The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I don’t see how he could have escaped the nomads,” commented Ethan, shaking his head.

  “Nor do I,” agreed Hunnar. “However, that knife,” and he gestured at the protruding hilt, “is no barbarian device. Twas made in our own foundry.”

  “What should we do, Skua?” asked Ethan.

  “Do? Well, me, I’m going back to that hall and slobber reedle until I float … physically or otherwise.” He turned on a heel and called back over his shoulder. “And I heartily suggest, young feller-me-lad, you come ahead and do likewise!”

  Ethan glanced down again at the stone-still body. A gust of icy atmosphere sucked at his body heat and he shivered. Torchlight rippled like chiffon dolls’ skirts.

  Then he shrugged, said a bad word, and turned to follow September.

  Ethan crossed his arms and flailed opposite shoulders. It didn’t make him any warmer. As a method of raising his body temperature it proved effectively nil. But it did better psychologically. Excellent! He would freeze to death nice and sane. This self-flagellation is making you warmer, he repeated unconvincingly, it’s making you warmer.

  His skin fought the supposition tooth and nail.

  It was a fairly cool day—minus ten or so outside. While it was perhaps thirty degrees warmer in the castle, it was still a long way from tropic. Modified to fit his human frame, his new hessavar-fur coat gave him considerable protection. They’d even managed to persuade the royal tailor to sew on real sleeves and leggings. At least now they could worry a little less about the dangers of frostbite.

  Frost-nibble, however, was driving him crazy.

  And he’d been wearing the coat for weeks now. Every so often an uncomfortable feeling crawled up his back as if the long-dead fur was beginning to take root to his chafed, abused body.

  If it weren’t for their occasional jaunts to the foundry for a really hot bath, the encrusted dirt and sweat could have doubled as a heat-sealing coating in itself. They hadn’t fallen that far—yet.

  It had been nearly two weeks, for certain, since the epic defeat of Sagyanak and the memorable battle in which the Sofoldians had shattered the power of the great Horde forever. In other words, the local population was just about sobered up.

  Now he was making his way up to the vile-smelling rooms that Eer-Meesach called home. He passed an open balcony and spared a glance for the scene below.

  Once again rafts were moving across the ice of the great harbor. Most of the frozen blood from the thousands of corpses had been chipped and melted away, the rough spots on the surface smoothed over. Hundreds of Wannomian stonemasons, carpenters, and other craftsmen were at work repairing the extensive damage to the harbor wall. Even the huge gap where the monstrous ram had broken through was beginning to be filled as loose stone was gathered off the ice and fresh rock brought from quarries in the mountains.

  He turned from the balcony down a short hall, began to ascend a spiral ramp. He vaguely recalled that at the start of the victory celebration Williams had mumbled something about another surprise. Well, it couldn’t be more of a shock than the introduction of gunpowder had been to their hosts. Heaven help the social system of this feudal ice-world if the little schoolmaster’s subsequent revelations were half as overpowering!

  The multitude of traveling rafts in the harbor would take the news of the Sofoldians’ unprecedented defeat of one of the great nomadic Hordes back to their own towns and distant cities. They would also carry samples of gunpowder and formula for same so they could resist the bands which plagued their home provinces.

  The elimination of those utterly ruthless, bloodthirsty groups would probably be a good thing for the body politic, not to mention individual political bodies. At least, it would until Tran-ky-ky ran out of barbarians. Then the various barons, landgraves, and dukes would be stuck with their new toys and no one to look at except each other.

  Unless, of course, the barbarians managed to get hold of some gunpowder for themselves, in which case …

  He gave it up. It was too complicated. Nor was he especially inclined toward sociological speculation. All he wanted to speculate on was getting over to Brass Monkey in one piece. Then, hopefully, to pick up his sample cases, dispose of a few thousand credits worth, and acquire a few decent orders. Smiling, he’d be off for the next world, definitely one with a generous sun and nothing more disturbing meteorologically than an occasional sensuous zephyr. Not a continual hurricane screaming eternally eastward.

  He gained the top of the spiral, walked a few paces down the hall, and entered the wizard’s apartments. He considered this time that there were no guards at the door. It hadn’t impressed him until after the attempt on the Landgrave’s life. All the nobles had guards also. Not Eer-Meesach. The inhabitants of Sofold were a thinking, practical people, but still sufficiently superstitious to hold a healthy respect for demons, elves, and wizards like Eer-Meesach. It would take a gutsy cutpurse indeed who would try for a few pieces of gold or some such when the wizard had threatened to turn any thief he caught into a swart worm.

  The wizard was one of a little group gathered around a stumpy, weatherbeaten table. And on this world, “weather-beaten” identified something shaky or ancient indeed. The antiquing on this archaic desk hadn’t been put there by the local equivalent of terran or thranx professionals. Such contrivances are only practiced by advanced races.

  Present along with the wizard were Williams and September. Monumental hooked nose, jutting chin, gold earring—the big man took up half the available space in his billowing hessavar fur. He looked up when Ethan entered.

  “Hello, young feller-me-lad.” He was radiating obvious enthusiasm over something. “Come have a peek at what our two intellectuals have been up to, what?”

  Ethan rubbed his gloved hands together—that seemed to help a little—and edged in between September and the schoolmaster.

  A sheet of vellum was tacked to the smooth tabletop. The drawing on it was not too complex, but it was sufficiently alien in nature for Ethan to have to scan it twice before he could guess what it might be.

  “Looks like a raft,” he said finally. “Of sorts.”

  “Of sorts indeed, cub,” commented Eer-Meesach excitedly. “Twas your friend Williams who conceived the basic idea that lies gloriously before us. I merely executed it.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of an artist,” Williams apologized.

  Ethan had another look at the sketch. “It certainly looks different.”

  “My principal area of study was early Terran history,” Williams confessed, squirming embarrassedly. “That’s how I happened to know that old formula for gunpowder.” He pointed at the drawing. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since we were picked up by Sir Hunnar and his men. As you know, three-quarters of Terra is covered with water.”

  “I’ve seen pictures,” said Ethan, nodding.

  “Well,” the schoolteacher continued, “this particular kind of ship was developed and raised to almost poetic heights by a young Terran named Donald McKay, who lived and worked on the east coast of the North American continent. They were called clipper ships.”

  “Funny name,” said Ethan. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Williams shrugged. “The derivation has been lost. As you can see, I’ve modified the original design so that instead of having a curved bottom, as in an ocean-going boat, we will have a raft with a flat base. It will run on five runners—two fore, two aft, and one slightly further aft for steering purposes.”

  “It may not be quite as maneuverable as some of the local craft,” put in September, “but it’s going to be a damn sight faster than any kind of surface transportation this icebox world’s ever seen before.”

  “Not an unreasonable expectation,” agreed Williams cautiously. “It will require a considerable amount of wood compared to local rafts. Several large trees will have to be banded together to make the masts, and a great deal of sailcloth is needed.”

  “I’m no engineer,” said Ethan bluntly, “
but it just looks to me as if in a good blow, with all that sail, she’d turn over.”

  “The base will be carefully counterbalanced with just such a possibility in mind,” the teacher replied. “But I think the double runners will give it a good deal of stability.”

  “And who’s going to pay for it?” Ethan was on familiar ground now.

  September grinned. “Despite all those glory holy-hosannas the Landgrave ladled on us, lad, he hemmed and hawed like a penniless beggar when we put an estimate to him. Went on and on about how repairs to the fortifications in the harbor and reparations to debilitated families were leaving the treasury empty as the inside of his promises. You’d have thought we were going to take his gold-inlaid shirt, too.

  “Hunnar and Balavere were there. They listened quietly to the whole thing, real dignified and proper. When his majesty was finished they gave him a tongue-lashing that must have flayed his ancestors forty generations back! Then I pointed out to him that the moment we were delivered safe, healthy, and relatively unfrozen to Arsudun Island, the ship would become property of the Sofoldian navy. He’d managed to neglect that little item in his tale of woe.

  “The raft’s captain-to-be, Ta-hoding … you remember him?” Ethan nodded. “Ta-hoding enumerated the tremendous commercial advantages such a vessel would have over all competitors, especially with the forever sharp duralloy runners, and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Ethan interrupted. “I thought they couldn’t work the metal.”

  “They couldn’t,” replied the big man with a trace of pride. “All last week I’ve been puttering around with Vlad-Vollingstad, the foundry boss. Ripped out the whole board on the lifeboat, emergency repair supplies, controls—everything. An electrodyne forge isn’t too complicated. With the unlimited heat supply they have, I think I can get one going. I’m afraid they won’t be turning out any suspension housing, but they’ll be able to cut and bend until the lifeboat’s completely reworked. We need a lot less than that for a few big runners. Might even be able to get away with just slicing off a few sections of hull and sharpening them.

  “The biggest problem is one for pure sweat. Since we can’t bring the heat to the metal, we’ll have to bring the metal to the heat. That means hauling the whole wreck up into the mountains to the foundry. Surprisingly, the Landgrave didn’t object to the cost of that one, even though it may take every vol on the island. I don’t think he wants all that nice indestructable metal sitting in the harbor where a few imaginative visiting captains could tow it away.”

  “They wouldn’t get very far,” said Ethan. “Not pulling that mass across the ice.”

  “Probably not,” the big man conceded, “but try and convince the Landgrave of that. So as soon as we can round up the men and animals, that gets first priority after starting the forge.”

  Ethan ran a finger over part of the drawing. “You really think this thing will stay upright in a high wind?”

  “Not until we try it out in one, we won’t be.” Williams nodded agreement.

  “The base weight should keep it steady,” said the schoolmaster. “Also, note the airfoils front and rear. Something McKay did not have to worry about. With so much sail area on a raft that size, I’m more worried about the possibility of her becoming airborne than tipping over. These”—and he tapped the two foils on the sketch—“should eliminate any chance of that.”

  Ethan stared at the hybrid of nineteenth-century terran and modern tran technology and shook his head admiringly. “Congratulations, Milliken. It’s quite a project.” He extended a hand and the schoolmaster shook it shyly. “I only hope the damn thing works.”

  “What an enterprise!” Eer-Meesach began. “Nothing like it has ere been seen in Sofold or her neighbors. We shall call it ‘Slanderscree’ after the dark flight of dawn-birds which precede the souls of the departed!”

  “Encouraging appellation,” commented Ethan drily.

  The wizard didn’t understand him. “Bards will sing of its sailing for a hundred times a hundred years. We will be all in song and verse immortalized, sirs. The greatness of our quest shall …” September gave Ethan a gentle nudge.

  “I think you’ve heard everything you have to, lad.”

  “I think so, too, Skua.”

  They excused themselves. Malmeevyn was so engrossed in enumerating the magnificence of his anticipated immortality that he barely noticed them depart.

  Out in the cool quiet of the hallway, Ethan couldn’t resist a last question.

  “Assuming this monstrosity actually gets built, Skua—”

  “It will, lad.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll believe it when the first sail fills. And when it isn’t torn to splinters in the first honest breeze. Assuming that—can we make it? Can we get to the settlement? And how long will it take?”

  “I’ve got confidence in the boat, lad. Williams may be a bit of a secret romantic, deep down, but the design is sound. We’ve got compasses. Now that we know we’ve got a landmark close by the island, this volcano … what do they call it?”

  “The Place-Where-The-Earth’s-Blood-Burns,” reminded Ethan helpfully.

  “Yeah … from there it should be easy enough to find the town. Let’s see … given the speed that thing should be able to make, allowing time for the locals to get used to the different rigging, plus the fact that we’ll be moving against the wind at times … I’d guess we should be able to do it inside of a couple of months. Depending on the weather, of course.”

  “What do you think of our captain? He didn’t awe me the first time we traveled with him.”

  September grinned. “Ta-hoding? Looks and sounds like a fat whiner, doesn’t he? Probably because he is a fat whiner. But he also impressed me as a being who knows his seamanship … icemanship, rather. I’d prefer to have him at the helm and wide awake as opposed to some smooth-talking arrogant braggart who can’t tell a snow squall from a dust cloud. Give me a captain who’s concerned first for his own precious skin above a gallant idiot any time.

  “I’m going to be tied up with that forge and shaping the raft runners. Williams will be busy with Eer-Meesach grinding out crude blueprints and plans. But someone has to oversee the actual construction. By the Black Hole in Cygnus, you know who volunteered when he found out about it?”

  “Do tell,” said Ethan.

  “Old du Kane, that’s who! Actually asked if he could. Said something to the effect that he wasn’t especially adept at decapitating belligerent obstructionists or getting drunk in comradely fashion with the local soldiery, but that he could manage large groups of people and materials. He’s learned enough of the local lingo to get by, so I told him to go ahead.”

  Ethan didn’t share the big man’s confidence in the financier. “You think he’ll handle things properly? He’s not the most diplomatic type in the Arm.”

  “Don’t confuse performance with personality,” admonished September, scratching at a fur-hidden ear. “I’m not fanatically in love with the old pirate myself, nor any of his ilk. But we’re not in the position of choosing from an unlimited workforce. Besides, I can guess how much credit every day he spends out of contact with his empire is costing him. He’ll get that raft built as fast as possible, all right.”

  “I suppose so,” Ethan conceded uncertainly. “I can’t keep from wondering what happened to Walther.”

  September grunted at the mention of the vanished kidnapper.

  “Probably a frozen smear on the ice by now, what? Or resting comfortably in the belly of a Droom or some other charming member of the local fauna.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Ethan broke away to make for his own room and a roaring fire.

  XI

  THE BUILDING OF THE Slanderscree proceeded as rapidly as anyone dared hope, despite Landgrave Torsk Kurdagh-Vlata’s royal howls of agony over the unending list of expenses. His moaning ran the unceasing wind a good vocal second.

  September singed an arm when the first jumpspark was fired from the makeshift
forge. After an hour’s steady work and cursing, however, the recalcitrant hunk of machinery worked perfectly. Overawed, no doubt, at recognizing an elemental force greater than itself.

  With the big man sweating at the foundry, Williams and Eer-Meesach running from mountain to harbor to village with drawings and corrections in the dozens, and du Kane supervising the actual construction, Ethan was left with the thankless job of handling the thousands of minute, attendant details.

  He couldn’t believe that building a primitive, crude raft could involve so many little decisions and questions, all made and answered on the spot. Surely an interstellar freighter could be no more complicated.

  Brown-green sailcloth was matched to design specifications. Meters of pika-pina cable were measured and trimmed. New crates of fresh-forged bolts and fittings had to be shepherded down to the ice-dock.

  Put together with equal parts sweat and invective, the Slanderscree began to take shape.

  Something else was taking shape, too, and Ethan liked it a lot less than the a-building raft. This was Elfa’s continuing attempt to become something other than a casual acquaintance.

  One day, despite the offense it might cause the Landgrave and the damage it could do to their cause, he erupted at her. To his surprise, she took it rather calmly—almost as though she’d been waiting for it. After that she didn’t bother him again. He was puzzled but decided not to press for the facts. He was ahead on points. Better leave it that way.

  Despite delays and the inevitable confusion arising from problems in translation, despite a temporary failure of the electrodyne forge, despite endless hours of frustrating explanation from Williams on how the complex rigging was to be installed, there came a day and hour when the Slanderscree was finished, stocked, and ready to depart—though Ethan had a hard time convincing himself that it would ever move.