The Icegate of Spyre

by Allan Frewin Jones

  “So what are we standing around gabbing for?” exclaimed Esmeralda. “Let’s get moving, my lads! Best foot forward, and all that. The last one to the Ice Gate is a prickly poltroon!”

  It was a hard slog to get through the steamy jungle. Trundle guessed that in more civilized places, people would be sitting down for a midmorning snack as they finally emerged from the trees and felt a fresh, open breeze on their faces.

  Ahead of them, the steep-sloping landscape stepped gradually upward in a series of ridges and ledges, upon which flourished long ranges of small, neatly trimmed bushes. Narrow brown pathways snaked their way up through these lush green terraces. Dozens of busy workers could be seen moving slowly and methodically among the bushes, clipping the leaves and putting them into trailing white linen sacks.

  They had evidently arrived at the foot of the Lowspace tea plantations. Some distance above them, they could see the wooden platform that they had previously observed from the deck of the Thief in the Night. It looked even more extraordinary now, looming out like a jutting roof or a great parasol made of wood, blocking out the view of whatever lay above, and supported all along its curved length by great heavy timbers and massive iron brackets.

  “More climbing,” muttered Trundle, eyeing the spiraling and zigzagging pathways that led up to Boardwall, as the guide had told them this amazing structure was called.

  “Stout heart, Trundle!” remarked Jack, slapping him on the back. “The sooner we get to Downtown, the sooner we can take a breather.”

  “Only a quick breather,” Esmeralda warned as she began to plod up the nearest of the serpentine pathways. “We haven’t got all day, you know.”

  “I thought we did have all day,” Trundle said, following her.

  “Yes, to get right up to the top of the island!” Esmeralda called back. “So no dawdling.”

  As the four companions climbed, they could see lines of workers moving along the paths, their linen sacks stuffed with newly clipped leaves. They were all heading for the underside of Boardwall. Once they were there, Trundle saw that the contents of the sacks were tipped into huge canvas bags, which were then attached to long ropes and winched up through trapdoors and hatches in the underside of the great wooden platform. The growing and harvesting of these bushes was clearly a major industry on Spyre.

  “They seem to like their tea here, don’t they?” Jack remarked, unnecessarily.

  They continued to climb, waving and calling cheerful greetings to the plantation workers, most of whom waved back and replied along the lines of, “Nice day for strolling, if not got work to do!” or “What happen? You get lost or someone?” and similar friendly comments.

  And so they made their winding way up through the plantation as the long, hot morning ebbed away.

  “A stitch in time is worth two in the bush,” said Ishmael at one point, wiping his sweating brow. “But even the weariest gibbon winds at last to tea!”

  “I’m sure he does,” Trundle said sympathetically. “But it’s not so very far to go now.” In reality, he was rather enjoying himself. The climb was steep, but a fresh and sweet-scented breeze cooled his face—and for once nobody was chasing them.

  As adventures went, this was the best one so far.

  Finally they came to the upper level of Lowspace, where the ground was dry and full of rocks. They stood at last, breathing hard and gathering themselves, right under the great overhanging shadow of Boardwall. All around them, plantation workers trudged endlessly up with their laden sacks, and then trudged down again with empty bags, to fill them once more. More laborers attached the bulging sacks to dangling chains and ropes, shouting to their coworkers up above. “From me—to you! Carefully, now! Winch away! Mind your head! Oops! Sorry about that! Rub it hard and soon better feelings!” Chains clanked and ropes creaked as the full bags were raised through the trapdoors and empty ones lowered in exchange.

  Although the workers seemed quite cheerful, Trundle had to admit to himself that there was something especially appealing about being a bold adventurer when the alternative was toiling away on a tea plantation!

  Esmeralda didn’t give them very much time to stand and stare, though. With an imperious wave of her arm, she strode to the foot of a long ladder that led to a closed hatch high above. Without even looking back to check that they were following, she began to climb. Jack went next, his rebec strapped to his back. Ishmael was close behind, and Trundle brought up the rear. The four panting friends were able to gather and catch their breath on a small wooden platform, from which a stair of ten wide wooden steps led up to the closed hatch.

  Trundle stepped over to the brink of the platform and looked down. The view was spectacular and breathtaking, the green tea terraces tumbling away to the distant line of the jungle. But the drop made his head feel giddy, and he quickly stepped back from the edge.

  “Who wants the honor of being the first to see the wonders of Downtown?” asked Esmeralda, looking hard at him.

  “Me, I suppose,” he said resignedly.

  “That’s my plucky pal!” chuckled Esmeralda. “One hand on your sword hilt, Trun. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Hmm.” Trundle made his way up the steps, a paw ready on the hilt of his sword … just in case. There was a lever on the underside of the hatch. He grabbed it and yanked. The trapdoor sprang open with a speed that took him by surprise.

  But what was even more shocking was the sudden noise that came crashing in on his unsuspecting ears. He winced at the appalling racket. It sounded to him like ten thousand people all shouting at the tops of their voices, accompanied by the rumble of wheels and the tramping of feet and the ringing of dozens of gongs and bells.

  And while he was still trying to cope with the cacophony, several pairs of thin, furry arms came snaking down through the hatch, grabbing him by every available portion, and lifting him clear off his feet. His eyes boggling, he rose up through the hatch and found himself deposited on a solid plank floor, surrounded by the most extraordinary creatures he had ever seen in his life.

  They were meerkats—dozens of them, crowding around him, dressed in brightly patterned short-sleeved shirts and wide-bottomed, baggy shorts. Most of them wore hats—everything from flat caps and bowlers to Stetsons and top hats—and all of these hats had some kind of advertisements printed on them or pinned to them or poking up from the brims.

  And all of the meerkats were speaking at once.

  “Welcome to Downtown, mister pilgrim, sir!”

  “Carry your bags, mister?”

  “Cheap hotel—very clean!”

  “All-day breakfast at the Magnanimous Rissole Restaurant!”

  “Monastery tours—suit all pockets!”

  All the while, the meerkats plucked and pulled at him and fought to get his attention until it all became too much even for such a mild-natured fellow as Trundle.

  “Get! Off! Me!” he bellowed, drawing his sword and waving it in the air above his head. The meerkats went scooting backward with startled faces and staring eyes.

  Esmeralda emerged from the hatch at his side. “Well done, Trundle,” she said admiringly. “That certainly got their attention!” She rested her fists on her hips and surveyed the ring of temporarily silent creatures.

  “So?” she said. “What have we here?”

  One of the meerkats sidled closer, blinking nervously at them through round wire-framed spectacles. “He has quick temper, lady!” he said. “No need for swords. We’re only trying to make a living, why not?”

  Now that the meerkats weren’t molesting him and yelling in his ears, Trundle had a few moments to gaze around at Downtown—and the sight quite took his breath away. It was a scene of the most astonishing bustle and clutter and hurrying-scurrying chaos that he had ever witnessed!

  There were people everywhere, racing helter-skelter in all directions, some unencumbered, others carrying heavy loads on their backs or drawing laden wagons. Som
e of the houses and shops and warehouses had been built out on Boardwall itself, but the teeming city also climbed up the hillside: houses on top of houses, shops and emporia and other buildings crowding in on one another in terraces that were at least as steep as those of Lowspace. Instead of streets, the upper regions of Downtown were reached by wide stone stairways that thronged with people coming and going.

  The colors were absolutely dazzling, both in the clothes of the people and in the flags and banners that hung everywhere. There were fiery scarlets and sky blues and luscious greens and sunflower yellows. There was flame orange and turquoise and aquamarine and crimson and mauve. Trundle strained his neck to look up at rainbows of bright silk pennants that fluttered from rooftops and from doorposts and flagpoles.

  Dotted among the close-packed buildings were wooden wharves and jetties, where scores of windships and skyboats were moored. Many of the windships appeared to be permanent fixtures, converted into shops and restaurants and hotels, the hulls and masts festooned with colorful bunting, and with bridges and railed boardwalks leading up to their decks.

  Above the chaotic riot of Downtown, Trundle saw the tall white walls and square towers of the lofty monastery reflecting the bright sunlight, their red and yellow banners rippling in the breeze above coral-colored roofs. And as a final, awe-inspiring sight, there rose far above the monastery the dazzling white peak of the mountain of Spyre. Trundle shivered with wonder, and with a strange sensation of apprehension. There was something venerable and dreadful about those snowy slopes, as if they guarded enormous and appalling secrets.

  Meanwhile, as Trundle stared speechless, Jack and Ishmael had joined them. Esmeralda grabbed the nearest meerkat by the collar.

  “We need to get to the Ice Gate as quickly as possible, my lad,” she said in her best no-nonsense voice. “Can you take us there?”

  The meerkat nodded frantically. “Sure thing,” he yammered. “But Ice Gate is an expensive tour. Normally ten sunders each. I can do it for seven. Special party rate. Why not? My uncle Flogger works in the pilgrim hospitality department.” He blinked from one to the other of them, rubbing his paws together and grinning hopefully. “Is that a good deal?”

  “Try five sunders each,” suggested Esmeralda.

  The meerkat turned to Trundle and winked. “Your lovely wife—she knows how to haggle, yes?”

  Trundle nearly jumped out of his boots at the suggestion that he was married to Esmeralda. “Excuse me,” he gasped, his face going pale at the very thought. “We are not married!”

  At this the meerkat grinned wider than ever and gave him a long, slow wink from behind his wire spectacles. “That’s fine, too!” he said. “None of my business.” He swung around to look at Esmeralda. “Look, I cut my own throat, but I like you,” he announced. “Five sunders it is. Come, come—we start tour now. I’ll take you up One Thousand Steps of Radiant Wisdom. You’ll like that!”

  “And will that get us to the Ice Gate before sunset?” asked Jack.

  “Sure thing, boss,” replied the grinning meerkat. “I do that for you, no problem.” He patted his chest. “My name is Wingnut Flange, but you call me Wingnut, why not?”

  Trundle and Esmeralda looked at each other.

  “Well?” said Trundle. “Why not, indeed!”

  “Making way, here!” shouted Wingnut, catching hold of Esmeralda’s arm and towing her through the clamoring crowd of meerkats. “These pilgrims very much spoken for! Lay off! Party of four coming through!”

  Trundle and Jack darted after them, Jack taking a firm grip on Ishmael to make sure he stayed with their party. You never could tell what Ishmael would do next, and if the old hare went wandering off in this crush of people, they might never find him again.

  Wingnut led them away from Boardwall and up through the narrow, teeming streets of Downtown. Trundle wished they had time to take in the sights as they rushed past an endless array of colorful pilgrim gift stores and restaurants and boardinghouses and tea shops, not to mention all the stands that littered the streets, selling every kind of bric-a-brac imaginable.

  Wingnut slowed down as they reached the foot of a wide stone stairway that zigzagged its way through the commotion and confusion of Downtown. Masses of people were trekking up and down the broad staircase, many of them led by meerkats bearing a remarkable resemblance to Wingnut.

  “This is One Thousand Steps of Radiant Wisdom,” he said, coming to a halt under a high wooden arch hung with bells and silken streamers. He raised an eyebrow and held out a paw. “You pay now, please, and Wingnut will guide you good.”

  Esmeralda counted out a handful of sunders that instantly vanished into the deep pockets of Wingnut’s oversized shorts.

  “You’re fine folk!” he said. “I give you best tour ever!”

  “We’re on a bit of a deadline, Wingnut,” said Esmeralda.

  “That’s fine, too!”

  “We must make hay while the shoe shines,” added Ishmael. “Don’t put all your legs in one trouser.”

  Wingnut blinked at him. “Oooohh,” he breathed at last. “That’s one wise fella!”

  Trundle did his best to suppress an explosion of laughter.

  “He certainly has a unique perspective on things,” said Jack, chuckling.

  “He’s crazy,” said Esmeralda. “Lead on, Wingnut! Sharp’s the word.”

  The meerkat pointed to a skinny side street that led off from the foot of the One Thousand Steps of Radiant Wisdom. “Before we begin the climb, we partake of nice cup of tea and optional bun.” He grinned, nodding rapidly. “It is tradition. All pilgrims do it.”

  “We can’t waste time, you know,” said Esmeralda. “We need to get right up to the top before sunset.”

  “No problem. Plenty of time,” insisted Wingnut. “Very bad luck for pilgrims to travel steps without first taking tea.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Would fall and break a leg, for sure!”

  “I suppose we’d better keep to the traditions,” said Trundle.

  “I’m sure we can spare a few minutes,” added Jack. “After all, how long can it take to drink a cup of tea?”

  “Hard a-port!” declared Ishmael. “Run out the buns!”

  Wingnut pointed at Ishmael. “He’s totally correct. You are my friends. I lead you plenty good, no fooling.”

  “Oh, come on then,” Esmeralda said reluctantly. “Let’s get it over with.”

  They trailed after Wingnut along the little side street until they came to a rickety gangplank that led to a dilapidated old windship. A sign hung over the front of the gangplank: THE MAGNANIMOUS RISSOLE RESTAURANT.

  “Well, look at that,” said Jack. “It’s the place that was mentioned in the guide. Esmeralda, you had those free vouchers last. Do you still have them on you?”

  “No, they got lost,” Esmeralda said quickly.

  “I saw you tuck them away in your bodice,” said Trundle helpfully. “I bet they’re still there, despite the crash and everything.”

  “You have vouchers?” Wingnut said brightly. “That’s good news! That means you can have tea and a free meal! All in! You lucky people!”

  “Oh, well done, Trundle,” growled Esmeralda, handing over the vouchers. “I was faking it to save us time—now we have to eat as well!”

  “Well, I didn’t know,” said Trundle. “And anyway, I’m hungry after that long climb. We can easily afford a few minutes for lunch.”

  “You’d better be right!”

  Wingnut led them up the gangplank and in through a door in the hull of the windship. It was quite dark and stuffy inside, and the place smelled of burned cooking fat. A few dingy tables were scattered around, lit by candles in bottles. There were no other guests, and Trundle noticed that the floor could do with a good sweeping.

  “This restaurant is run by my cousin Rachette. It’s very good, yes? Very exclusive. You pick a table, I’ll go speak with chef. Tell her you’re in a big hurry.”

  The four companions selected the least grubby-looking table a
nd sat down while Wingnut went scuttling off through a pair of swing doors.

  “It could be worse,” Trundle said, rubbing a smear off the knife that was set in front of him.

  “Could it?” said Esmeralda. “How?”

  They heard voices arguing from beyond the swing doors. One was Wingnut’s, and the other came from a female who was giving him a very hard time, by the sound of it.

  Shortly the doors burst open and a plump meerkat emerged, wearing a grimy apron and a fierce and fixed expression. She was carrying a tray upon which stood a large teapot and a set of four small, round cups. Without speaking, she slammed the tray down on the table, revolved on her heels, and stalked back to the kitchen.

  Wingnut came trotting over to the table, wringing his hands and smiling. “Cousin Rachette is in a bit of a snit,” he told them. “She doesn’t like being told to hurry up. But it’s okay. I smooth it all over for you. No problems. Why not?”

  The swing doors banged open, and Rachette was with them again. This time she smacked a plate down on the table. “Optional bun!” she declared, and was gone again before anyone could respond.

  Trundle stared at the single wrinkled old roll.

  “Hmm,” said Jack, pouring the tea. “I think that bun ought to have been put out of its misery some time ago.”

  Wingnut glanced toward the kitchen, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “No need to eat bun,” he whispered. “Plenty more food coming right up.”

  Trundle sipped the tea. It was very hot and rather stewed and tasted like a cross between dandelions and old socks. He saw Wingnut watching him. “Delicious,” he said diplomatically, putting down the cup. Judging from the expressions on Jack and Esmeralda’s faces, they didn’t think much of the tea either, but Ishmael gulped it down, smacked his lips, and poured himself a second cup.

  “Handsomely does it now,” he said. “Over the lips and past the gums, watch out, gizzard, here it comes!”

  “He’s a real big connoisseur,” said Wingnut with awe in his voice. “Not everyone appreciates Cousin Rachette’s tea.”