The Icerigger Trilogy

by Alan Dean Foster

  Sails were reset and once again the icerigger commenced rumbling uphill. Two days later the mists started to thin. Once Ethan thought he spied an ellipse formed of neatly crafted wooden houses. They were nothing remarkable, but they were radically different from the familiar heavy-beamed, stone dwellings of all other Tran. He did not mention the sighting or his observations to the still sulking Williams.

  The mist did not disperse gradually. They reached a point where it stopped clean, a slightly oscillating wall of steam. From then on they saw no more signs of the Golden Saia. Some day Ethan would return and listen to the long legends of a misplaced people. So he told himself. He was not honest enough to admit that once back in the comfortable hub of Commonwealth civilization, he would likely forget all but memories of Tran-ky-ky.

  For now, he forced his attention outward. They had a confederation to expand, a union of ice to cement, and they did not have a lifetime in which to do it.

  Grass turned yellowish and scraggly. Trees gave way to bushes, and ferns and flowers vanished behind them. The Slanderscree had emerged on a high, rolling plain. As they lumbered across bare gravel and tormented grasses, the wind began to rise, an old companion back from unwilling vacation. Soon it was blowing at familiar strength. The Tran found it comforting.

  None of the crew had been lost in the transit, though Eer-Meesach was still treating the most severe cases of heat-stroke in the central cabin. The temperature fell and the humans had long since redonned their survival suits, the Tran their heavy hessavar fur coats.

  They received no visits from the spirits of the dead or otherwise. The most notable spirits aboard, those of the sailors, had risen considerably with the return of a congenial climate. The rolling landscape mounted into steep hills to the north and east. After consultation with Ta-hoding, it was decided to turn southward. They would eventually reach the western edge of the plateau. Then they could begin hunting for a way down.

  As the wind increased, so did their speed. Before long they were traveling at a pace short of breathtaking but quite respectable. It didn’t take long for everyone on board to grow accustomed to the domesticated thunder of the twelve huge wheels.

  Yellowish grass continued to speckle the plain, fighting to stay rooted in the sparse soil. The raft’s chief cook tried some in a meal one night, and though it was pronounced edible by all who tried it, there was no rush to harvest. It proved tough, tasteless, and hard to digest.

  In days of traveling they saw nothing that resembled a tree. The closest approximations were widely scattered, meter-high bushes which looked like umber tumbleweeds. Their tightly intertwined branchlets had the consistency of wire. Ethan wanted to use a beamer to cut a sample and for a change, it was Williams who protested. Eying the isolated, unimpressive clump he said, “Anything that can survive in this desolation deserves to remain unharmed.” And Ethan put his beamer away.

  The wind was steady and predictable. That gave the sailors needed time. They learned fast, but handling a ship the size of the Slanderscree on land was a different proposition from doing so on ice.

  Ethan spent much time watching the parade of distant hills and thought of the Golden Saia. Taken theoretically, he supposed it was possible for the spirits of the departed to linger in some outrageously incomprehensible mode—that they would congregate like so many conventioneers seemed impossible. And if they were so inclined, why choose a region as unattractive as this? True, the Saia had remarked on their desire for privacy, and this vast plateau would certainly provide that, but—

  He stopped himself in the middle of a thought. Endless days of dull landscape had lulled him into compensating with steadily growing rococo imaginings. There was nothing out there but scattered wire-brushes and poverty-stricken grass.

  Nothing.

  “Enormous ice-raft? What enormous ice-raft? Truly are your fantasies entertaining, my guests!”

  K’ferr Shri-Vehm, Landgrave of Moulokin, eyed her visitors pityingly. “You make senseless demands of me and my people, you attack us at the first gate, and now I find the basis for these actions are only dreams of wandering minds. Your information is false, visitors.”

  “Hedge not with us.” The voice was edgy, nervous, dangerous. “Where have you hidden them?” Rakossa of Poyolavomaar sent quick, jerking glares around the modest throne-room, as if the Slanderscree might be tucked in a corner or secreted behind a chest.

  K’ferr made the Tran equivalent of a laugh. “Hidden, my lord Rakossa? Hidden such a great vessel as you describe? Where would we conceal such a craft?”

  “You could have dismantled it, moved the sections somewhere.”

  “In less than four days? I venture, my lord, you have an imagination second to none.”

  An officer of the Poyolavomaar fleet chose that moment to enter the chamber. “The ship we seek is not anywhere in the harbor, sires. ’Tis nowhere to be found, nor, as some suspected, is there a cave in the cliffs large enough to hide even part of such at large raft. We also ventured far up the main canyon and saw no sign of it.” What he said was true; what he didn’t know was that the Moulokinese had used scrapers and torches to obliterate the tell-tale tracks marking the Slanderscree’s passage. “I do not think, sire, that—”

  “We are not interested in what you think!” a furious Rakossa shouted.

  “Did you not see,” K’ferr continued, “the great raft we ourselves are building? That is what formed the tracks outside our canyon you seem to find so absorbing.”

  “We saw,” said a different voice. Calonnin Ro-Vijar stepped forward. “Wooden runners of that size will not support a vessel of a size necessary to make them worth constructing.”

  “Our profession as a city-state, and one for which we are justly famed, is raft-building.” Mirmib stared condescendingly at Ro-Vijar. “What you say may be true, but we often begin such new raft shapes and sizes by way of experimentation. We learn much that is valuable to us in our trade, even if the actual concept eventually proves unworkable. Is this Arsudun from which you come also a specialist in the construction of rafts?” “No, but—”

  “Then do not presume to pronounce judgment on a craft with which you are not conversant.”

  Ro-Vijar started to say something, then hesitated. When he spoke again, it was in a surprisingly apologetic fashion. “’Tis evident we have made an error in offending and accusing these people, Lord Rakossa. We may best continue our hunt elsewhere.”

  “The tracks lead here!” Rakossa threw arms and words about careless of who they struck. “They are here somewhere, magicked or otherwise.”

  “Do you think they rose into the air and sailed away thusly, my good friend?” Ro-Vijar asked. The comment, made in jest, inspired a horrible thought in the Landgrave of Arsudun. For an instant he thought the humans might somehow have obtained one of their powerful sky-rafts and transported it here. He had been told by the human commissioner, Jobius Trell, that the skypeople possessed vehicles capable of transporting an object even as massive as the vanished icerigger through the air. While he had never seen such a device, he was inclined to believe whatever Trell told him about human technological capabilities. Trell had undoubtedly lied to him about many things, but not about that.

  But if he didn’t get this idiot Rakossa out of the throne-room before trouble began, they would waste valuable time in a needless battle.

  “She’s here somewhere.” Rakossa prowled the room, heedless of common courtesy. “We know she is.”

  “She?” inquired Mirmib puzzledly.

  “The concubine, who has bewitched us. We require her. She is present. We sense it!” He took a couple of threatening steps toward the throne. “Where are you hiding her, woman?”

  Two burly guards, big even for Tran, stepped forward between the throne and the raging Landgrave. Each held a weighty metal battle-axe before him. One let his sway back and forth just above floor level, a pendulum of death.

  “My liege and friend Landgrave,” said Ro-Vijar earnestly, stepping forwa
rd but remembering not to touch the hypersensitive Rakossa, “we have already heard ample explanation. These good people have ne’er heard nor seen the vessel or woman we seek.”

  “Again I say, this is truth.” K’ferr leaned forward. “Considering your hostile actions toward us, I believe we have been extremely courteous and patient with you. Before any irrevocable insults are exchanged, I suggest you take your leave of Moulokin.”

  “So it would seem best to do, my gracious lady.” Ro-Vijar tentatively reached out, chanced a grip on the wild-eyed Rakossa’s left arm. The Landgrave of Poyolavomaar did not react angrily. He turned seemed to see Ro-Vijar clearly for the first time since entering the throne room. Then he shook off the other’s hand, whirled, and stalked out of the chamber, muttering slyly to himself.

  “Our pardon for this most grievous mistake, my lady, good minister Mirmib.” Ro-Vijar made a gesture of profound obeisance. “It was a matter of great importance to us, and we acted in haste instead of good sense. I am convinced of your sincerity.”

  “You are excused by your ignorance.” K’ferr indicated the now vacant exitway. “The actions of your colleague explain much. May your search continue more profitably elsewhere.”

  “May your warmth remain constant all the days of your life. Rest assured we will eventually find those we seek.” With that, Ro-Vijar turned with the Poyo officer and departed from the chamber.

  When they were many minutes gone, K’ferr turned to Mirmib and asked, “What do you think they will do now?”

  “If ’twas up to this Ro-Vijar, they would give up and sail home.” The minister rubbed the back of an ear, looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps the calmer of the two is in reality the more dangerous. So blinded by hatred, or love, for this Teeliam woman is the other he cannot think straight. If he ever could.”

  “You saw the woman in question, Mirmib. The scars. Why would this Landgrave risk his power, his armed might, to find and torment her further?”

  “Some rulers take not well personal affronts, though rarely do they react in so extreme a fashion as this Rakossa, my lady. Hate can be as powerful an eldur as love. Often is the line between the two indistinct.” They exchanged a glance unfathomable to outsiders. “I do not know what transpired between this girl and this Landgrave, and can but speculate. One thing I can say confidently, though. Should they eventually meet again, one or the other will surely die of it.”

  That petty matter did not occupy Calonnin Ro-Vijar’s mind. If they returned to Arsudun now, he would have this second failure to report to Trell.

  The critical question was: had the Slanderscree actually been within the harbor of Moulokin? If so, he could envision several fanciful possibilities to explain what had happened to the great icerigger. Though he badly wanted to, his “escort of honor” had kept him from talking to, or bribing, any of the townsfolk. In the absence of direct information he would have to extrapolate. That was something he was very good at, something which made the games he played with the human Trell interesting.

  With stakes as high as they were, he was not about to leave Moulokin until he knew the truth of what had happened to their quarry.

  XV

  ENOUGH DAYS PASSED FILLED with the same rolling gravelly ground and spare vegetation to make Ethan wish for a spirit or two to liven up the journey. Their sole excitement was provided by a two-meter-wide crevasse that ran east and west as far as chiv-sore scouting parties could determine. Numerous methods for traversing the obstacle were proposed. One mate suggested removing the duralloy runners from where they had been secured to the deck and using them to bridge the gap.

  For a change it was Ta-hoding who provided the solution. Though he had only modest confidence in himself, he’d come to feel boundless enthusiasm for his new command. Despite Ethan and Hunnar’s apprehension he ordered all unnecessary personnel off the raft. The Slanderscree sailed in a wide circle and bore—down on the crevasse with all sail flying, wind directly behind it.

  At the last instant, spars and sails were aligned to obtain as much upward lift as possible. Like some obese bird the front end of the enormous raft rose skyward. Only the two fore axles completely cleared the gap before the bow began to settle surfaceward again, but it was enough. Mass and velocity were sufficient to carry the entire ship across the narrow abyss, though the rear axle and wheels dipped dangerously inward.

  Ta-hoding explained that they carried spare axles and, in the event that his ploy had failed, could still repair any damage. The threat of being halted in this chill, moody land was sufficient to inspire even the cautious captain to daring.

  They reached the edge of the plateau the following day. The longing of the sailors for the boundless ice ocean out of reach two hundred meters below was evident to all the mates and officers. They felt the ice-pull themselves.

  Continuing southward, the icerigger raced parallel to the sheer cliffs. Barren terrain continued to unravel from an infinite brown thread to port, gleaming ice and blue sky above shining daily off to starboard.

  Ta-hoding and his crew had grown so skillful in their handling of the ship that Ethan no longer worried or turned away when they hove unnecessarily near to the breathtaking drop. All this activity kept the crew from succumbing to the worst kind of mental fatigue: the kind induced by unrelieved boredom.

  “I’m beginnin’ to worry a bit, young feller-me-lad.” September clung to a yard nearby, his face showing disappointment beneath the transparent mask. “Hunnar and the others are starting to feel likewise, and with reason. We haven’t come near findin’ another canyon resembling Moulokin’s. It just don’t make sense, lad.” His tone was tense but quiet. “That there’d be just a single canyon of that type cuttin’ into this continent, I mean. Got to be others.”

  “I’m no geologist, Skua, but I admit it seems peculiar to me, too.”

  September made a face, an expression centering whirlpool-like on that sharp, hooked beak of a nose. “If we do have to circle back the way we’ve come, it’s a good bet the Poyos will’ve completed their inspection of Moulokin and, not finding us there, gone off elsewhere after us.” He brightened somewhat at the thought.

  “At this point that just might be our best course. Think I’ll go have a chat with the captain and Sir Hunnar. Stay sane, lad.” He started to head sternward, halted as Ethan gestured toward the bow.

  “We may not have any choice tomorrow, Skua.”

  The steep hills that had marked the north and eastern horizons since they’d emerged from the land of the Golden Saia were growing closer, curving around ahead of them and threatening to cut off easy progress to the south. That left them only the path behind.

  The slopes ahead looked more precipitous than the ones they’d been running alongside for many days. Signs of erosion, indicating possibly unstable hillsides and talus falls, were becoming visible. They would almost certainly have to turn back unless a clear pass could be found through these new obstacles. The Slanderscree had proven herself landworthy, but she could not climb much of an incline.

  As Ethan predicted, they reached the first of the low but steep-sided hills that evening. They decided to make a semi-permanent camp in the sheltering lee of the tallest minimount. Scouts would be sent out on the morrow in wheeled lifeboats to try and find a passage to the west that the icerigger could negotiate. Both scout groups would be gone a maximum of five days. In that time, the crew would busy themselves with making minor but bothersome and necessary repairs to the ship, and try to keep busy until the scouts returned.

  Sinahnvor was patrolling his foredeck position, cold in the near cloudless night, when something flickering on the hillside caught his eye. He blinked double lids, but the flickering remained. It looked like a fat eye winking in the night.

  Fortunately Sinahnvor was not particularly imaginative. Nevertheless he shivered with something other than cold. Who would be off the ship this time of no-light? There’d been rumors of one of the humans and the Landgrave’s daughter, but such tales propelled more rafts
than did the winds.

  The watchman lifted his oil lamp slightly higher, extending the pole to which it was slung over the side of the raft. It was his imagination after all—no, there it was again! A definite intermittent gleam part way up the steep slope, no higher than the topmost spar of the foremast.

  Rumors of a less amusing kind filtered through his brain. If this were truly a land of spirits, might that not be some nightwraith come to snatch him from the deck? And who would know the manner or time of his abduction?

  It made him glance around anxiously. The two moons were high aloft, an indication that it was nearer morning than eve-time. He saw no movement anywhere. Would his relief find only lamp pole, clothing, and weapons? Surely a spirit would be interested only in his body.

  Monont should be on center deck watch now. He could remain silent and confront that mysterious glint, waiting for his soul to mayhap be stolen out his mouth, or he could seek the comfort of a comrade’s company. Lamp pole swinging, he descended from the bowsprit to the deck and moved past the fore cabins.

  “Clean ice and wind on your neck,” came a husky voice in the darkness. Sinahnvor swung his pole around. It lit the face of a curious Tran.

  “What are you doing away from your post, Sinahnvor?” asked Monont, concerned. “Should the night-mate catch you, he could make you—”

  “Be silent, Monont!” Sinahnvor whispered hastily. “There is an eye in the mountain!”

  The other lookout studied his colleague carefully. “You have been chewing too much bui extract.”

  There was conviction in Sinahnvor’s voice, however. “As you doubt me, come and see for yourself.”