The City of Ice

by K. M. McKinley

“Then you may visit the Unshe, but then you must be gone,” said the chief.

  “Antoninan, we need to modify the funnels, or they’ll freeze solid further south,” said Trassan. “We will not get a better opportunity than this. Without the modifications, we will have to turn back.”

  “I will not give up my dogs,” said Antoninan.

  “Negotiate then,” said Trassan, throwing up his hand in exasperation. Antoninan glared. What little warmth he had in his manner had chilled quite away.

  “No one takes my dogs.”

  “Listen, friend Antoninan,” said Heffi soothingly. He placed his hands palm to palm. “Let’s agree in principle, talk them down later. It will be well. You look like you know what you’re doing.”

  Antoninan was not swayed. “They will ask for Valatrice, that is the only reason she asks at all. If she knows of me, she knows of him. Their breeds are purer than our northern stocks, but none is so fine as Valatrice. Such is his fame, they covet him. We should never have come here.”

  “We shall make sure it doesn’t come to that,” said Heffi.

  “I’ll recompense you for any that you might lose,” said Trassan.

  Antoninan swung his head angrily, about to rebuke the others. With visible effort he mastered himself, and shouted down to the chief. “We come ashore to negotiate.”

  “Be not wrathful. Nothing can be freely given. There is always a price,” said the chief. “There is a message for the others among you.” She spoke again, in a new language.

  The effect on the Ishmalani was incredible. They stared at the chief and each other.

  “Is that... Croshashian?” guessed Trassan.

  Captain Heffi tugged at the rings in his nose, troubled by what he heard. “Not quite, goodfellow. That is the secret tongue of my people. We teach it to no one.”

  “Then how does she know it?” said Trassan.

  “It appears more than I have something to lose here,” gloated Antoninan. “Now are your feelings different? Shall we leave?”

  “Definitely not. I intend to find out how they know it,” said Heffi. “Get that boat over!” He yelled at his crew. “We’re going ashore.”

  THE SHIP’S BOAT crunched into the ice and lurched to a halt. The Ishamalani put up their oars. Heffi tossed a painter to the Sorskians from the prow, Trassan from the stern. The sea people hauled on the lines, bringing the boat alongside the ice.

  The ice around the island proved to be more expansive than they had guessed. The jutting ridges of an iceberg lurked beneath the jolly boat’s keel, its convoluted surface stark blue in the midnight water. Sea-sculpted shelves and razor thin edges projected out into the ocean, a deadly, underwater cliff that no doubt did a great deal to keep sea dragons away. Trassan and his shipmates were grabbed by red, calloused hands and hauled over the abyss onto the ice.

  The rock embedded in the ice was truly impressive. Trassan could see little evidence of the faulting that could ruin a floatstone piece, and the cavities were perfectly formed; a good, uniform roundness. Trassan knew a fine raw rock when he saw one. A vessel made from the island would be enormous.

  The ice shelf extended some fifty yards out from the core of floatstone, and there they were greeted. Villagers crowded round Trassan and his companions They patted at him, sang out greetings in their language, faces all smiles as they clustered around the travellers. They were shorter by a head than the majority of the northerners, with bright blonde hair and broad faces, dark blue eyes peaking out from their strange folded eyelids. Their chubby appearance made them seem soft-fleshed, but when their fingers touched him they were strong and hard.

  The rounded lumps of the huts clustered all along the rim where rock and ice were wedded together. From these more people emerged, and others came around the shelf in the ice from around the island. Trassan was buffeted by their attention. Heffi flinched at their touching.

  “They are over exuberant,” said Heffi. “Can you get them to stop?”

  “Let them greet us in their own way,” said Antoninan. “The sea-peoples are hospitable, but easy to anger. Do not dismiss them as savages. Their culture is complex. We are the foreigners here. To touch a stranger is to show their care for them and their acceptance of you. Let them have their way.”

  To Trassan they did seem savage. They had little metal on them, most of their decoration, from the beads of their necklaces to the toggles fastening bags and clothing, was carved squares of sea ivory.

  The press of fur clad bodies slackened just as it was becoming unbearable. The chief’s canoe arrived back at the shore and was hauled back up onto the ice, passengers and all. The chief was reverently helped from the side. The crowd parted to allow her to approach the expedition. Villagers that lingered overly long or continued to pat and stroke were sent away by rattles of the chief’s staff.

  “I am Chichiweh Akuna,” she said. The k was pronounced hard, back in the throat as a hard click. Trassan dared not try it.

  “I am Trassan Kressind, of the Isles of Karsa.” He bowed as graciously as if she were a debutante and not a savage.

  “Captain Heffi,” said Heffi, not troubling the woman with his full name. The rest of them introduced themselves—Bannord, Ardovani, and the four oarsmen.

  Antoninan repeated her name, and added something further. Chichiweh nodded, pleased with his efforts.

  “You speak the language of the Hanweri well.”

  “I thank you,” said Antoninan.

  “But we are the Tatama Awa-Ata, People of the Dragon’s Tooth.”

  “Perhaps you might teach me a little of your language?” said Antoninan.

  There was a game going on there, deft as a fencing match, though Trassan could only guess at its meaning. The woman wore an exaggerated expression; Antoninan underscored his words with small movements of his fingers. Trassan looked at the other Tatama, now drawn back from the expedition, but still chattering away and laughing. Much of what they said was accompanied by meaningful gestures.

  “Perhaps I might,” said Chichiweh. She rattled her staff. The crowd fell silent. She pointed it toward the floatstone hill. “First, we shall trade, then the blessing might be given. Or it may not.”

  “The fairness of our trade will decide,” said Antoninan.

  “No,” she said. “The gods.”

  She led them from the ice, round the corner of the hill. At the top of four tall steps a cavity had been hollowed from the stone. She removed her headdress, climbed the short stair and ducked within. Trassan followed first.

  He expected a reeking darkness lit by guttering oil lamps that smelled of burned fat. He expected a small space, full of the unpleasant heat of unwashed bodies. He expected something primitive.

  He was instead taken into a domed cavern with polished walls. The cavities of the floatstone were plugged with flat panels of sea ivory, each one marvellously carved with scenes in strong relief, so that he was presented by an astounding display. In the few cavities left open there were bright, modern glimmer lamps traded from the north. A couple of others contained carefully arrayed objects. A large fire burned in the centre of the room, its smoke captured by a chimney of floatstone left free when the cavern was hollowed out. In the chimney the rock’s characteristic holes had been plugged with more ivory, and so the smoke was drawn cleanly away through the dome’s apex. Back from the chimney five thick panes of clear ice were set into holes cut into the ceiling, each swept free of snow.

  The chamber was bright, clean, and fresh.

  “They do not appear so primitive now, eh?” said Antoninan.

  “Indeed not,” said Trassan. “It is a marvel. Ask them if we might have the expedition artist draw a sketch.”

  “Later,” said Antoninan. “We will be lucky to be allowed to remain at all.”

  Twelve people rose from stools around the fire. Their parkas were piled at the side of the room, and they wore closely fitting garments of dog velvet, brightly embroidered about the cuffs.

  “The council of the Tat
ama Awa-Ata,” said Chichiweh. She went to them one at a time to grasp their elbows and touch foreheads.

  “Is this Unshe here?” said Heffi. His expression remained pleasant but Trassan heard the strain in his voice. The business with his language bothered him.

  “This is not their place,” said Chichiweh. “They live apart, close to the spirits. They will call you when they will speak with you. That is their way.” The woman made a warding gesture and frowned. “We will speak of this no further, it is bad to speak spirit business in the Hall of Life.” She gestured to stools stored at the edge of the room, also carved of floatstone. “Please, sit with us.”

  Trassan and his comrades took up the stools. They were lighter than wood.

  “You see we are successful in our trading.” She pointed out the glimmer lamps. “We have sea ivory and ambergris, much to offer the northmen. What do you bring?”

  A man rolled out a blanket containing a fortune in ivory. Slotted neatly into loops within were three dozen dagger-sized sea dragon teeth. A second presented a ball of waxy sea-dragon ambergris, another piled up two mounds of skins, one furred, one feathered.

  “What we need is time, and a place to rest,” Trassan said.

  “And the blessing must be given,” said Antoninan flintily.

  “We shall see.” Chichiweh stretched her lips alarmingly wide and smacked them. The council clapped hands. Chichiweh sat. “The goods are presented. We shall begin exchange.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Foreigner’s Impressions of Umbra

  GARTEN HAD BEEN to Umbra twice before, but he had never seen it like this, shrouded in fog so dense that the city might well not be there. The fog had grown thicker the closer they had come, slowing their passage across the continent. When they crossed the canyon of the river Marceuil that divided Macer Lesser from Maceriya proper, the fog was so thick Garten thought he might step from the great railway viaduct and walk upon it.

  Perus’s characteristics worsened the fog. Though it lagged behind Karsa City in the new industries, many factories had sprung up there, and the fog thickened to a chemical brume choking as the worst Karsa City had to offer. The taste stuck in the back of the throat and stung at the nose. Many times Garten resorted to his sleeve to dab at his streaming eyes.

  The shadow of the Godhome further darkened the streets. Their ride by cab from the station was a lurching stop-start as the driver braked to avoid running into the back of other vehicles they could neither see or hear. Lamps burned everywhere, though it was late afternoon when they arrived.

  They had scarcely been shown their lodgings at the Karsan embassy on the Avenue of Peace when trumpets rang out all over the capital, announcing the imminent arrival of the Morfaan.

  “The Basilica! They come to the Basilica!” called a reedy voice from outside, amplified by glimmer horn. Most diplomatic missions were housed on the avenue, and his cry was passed on down the row of mighty buildings by a dozen voices until it became inaudible and went beyond the ambassadorial district.

  Garten’s hopes of a restorative nap and a change of clothes were dashed. Food was brought to him, then they were forced back out of their rooms and into a coach. Grand on the outside, it was no more comfortable than the taxicab in which they had arrived.

  Abing was already aboard with the ambassador, a portly man with thick white whiskers that could not hide his lack of chin.

  “Garten Kressind, Gelbion Mandofar,” said Abing.

  “Gelbion is my father’s name,” said Garten. He shook hands as he climbed in.

  “You don’t say,” said Mandofar sniffily. “Is that a lantern?” he asked, staring at the box in Garten’s hand.

  “Personal effects. An unusual valise, I admit. It was a gift from my brother,” he said.

  Abing raised an eyebrow at him and cleared his throat. “Bloody Morfaan might have given us a rest, eh? Never mind, our stay here will be hectic throughout. No point in being lulled into torpidity by an easy first day.”

  Garten took a seat opposite the ambassador and put Tyn Izzy’s case between his leg and the coach’s side. “You are related to the Mandofars of the Green Reach?” Garten asked. “A fine family.”

  “Yes,” said the ambassador with such condescension it told Garten all he needed to know about the man’s opinion of him. His greeting of the countess when she arrived shortly after was no more cordial but far more servile. He made it clear he disapproved of Lucinia Vertisa’s antics, but she was of old, high blood. He clearly disapproved of Garten’s fresh-minted aristocracy far more than the countess’s lewdness.

  The countess had changed into another of her man’s outfits, a suit of clothes wholly masculine except for its bright turquoise colour and the yellow piping. She sat down next to Garten and gave him an encouraging smile. He nodded back. He covered the surreptitious rasp of Tyn Izzy’s vision slit being drawn back with a cough.

  “Terrible fog, excuse me,” he said, prompting a scowl from Mandofar. Taking pity on the creature, he balanced the case on his knee, and angled the front out through the window so that she might see. “That’s better, more room.”

  Mandofar sniffed loudly and looked away. “Drive on!” he said. The carriage pulled away from the embassy, down its drive and out of guarded gates onto the avenue.

  The city, long subdued beneath its grey blanket, had erupted with life. Hundreds of people were pouring onto the avenue, most of them servants from the embassies, excitedly chattering. The coaches of the ambassadors pushed through, their drivers and coachmen screaming at the throngs to get out of the way. The servants were not alone. From every district bells rang, steam whistles blew, and the chimes of magically amplified instruments clashed discordantly with one another. Overhead, a hundred voices bellowed from notice-towers, hollowed out by the fog and the glimmer horns they were projected by.

  “The Morfaan return! The Morfaan return! To the Basilica, the Basilica of the Lost Gods!” they shouted to mismatched rhythms.

  “The Church will be pleased,” Mandofar said sarcastically. “You are aware that they have been preaching from street corners that the Morfaan are the heralds of the gods? The Church of the Return is becoming something of a problem here.”

  “Another little problem to resolve,” said Abing gravely.

  Work stopped. Shops closed. Houses emptied. The silence the fog brought was torn to shreds by the movement of the entire city in one direction. Thousands of people clogged the roads. Their shouting and the clattering wheels on the cobbles chased off the fog’s gloominess, and the city assumed the atmosphere of a chilly party, where the obscuring mist was the city’s carnival mask. Summoned by the noise, street hawkers appeared from nowhere, their cries spearing through fog and hubbub alike to announce hot nuts, warmed beer, candies, fruit, hats, glimmer-fed pocket warmers and a myriad other things that might be of use to the crowds.

  The carriage rumbled off the Avenue of Peace, and out of the wide spaces of the ambassadorial quarter into one of Perus’s labyrinthine assignatures. Tenements tottered through the murk like drunken giants. Walls pressed in on both sides. The coach slowed, unable to move faster than the flow of foot traffic. Their coachman swore in the thick Perusian dialect, his whip flicked out, cracking over the heads of the throng, the dogs bayed at those blocking the way. There was nowhere for them to go, and the coach was forced to a crawl. Passing a tight sidestreet, the coachman took it upon himself to try a different route. With a snap of the reins, the dogs spilled down the street, dragging the coach sharply around. The walls and windows of the apartments were close enough to touch. Low-hung washing slapped against the decorations on the roof.

  Abing clicked open his watch and hummed at it impatiently. “I hope this fellow knows where he is going.”

  “Shelluse is one of the best,” Mandofar assured them.

  “One could live one’s whole life here and lose one’s way on a night like this,” said the countess.

  On one side the buildings disappeared, giving out to a pav
ement bordered by a sheer drop. There was not room for two lanes of traffic, and a generous pedestrian pavement took up the remainder of the street. This allowed those on foot to squeeze out of the coach’s way. The carriage lurched as it picked up speed.

  “As you see, Shelluse is a fine driver,” said Mandofar. “He was born to these streets. If a way can be found, he will find it. We go now past the Callanches Caverna. A clever shortcut.”

  Garten craned his neck to see over the heads of the people on the pavement. A stone balustrade delineating the edge flicked past like a zoetrope. On the other side were the pan-tiled rooftops of a row of houses clinging to the cliff. These cavities, the cavernas, were particular to Perus. There was Foirree, which Perus had long ago claimed both sides of. Although unusual there in the west, being built both sides of one of Ruthnia’s great canyons was a trait Perus held in common with many eastern cities, most notably Mohacs-Gravo, Kuz and Astermung. But the cavernas were unique. Throughout the city there were many unanticipated cavities, collapsed caverns open to the sky whose bases were crammed with the toppled stones of ancient metropolises. Through a gap, Garten saw the hazy shapes of buildings marching down the steep cliffs to the bottom of the pit, their lamps lighting the fog from within. Hundreds of feet below their road, the blurred shape of a bridge crossed the gap, disappearing into a circular tunnel mouth. These parts of Perus were rich with history, but were amongst the very poorest.

  “Once matters have calmed, would it be possible to visit the cavernas?” Garten asked.

  “What on Earth for?” asked Mandofar.

  “My sister is most interested in redressing the problems of poverty brought about by the changes wrought by this modern age,” said Garten, somewhat pompously, but blast Mandofar, he thought. “It would do her cause, and our own national prestige, no end of good if we could demonstrate that Karsa is ahead of its old rival, Maceriya, in the betterment of the conditions of the poor.”

  “I am sure it is quite impossible,” said Mandofar. “They are poor, you are right, and consequently dangerous. Why do you want to go poking your nose into the business of the common herd? Those forced to live in the cavernas are undeserving, idle. Save your pity for those who wish to work.”