The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers (14 page)

The children, however, were not so shy. Miniatures of the adults, many clad in just jackets or short coats in the gentle breeze, stopped and stared at them with wide cat eyes, compact fluffs of light gray fur. He had to forcibly resist an urge to cuddle them, contenting himself with an occasional pat on an adolescent head.

“The townsfolk don’t seem overly friendly,” September finally commented.

“Being in my care,” Hunnar replied, “it is apparent to all that you are royal guests. It would not be seemly for you to mingle with the common folk.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to mingle for a minute, tradition notwithstanding.” And before Hunnar or anyone else could make a move to stop him, he’d broken away from the tight little group and sauntered over to halt before a small open shop.

Stal Pommer, the elderly proprietor, looked across at the smooth-skinned alien, then helplessly to right and left. His normally loquacious neighbors studiously ignored him.

“How much?” asked September, pointing.

“I … uh, that is … noble sir, lord, I don’t know that—”

“You don’t know?” September interrupted, aghast with mock outrage. “A shopkeeper who doesn’t know the price of his own merchandise? How do you stay in business?” He tugged at his doubled-up shirtfront “I, as you can clearly see, desperately require a good warm coat. I’d like to purchase that one.”

“Yes, lord,” Pommer stammered, regaining a little of his composure. He looked in vain for September’s wings, then gave up in disbelief when he finally realized there was nothing between the big strange one’s wrist and waist but empty air.

“Don’t just stand there gaping,” urged September impatiently. “Take it off the rack and let me try it on.”

“Surely, lord, surely!” Pommer went over to the revolving wooden rack, drew off the indicated coat. He handed it to September. The latter stepped into it and drew the back half up over his shoulders. Then he bent and brought up the front. Holding it closed with a hand at the shoulder, he tied first the right and then the left side with the leather ties. The length was all right but it was a mite too broad. Ethan would have swum in it.

“A little loose at the sides. As I have no need of a wing-slit why don’t you just sew them shut? That should bring it in enough. Leave me just enough room to get my arms through, eh? The leg holes are fine.”

“Ye … yes, lord.”

Under the watchful eyes of the soldiers, the rest of the humans, and half the children in Wannome, Stal Pommer set up the unnatural task of sewing closed the sides of the hessavar coat

“You will not be able to open these now, lord, even to don the garment.”

“That’s the idea, tailor. It’ll be like slipping into a turtle shell, but I’d use rivets if I had to. Clover, it’s the first time I’ve been halfway comfortable since we came down.”

Pommer ignored the itching temptation to inquire into the nature of turtles and rivets and concentrated on his sewing. The needle he used could have doubled as a small sword.

Pommer stepped back. September swung his arms, did a few deep knee bends.

“Not bad a’tall. Wish it had sleeves, though. How much?”

“Um … eighty foss,” suggested Pommer, hesitantly peeking around the alien bulk.

Sir Hunnar growled softly and put his hand to sword hilt.

“But for you noble lord,” he squeaked hurriedly, “only sixty, only sixty!” Hunnar grunted and went back to studying the pavement.

“Well, I haven’t any of the local lucre,” mused the big man, rubbing at the ice mat on his chin. That woke the old tailor up. For a minute there the human took on the appearance of a shifty type that transcended race, Landgrave’s men-at-arms or no. “But maybe this will do.” He removed something from his shirt blocking it from Hunnar’s view with his body. “This,” he explained, “is combination knife and fork. Very simple instrument. Made of duralloy. Standard survival kit issue. We’ve others.”

“What knife?” asked the oldster, intrigued. “I see only a little square of metal.”

“Press this depression, here, in the center of the square.” Pommer did so, hesitantly. He jumped a little when knife and fork sprang from opposite ends of the square.

“I can’t for the life of me imagine what you’ll do with the fork,” said September conversationally. “But that blade ought to be useful in your work. It’s a damnsight better than your best steel. And it’ll never lose its edge, nor break. Should last you and your kids a long time, what? That survival stuff is built to take it.”

The tailor didn’t understand this odd creature completely. But he could tell the bargain of the age when he saw it.

“Uh … it surely seems an equitable exchange, lord.” He was so excited and nervous he missed the square in his first grab at it. He pulled it out of sight quickly, before Hunnar or any of the other soldiers could see what it was. “Thank you, lord, thank you!” he muttered, bowing obsequiously. “Please visit my humble shop again.”

Hunnar was fidgeting aimlessly. “Are you quite finished?”

“Yes, thanks,” replied September.

A familiar voice piped from the little knot of humanity.

“Hey, what about me?” said Walther.

“What about you?” replied September coldly. He turned back to Hunnar. “This is the first time since we landed on your world that I’ve been warm. I couldn’t wait any longer. Sorry if I upset your protocol. Say,” he finished innocently, “aren’t we going to be late for that appointment?”

“I should not be surprised,” Hunnar snapped, turning away. Ethan noticed that the big man kept the knight answering questions all the way up the hill. Probably to keep him from thinking about what September had paid the tailor with. It might occur to the knight later, but by then it would be a little late to invalidate the exchange.

The walls of Wannome castle were surrounded by a deep, narrow moat. Empty, of course. This was spanned by a short drawbridge. The walls themselves rose vertically for fifteen meters and more, solid gray and black rock and masonry. Wannome had its share of craftsmen, Ethan reflected, and not only smiths.

Two lancers flanked the sides of the bridge entrance. They wore coats of inscribed tooled leather with shields of leather and worked bronze. Each carried a slim, steel-tipped spear. The helmets had openings for the ears, and a nose-piece down the center. They swept out and down in a backside flare to protect the neck.

The young tran who met them just inside the high gate was garbed in similar fashion. Only his leather was inlaid with silver in sharp relief and he wore a sword much like Hunnar’s strapped to one leg. Also, his helmet was made from silver-inlaid leather and had imitation silver flames worked along the crest. A four-square gray patch, a tiny double of the pennant at the pier, was sewn over his left breast.

He arrived panting for breath. “The Landgrave bids you to him quick.”

Sir Hunnar frowned, made a half turn to Ethan. “Not good. I hope we haven’t gotten you off on his Lordship’s bad side.” He glared over at September as though that worthy were personally responsible for any forthcoming dire consequence. September whistled cheerfully and smiled back.

“Now I must ponder on a fair excuse,” Hunnar muttered.

“Why not tell him the truth?” queried September as they followed the garishly-clad herald across a courtyard. “That I stopped to buy myself a coat because I was freezing to death?”

“On a day like today, of pleasing warmth? No, even I still cannot realize that you are used to living in fire itself. But to confess that you stopped to converse with a tailor before the Landgrave himself … ?” Hunnar looked horrified. “No, no! He would have you all spitted out of hand.”

“Easier said than done,” replied September, unmoved. “Besides, if I’d frozen solid I wouldn’t have presented much in the way of available conversation, would I?”

“There is that,” admitted Hunnar seriously. “His Lordship does appreciate candor. We’ll see. He may be so curious about you he will forget to be insulted.”

They passed through another small open area. Ethan noticed a smith taking the dents out of a bronze shield in a glowing cubby off to their right. The attraction was in the fire. A few soldiers leaned idly at arms to the side of another door, a far cry from the ramrod-straight troops they’d encountered at the drawbridge entrance. Another bunch were seated in the shade playing what appeared to be a variant of the universal game—dice.

They entered the inner keep, walked through a long hall to a wide staircase.

Up they went, then a turn, then up another. They’d gone halfway up the second when there was a sudden squeal of surprise from behind. For a second Ethan thought they’d lost Colette. But she’d only strayed too far to the center and stepped onto the gleaming ice path. From there it was a short but fast slide back to the bottom step. Her dignity and one other part were bruised, but there was no lingering damage.

After remounting the stairs their guide made a hard left. They passed another set of ubiquitous guards. Then a right turn down another hallway, and another, and they entered a long, vaulted hall. A group of three tran awaited them at its far end. To one side a great fire blazed in a huge fireplace. The temperature in here might even be slightly above freezing, Ethan reflected.

“No, I shall announce you,” the herald cautioned. He strode off down the long, brightly dyed rug that covered the bare stone floor. There was a seemingly endless table to each side, with chairs and odd writhing candlesticks.

“Remember,” Hunnar whispered to Ethan as they walked slowly behind the herald, “he’s tough and stringy, but not vicious. Not intentionally so, anyway. I’m told we’ve had harder rulers. At least he’s not an idiot, like his half-brother.”

“Will we get to meet this half-brother?” asked Williams clinically.

“Not unless you’ve even stranger means of transport than your metal ship. When his fault became obvious, he was put to death.”

“Dear me,” replied the schoolmaster, taken aback. That seems rather extreme.”

“Our way,” said Hunnar simply.

“This is an extreme world,” added September. “You don’t get supported by others here, what?” Then he spoke to Ethan. “Take your time, young feller, and say what you think best.”

The herald had stopped ahead of them. Now he turned and boomed, “Sir Hunnar Redbeard, Squire Suaxus-dal-Jagger, and Squire Budjir Hotahg, with the party of outlanders!”

“Outlanders?” September looked askance at the knight.

“That is what they’ve been calling you,” Hunnar replied. “For lack of a better term. Slowly now; watch me.”

They followed the knight the last dozen meters. Ethan had a moment to scan those awaiting them. Then Sir Hunnar bowed low, crossing his arms over his head and covering himself with his wings. They all imitated the movement as best they could, not rising until the knight had done so.

“My lord,” he began, “these folk crave mercy for intruding upon the province of the people. They seek protection and mayhap service. They are on a … ” he hesitated for a second, “a pilgrimage to far parts of the world. Their metal sky-ship was disabled as though by the Father of Rifs and they are cast upon us for deliverance.”

An old, tall tran with solid gray fur put both hands on the arms of his throne. The Landgrave stood erect. Ethan noticed that the back of the throne was carved from what seemed to be a single unbroken pillar of ivory that rose all the way to the high roof. It was inscribed with symbols and etching as far up as he could see. The thing was as big as a good-sized tree.

The Landgrave was dressed in flowing leather and silks. Hammered metal plate decorated with silver thread formed a complex, flashing breastplate. A single leather band with a bright metal rectangle of gold set in the forehead was all that passed for a crown. He did, however, wield an elaborately carved wooden staff nearly two and a half meters tall. It was thin, a polished mahogany-color, studded with cabochons in red and bright blue. A few faceted gems adorned the knob at the top.

“Sir Ethan Frome Fortune,” declaimed Hunnar, pointing Ethan out before he could protest the undeserved title, “I present you to the right-true-and-just Torsk Kurdagh-Vlata, Landgrave of Sofold, and True Protector of Wannome.”

“We are honored in the presence of your father’s father and self, son-of-the-wind,” Ethan intoned, giving the rehearsed speech his best sales pitch.

“You are welcome, outlanders,” the Landgrave replied. His voice was startlingly high for a tran, compared to those they’d already encountered. The Landgrave gestured to his right at an incredibly shriveled but bright-eyed old individual dressed entirely in black silks. He wore a black headband.

“My personal adviser, Malmeevyn Eer-Meesach.”

“The honor is mine, noble sirs,” responded the wizard smoothly. He was eyeing them with such obvious naked anticipation that he made Ethan a little nervous. That same stare had been applied to laboratory rats with uncertain futures. As it developed, he was doing the old tran an injustice.

“And this,” continued Kurdagh-Vlata, turning to his left, “is my daughter and only cub, the Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata.”

The gesture was directed at a surprisingly lissome and nearly naked female tran. She gazed down at Ethan with a stare far more disconcerting than the wizard’s. Considering the temperature in the great hall, her garb seemed an open invitation to pneumonia.

Something hit him a sharp rap in the shin and he spun. September smiled at him.

“Time enough later for sight-seeing, me lad,” he murmured in Terranglo. “No wonder friend Hunnar was convinced of our similarity.”

“What?” he said brilliantly. He returned his gaze to the throne, found the Landgrave watching him impatiently.

“Your companions,” whispered Hunnar urgently.

“Oh, yes.” He stepped to one side and made a grand sweeping gesture. “Um, Sir Skua September …”

September performed a bow full of intricate hand gestures. It confused Ethan but the Landgrave appeared delighted.

“Hellespont du Kane, a … ah … merchant of great renown on his world. His daughter, Colette du Kane …”

Du Kane executed a marvelously supple bow that surprised both Ethan and September. Colette hesitated, then followed with an awkward curtsey.