.”

“With full crews, and provisions, and soldiers to protect from pirates?”

“True, my Lord, but—”

“Tis out of the question!”

“But your Lordship—” began Ethan.

“They are gifting us with their vessel, my Lord,” said Hunnar. “A veritable mountain of metal. Without obligation. ’Twould pay for such a trip many, many times over.”

“Yes it would. Tis generous of them, to give away what they can no longer use. Nor protect.”

Ethan started to protest, but guessed rightly that was just what the Landgrave was hoping he’d do. He kept silent.

“Absolutely impossible—at the moment. Perhaps in a malet or so. After we have treated with the abominators.”

“Yes, my Lord!” boomed a huge voice from the back of the hall. “How
are
we to deal with the abominators?”

Everyone turned to the source of those stentorian tones.

A tran they hadn’t seen before was striding toward them. He was resplendent in azure and emerald silks, overlaid with fine leather bindings and straps. His beard was longer than Hunnar’s and tinged with white over the steel-gray.

The eyes were sunken deep under hairy brows. As he drew closer another aspect of his person was made clear. Here was the first really fat tran they’d encountered.

“Darmuka Brownoak,” announced the herald, rather after the question. “Prefect of Wannome!”

“What’s all this mean?” September whispered to Hunnar.

“Darmuka is prefect of the city and a powerful member in Council besides,” the knight replied. “A very forceful and stubborn individual. Also ambitious and greedy. And very wealthy, which in the long run ’tis more important than all the others. There are few richer than he. The Landgrave is one, of course. Of the others, some support him, some Darmuka.”

“Hmm. Political conflict,” murmured Ethan to no one in particular. “I thought the Landgrave had absolute power?”

“In all decisions the Landgrave has
final
power,” said Hunnar. “This does not mean he imprudently acts against the wishes of a majority of influential citizens.” The knight quieted as the prefect came within hearing distance.

Darmuka put one foot up on the dais and surveyed the gathering with interest and undisguised contempt.

“So these are the strange ones who come on a raft of flying metal, eh?” he said almost challengingly. “They surely are strange strangers.”

“You’re no interstellar sex god yourself, fatso,” countered September. Ethan winced, but the prefect merely grunted satisfaction.

“There will be no insulting of guests in my presence,” declared Kurdagh-Vlata rather lamely.

“Insult?” The prefect put both paws delicately on his chest and drew himself erect. “I, insult a visitor to the Council Chamber? I?” He turned and looked intently around the room then, so hard that the herald and even the Landgrave couldn’t resist doing the same. The prefect stared at the ceiling and even raised the corner of a throw fur to glance beneath it.

“By the by,” he continued in mock surprise, “where
is
the Council? I do believe a quorum is not present. Here we have six alien creatures of unknown power and intentions. They bring with them a ship of more forged metal than Wannome has seen since the Great Sack. And not a member of the Council present … other than my poor, hastily arrived self, of course.” He looked innocently at the Landgrave. “Is this in accordance with the Charter of Council? Perhaps the Council should be called into session, to discuss their absence. Since they are not here, it cannot be debated. Dear me, a paradox.”

“I did not feel it necessary yet to trouble the full Council with such an odd matter,” replied Kurdagh-Vlata. It sounded mighty feeble to Ethan.

“I see,” said Brownoak. “As is well known, his Lordship’s wisdom exceeds all of ours combined. I bow to his decision.” Darmuka executed a sloppy half-bow. “However, as I entered, I think ’twas mentioned something about ‘dealing with the Horde.’ Would you say, milord, that anything which relates to that matter is of more than odd nature? Worthy perhaps even for discussion by Council, as it does affect every adult and cub in the great land of Sofold?”

“Yes, surely,” Kurdagh-Vlata responded.

“Then might it not be prudent to postpone any discussion of matters relating to such until full Council has been gathered?” Kurdagh-Vlata said nothing and Darmuka prompted, “Is this agreed, milord?”

“I … oh, very well, Darmuka! Confound your impudence!” He stood abruptly and struck the floor twice with the base of the jeweled staff. Sir Hunnar and Darmuka both bowed. The humans copied them. The Landgrave then retired, taking his daughter and advisor with him.

“Tis good to see you returned safe and whole, Sir Hunnar,” said Brownoak. “Did your expedition include any successful massacres?”

“We met no one, so we fought with no one, spineless messenger,” replied the knight stiffly. He smiled slightly at the other. But this time a flash of white was visible between his lips. Clearly he was controlling himself with an effort.

“How very fortunate. I should be distressed to see one of our finest knights injured over such an odd matter. Especially with a crisis approaching. Good day to you, outlanders.” He bowed toward Ethan. “We shall undoubtedly see more of each other.”

With a fluttering of sea-colored silk and rich brown hides, the prefect stalked off down the hall.

“Well,” said Hellespont, “I may not have the grasp of the local language that you gentlemen possess, but that chap is of a type I need no words to recognize.”

“He’s a character, all right,” September commented in Trannish, nodding. He looked over at Hunnar and grinned. “You two aren’t exactly blood-brothers, I take it.”

“The Brownoak has less blood for battle than a jelly-moss,” spat the knight, staring after the other. “That one so bereft of heart should wield so much power … Worse, he is an unconscionable butcher who would dress the whole province for rape, content in the rightness of his way!”

He sighed. “Come. I will take you to rooms. And there is something of great significance you should be informed of before we can discuss your journey any further. Or before you are put before the Council … I will see to the transfer of your food to your apartments. The Council, however, will expect you to dine with them. Can you eat our food?”

“It’s a long way from the Honeybucket Room in the Grand Hotel on Hivehom, but I think we can manage,” replied September.

“That one,” said Ethan, reminding Hunnar of Walther’s presence, “should dine alone in his room, with a guard in attendance. One who is not susceptible to bribery.”

Walther shook his head but said nothing. “I’m even smaller than the lady du Kane and you’re all frightened of me.”

September just laughed.

“I will see to it,” said Sir Hunnar.

E
THAN’S ROOM WAS NEATLY
furnished. He suspected his accommodations were fancy by local standards. If Wannome was a typical province capital, then the trade prospects for the planet were far better than anyone had guessed. Why, in precious metalwork alone … and these marvelous coats …

Now, if he could only find a way to file a report! …

The big canopied bed had damask-like draperies and covers. He wondered how such material was made. All of the wealthy tran they’d encountered so far had been clad in similar material. Neatly worked, too. He doubted the material came from silkworms. If there were insects on this world they kept themselves scarce. Any self-respecting silkworm would turn to a small lump of frozen flesh in a short day. And they didn’t seem advanced enough for artificial fabric. Another mystery to unravel.

The bed was probably intended for a single occupant, but it was three times the width of any single bed he’d ever slept on. The wooden chest at its foot was intricately carved. A huge mirror covered much of one wall, no doubt just the right size for an adult tran.

A real double bed must be an ocean of morphean comfort.

The door bolted solidly—from the inside only, he noted—although the bolt itself was made of hardwood and not metal. Wannome’s designers had left nothing to chance in creating their guest suites. The door would hold well enough to keep out the casual thief, but not well enough to resist a concerted charge from a couple of well-muscled guardsmen.

He also noticed a small but elaborately set whetstone. It was placed near the foot of the bed and could be operated with one foot. Its purpose escaped him for a moment. It was too low to conveniently sharpen a knife, for example. Then he realized it was for putting an edge on one’s own chiv.

That must be the normal routine on awakening, he mused. Rise early, wash, clean, and sharpen your feet

Something else was troubling him more, until he chanced to open the heavy chest. It was filled with thick, wide furs. They weren’t as smooth-looking as the odd diaper-like coats everyone wore, but they were heavy and warm. There was no fireplace in the room, and the single window was open to the sky. Without the furs there would be no way he could sleep through the temperature drop at night.

He walked over to the window, which was high and narrow. There was a complicated wooden shutter arrangement that would serve to keep out the wind if not the cold.

It wouldn’t keep out a determined enemy, though. Then he looked out and down. He’d forgotten how many steps they’d mounted.

The south side of the island was precipitous here, and the castle of Wannome was built right to the edge. It was a killing fall to the ice below. With a little imagination he could almost see waves breaking against the cliff. Perhaps they had once, millions of years ago. This side of the castle, at least, was invulnerable.

Leaning out into the biting wind, he squinted and saw that the high cliff continued westward for a fair distance before dropping down to the ice. An occasional flash of green broke the whiteness.

A look at the sky. Let’s see, he thought. The tran have their evening meal at sunset. That should leave him a couple of local-time hours before he’d be expected to put in an appearance. When he had time it might be a good idea to revisit that tailor. Maybe he could make underclothes as well as coats. The outfit he’d been wearing on the
Antares
when he’d been abducted—was that one or two thousand years ago?—was not conducive to strenuous living.

The special survival parka he was wearing was holding up beautifully. But below the surface, so to speak, things were beginning to get a bit raunchy. There was a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” he said without turning.

The voice that replied did make him turn. It said, “Good wind,” and wasn’t human.

The Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata, heiress to the throne of Wannome, closed the door gently behind her. Her caution was disconcerting. She bolted it. That was ominous.

“I apologize for these rooms.” Her speech was husky. “They were the best father could do on such short notice. And we’ve little idea of your needs.”

Ethan walked away from the window and not incidentally put the bed between them. If that was supposed to faze her she didn’t show it She walked over and sat on the end. The human contour analog was astounding. She drew swirls in the silken coverlet.

“Do you really come from another world?” she asked breathlessly. Her outfit was done up like holiday packaging—by a clumsy six-year-old. The fact that the skin beneath was covered with light gray fur made it appear no less naked. Excepting the feline head and broad feet, and those piercing vertical pupils, she might have passed for a tridee starlet clad in skin-tight mink.