The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers (55 page)

Considering the mood of the group, Ethan decided it wasn’t the time for him to insist on civilized treatment of the captive. He had enough to do keeping his balance as two other Tran pulled him over the ice.

He glanced at his wrist. It was sixty centigrade below.

Happy embraces and greetings were exchanged
en masse
when the little group reached the ship, greetings made doubly fervent at the news that the party had suffered not a single casualty.

Ethan had been expecting furious cries and shouts from behind for the past ten minutes. Evidently the guard still hadn’t been changed back at the unsuspecting fortress. Or if it had and Elfa’s escape had been discovered, the inhabitants were still debating what to do. By the time they made up their minds to attack again, if they did so, the
Slanderscree
should be far out of reach.

Ta-hoding was already directing the recovery of the anchors. While the captain didn’t like the idea of maneuvering the great ship at night and grumbled about it unceasingly, for once his icemanship took second place to military necessity.

Questioning of the captive began the following morning, when the icerigger was far from the cliffs of Arsudun Isle and the glaring sun showed only clean bare ice behind them.

Though Ethan was interested in most aspects of Trannish culture, he elected to remain far from the bow where the inquiry was taking place. The wind swallowed most of the screams that deck distance didn’t. As he fought to ignore those faint, ululating cries he found himself unable not to think of the gap that separated him from his Tran friends. That gap would not vanish, for all that he would have given his life for Hunnar and vice-versa.

Possibly Ethan’s great-grandfather many generations removed would have been more empathetic, would have participated in the questioning process with the same cruel indifference of Elfa and Balavere and the others. Such barbarisms were common enough to man’s past, up through the twenty-first century, old calendar.

On reflection, though, he was forced to admit that the differences between modern Commonwealth civilization and the feudal methodology employed by the Tran were not so very great. All that distinguished the former from the latter were some informal, mutual understandings known as morals and a few encoded as laws.

There were plenty of citizens in his society who ignored the first while trying to subvert the second. He ought not to raise himself too high, lest the hypocrisy of current civilization make him fall too far. At least the Tran’s methods had the virtues of directness and simplicity, even if they were messy. One particularly lengthy, quavering moan reached him across the deck and he found himself unable to repress a shudder.

Troubled, he mounted the steps parallel to the ice-path ascending the helmdeck. Ta-hoding, as always, stood like a part of his beloved ship close by the great curve of the wheel, staring forward. Occasionally he would snap a command to his helmsmen and the wheel would move, or he would shout to the nearest mate some instructions which found their way up the rigging to the sailors working there.

He was the fattest Tran Ethan had encountered, an easy-going, pacifistic sort, less blood-thirsty in manner than the common sailors or professional knights and squires.

“What are they doing to him?”

“The captive?” Ta-hoding kept his gaze on the ice far ahead, sliding beneath the bowsprit. “They are questioning him, friend Ethan.”

A faint hissing as of frying bacon sounded above the wind, the noise produced by the five huge duralloy runners slicing across the ice.

“I know that, but … how?”

Ta-hoding appeared to consider the question seriously before finally responding. “I do not know how it is with your people, or with the people here, but in Wannome and its neighboring cities the procedure for interrogating a war prisoner is quite standard ritual.

“To demonstrate his bravery and the strength and honor of his family, the captive will lie eloquently or refuse to answer at all. Thus he issues a challenge to his captors that he is more resourceful and courageous than they. Questions will be put to him, or her, with increasing intensity until the captive can no longer resist. He will then provide proper answers.

“The amount of time and effort the captors must employ to finally force those correct, honest replies will determine how much merit the prisoner earns for use in the afterlife.”

“What happens when there are no more questions?” Ta-hoding looked surprised. “The captive is killed, of course.”

“But that’s inhuman!” Ice crystals scoured his face mask.

Ta-hoding turned his gaze temporarily from the ocean ahead. “We do not lay claim to virtues of being human, friend Ethan. We are Tran. I saw your own sword turned red at the battle of Wannome. Tell me, how do you obtain answers from someone in your own culture who does not wish to cooperate with his captors, or authorities?”

“He’s put on a stress analyzer,” Ethan replied. “A machine. It monitors his answers
painlessly
and can always tell when a subject is telling the truth.”

“Suppose,” said Ta-hoding thoughtfully, “the prisoner refuses to reply at all?”

“In that case he’s bound over under constraint … locked up until he decides of his own accord to answer.”

“And if he decides never to answer?”

“He stays under constraint, I suppose.”

“And you never obtain the answers you require. Very inefficient. Our way is better.”

“Just a second,” Ethan said. “How do you know his final answers aren’t lies? That he’s only pretending to tell the truth after you’ve tort—questioned him?”

Ta-hoding’s surprise was greater than before. He looked and sounded deeply shocked. “A captive would lose all the merit he’d gained by his resistance. He would die without merit to carry him through the afterlife!”

Ethan changed his own questioning. “After he has answered all the questions put to him, honestly and truthfully, if what you claim actually is the case, then why kill him?”

“Not all are killed.”

“Well, why kill this one?”

“Because he deserves it.” Was there a note of pity for Ethan in the captain’s voice? Nuances of Tran speech could still give Ethan trouble.

He decided to say something, changed his mind. Better to drop the discussion when the subject of it was still undergoing ordeal.

Or was he? Ethan strained, heard only the rush of wind and sizzle of runner against ice.

September and Hunnar made their way onto the deck. Ethan wondered if his oversized companion had actually watched the procedure. At times he felt a tremendous fondness for the giant, for his easy good humor, his utter disregard for danger and willingness to risk himself for a friend. At other times …

Skua September, he reflected, was kin to the Tran in ways other than physical size. When those ways manifested themselves, they made Ethan and Milliken Williams more than a little uncomfortable. He viewed September’s personality as an apple. The skin of civilization was bright and polished, but very, very thin.

“Well, young feller-me-lad, we’ve learned what needed to be learned.”

“I’m sure you did,” Ethan replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. But he couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Who did the final killing? You, Sir Hunnar?”

The Tran knight looked upset. “I, friend Ethan? I would not break courtesy so! It was not my place, the honor of dispatching one who had gained much merit not rightfully mine. That was left,” he added casually, “to the one most offended in the matter.”

Refusing to allow Ethan to ignore the obvious, September finished with fine, indifferent brutality, “The girl did it. Who else? She wanted to do it slowly,” he continued conversationally, “but Hunnar and Balavere overruled her. Since the captive held out long and bravely, she had to be satisfied with cutting off his—”

Ethan put his hands over his ears beneath the suit, moved them only when September’s mouth stopped moving. He felt sick.

“You didn’t hear,” the giant said gently, “how they treated her.”

“What items of enormous value did you beat out of him?” Ethan muttered disconsolately.

September moved to the railing, looked down at the lightly snow-dusted ice whisking past beneath the ship. “That attack on us was about as accidental and unpremeditated as the one back in the tavern in Arsudun.

“Our prisoner held a rank somewhere between knight and squire. The commander of the fortress was not quite a full knight. They received orders—the prisoner didn’t know exactly when—to assault the
Slander-scree
as it rounded the island’s southern headland and take it if possible.”

“He did not know,” Hunnar broke in, “who sent the orders. His commander never told him. But when it was mentioned that you and friend September were aboard, human outlanders, there were questions from the common garrison. They had been taught that humans were not to be harmed.”

September, turning from the railing, continued. “For the purposes of this one attack, it seems that that special admonition was to be ignored. Such instructions suggested to our prisoner and to us that the order for the attack came from someone very important and influential, perhaps even the Landgrave of Arsudun. The prisoner refused to believe this.

“I suspect something more than that, feller-me-lad.” The railing groaned with his weight. “The
Slanderscree
’s a rich prize for any locals. But for the local Landgrave to countenance the murder of us happy hairless ones, he must feel pretty confident of his position. Matter of fact, he’d have to be almost positive that if the attack failed and word of it got back to Brass Monkey, he wouldn’t be subject to reprisals from the local Commonwealth authorities. Which suggests to me that there’s collusion between this Landgrave and someone mighty important inside the station hierarchy.”

“Trell?”

September considered Ethan’s suggestion uncertainly. “I dunno. He was nice enough to us. I’d think someone immediately below him, maybe even that portmaster Xenaxis. He supervises every kilo of trade. It could be anyone with a stake in maintainin’ the present monopoly on Tran trade.

“What’s important is this means we can’t expect help from anyone in Brass Monkey while we’re outside the station confines. It’s open season until the next Commonwealth ship arrives in orbit. That’s two months away. If we return and report now, we’ll spend two months fending off assassinations in one form or another. Now that we’ve been openly attacked, whoever’s covering for the Landgrave or high Arsudun native official will take steps to cover his tracks.” He glanced down toward the central cabin, where Eer-Meesach and Williams were engaged in frenetic conversation.

“I’d like more discussion, though, before we decide for sure.”

Ethan had to give September that. He wasn’t afraid to ask for another’s opinions, and to change his own if their arguments proved better.

“I think our best bet is to proceed with our original plan and try to get this confederation of island-states started. If we go back to Brass Monkey and present Trell with a fait accompli, I don’t think he or whoever’s behind all this will try anything. No point in killing us when the monopoly’s effectively broken. Leastwise, I hope he’ll be that sensible.”

“Of course, this may all be so much endophin-swill and it may’ve been a local attack pure and simple.” He looked astern, to where the southern cliffs of Arsudun Isle had shrunk to the size of a modest bump on the horizon.

“We would have taken the ship,” the half-angry, half-frightened voice insisted, “were it not for the intervention of the sky-outlanders. They had with them the short knives that fight with pieces of sun.” Disgust colored the voice now.

“Of what use is sword or arrow against weapons that can pierce shields and set rafts afire?”

Calonnin Ro-Vijar slumped against the back of the massively timbered armchair and gazed out the third-floor window of the castle. From here, he could see down across the irregular roofs of the city and out across the harbor, could see up the strait almost to the open ice sea. By moving to another window nearby he could study the strange, smooth buildings of the humans and the three glassy bowls where their tiny vessels touched down out of the sky, vessels which brought riches beyond conception every time one arrived.

Riches now threatened.

He became aware of the other’s waiting stare, turned to face the worried noble who attended on him. They were alone in the Landgrave’s private quarters. This was necessary. The words they exchanged now were too dangerous to be overheard even by the most trusted members of his court. Hence he chose to receive Obel Kasin here and not in the chamber of formal audience.

He knew his continued silence was increasing Kasin’s nervousness. Still he did not speak, but watched the slim noble, noting the bandage across the side of his neck, the ragged tear badly patched in the membrane of his left dan, the bare places on his body where fur had been cut away.

“Be at your ease, noble Kasin. You did the best you could.”

“I am not,” the noble asked unsteadily, “to be punished for my failure?”

“I so promise.” Using both hands to help himself rise, Ro-Vijar then walked to stand next to the window. The glassalloy pane stretched from floor to ceiling and framed him unintentionally. It was larger than any other single piece of glass either made or imported into Arsudun. It was larger than any piece of glass Calonnin had ever heard of or imagined. Yet it was here, in
his
castle, come down to him from the heavens in one of the humans’ sky-ships. And he had been told and had come to believe that though it was no thicker than his smallest claw, it was stronger than the walls that bordered it.

“As you said,” he finally continued, “we cannot fight with swords and shields against the sky people’s light knives.” He looked back over a shoulder.

“But for all that, we will have that ship, Obel Kasin of Arsudun. One day our flag will fly from its stern and masts and it will stand at the front of the Arsudun fleet.” He did not add that some day in the future even the
Slanderscree
could be dispensed with. There were dreams he could as yet share with no one.