The Iron Ship

by K. M. McKinley

  “Don’t be glum, boy. It’s not the worst that could happen. Chances are that we’ll see it through without a hitch, and that once the licence is granted—and it will be, for this of all my ventures is surely in the national interest—”

  “That’s what Garten said.”

  “—then we’ll see a surge in share sales. It will be fine!” said Vand briskly. “Always need a bit of a race, keeps life interesting. Always judge a man by the quality of his rivals, that’s what the Hethikans used to say. Who knows, Trassan, you keep this up, and you can have your own Persin to worry about. Motherless cur that he is, I’d be insulted to have a lesser enemy.”

  Trassan nodded. He had, of course, corresponded with Vand about the licence issue, but he had been dreading telling him about Garten’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “Now, we’ll meet again in a week when I’m back from the dig at Ostria. I’ll send my daughter in. No funny business, do you understand.”

  “I have been meaning to ask you, master...”

  “By the gods man, not now! Let’s get this ship out of the way first, and have you back from the voyage. I’ll not be wanting to make Veridy a wife and a widow within weeks of each other. One thing at a time.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Very good.” He opened the door. “Five minutes, my sweet.”

  “Yes, Pappa.”

  Vand leaned out onto the landing and took something covered in a bright cloth from a servant. He put it on Trassan’s desk.

  “What’s that?”

  “A gift, I could say,” said Vand, “but I would really mean chaperone. Five minutes, do you hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Trassan.

  “Yes, Pappa,” said Veridy.

  Trassan shut the door. Veridy let out the most outrageously girlish giggle and pranced into his arms.

  “He is just outside, you know.”

  “Ah, as he said, he’s known for ages.”

  “I thought we were discrete.”

  “You were,” she smiled widely. “Don’t be taken in by his claims, he’s trying to unnerve you.”

  “He’s succeeding.”

  “Nonsense. He’s as perceptive as a block of pig-iron when it comes to me.”

  “What?”

  “I told him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, stupid, he would have worked it out sooner or later.” She gave him a little kiss that turned into a bigger one.

  They pulled apart.

  “I can do that only because you have impressed him, otherwise he’d have you hanged. It is a beautiful ship.”

  “He surveys it as an old man leers at the friends of his daughters,” said Trassan.

  “I rather thought it was how an agricultural gentleman might gaze happily at his favoured dray.”

  “Dray or wife, it doesn’t matter, it’s mine, not his.”

  “It is his money, Trassan.”

  “It was my idea.”

  “And his teaching.”

  “Oh do not let’s argue about this again. I’ve not seen you for weeks.”

  They went to kiss each other again. A tutting interrupted them. Both of them turned this way and that, before settling on the object on the desk. Trassan disengaged himself from Veridy and lifted the cloth. He let it drop and groaned.

  “I might have known.”

  “There is no need to be rude, goodfellow,” said a voice from under the cover.

  “What is it?” asked Veridy.

  “A Tyn,” said Trassan.

  “In there?”

  “A Lesser Tyn, the little kind.” Trassan drew back the cloth. Inside a beautiful cage sat a tiny Tyn no bigger than Trassan’s thumb. She was otherwise as perfect as a doll, like a high-born woman shrunk down to fit in a matchbox. For all he knew, she might have been. She wore a red velvet gown and an iron collar as delicate as a twist of grass.

  “I prefer just Tyn, if you please,” said the tiny woman.

  “Fair enough,” said Trassan. “Can you tell me your name or is there a geas on you?”

  She raised a pair of perfect eyebrows. “You know something about this sort of thing?”

  “Don’t ask,” said Trassan.

  “Then I will not. My name is Tyn Iseldrin. I like Issy.”

  “She is beautiful! Where on earth did he get her?” whispered Veridy, wide-eyed. She bent down to look.

  “I could ask the same of you.” Issy cleared her throat. “Don’t loom so child, it is impolite.” Veridy backed off. “Better. I require genteel conversation, four thimblefuls of honey a day, and one of milk. Bring no mirrors into my presence, that one is a geas,” she explained. “And I advise you not to talk too much about your employer, because I am bound to report to him all that I hear and see. I’d keep your hands off each other also. You are not married yet. This is my purpose, to see that you remain unentangled until such time as you might be. Married. Not entangled.” She grinned. There was a feral air to her smile.

  They drew apart a good couple of paces.

  “And although it is not necessary, I like to read.”

  “Well, well!” Trassan ran his hand through his curly hair. He began to laugh, and stopped. “Fine! And what does so fine a lady Tyn as yourself enjoy as reading matter?”

  She gave another sinister grin, showing teeth as sharp as a kitten’s. “Agricultural papers,” she said. “The very latest. The ones that deal with mechanical aids.”

  Trassan risked taking both Veridy’s hands in his own. The Lesser Tyn tutted, and shook her head. He let them go.

  “Not long now, darling,” he said. “I’ll make a good job of this. It’s my final test, I feel.”

  “You stopped being his apprentice a long time ago.”

  Trassan looked down at the endless labours going on, in and around the ship. “If I pull this off, I’ll be his equal.”

  Vand rapped on the door.

  “You better not fail then, had you, Trassan Kressind?” Veridy planted a kiss full on Trassan’s lips and stuck her tongue out at Issy. “Tell him, for all I care,” she said.

  “Tsk!” said Issy. “I will.”

  Vand poked his head around the door.

  “That is enough time for you two now. Trassan, I wish you to take me all over the vessel. I will inspect every inch of it. Every inch,” he repeated ominously.

  “Yes sir. I’ll find Hannever, and Tyn Gelven. He has the most up to date information one could wish for. And...?” Trassan looked at Issy.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” She sat down on the gilded couch built into the side of her cage and folded her arms. “You and I are going to be the most excellent of friends,” she said, with the most perfectly menacing expression Trassan had ever seen.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Glass Fort

  JOVANKIC’S CART DROPPED them inside the gate, where they were made to wait. Zhinsky winked broadly at the guards in a shocking disregard for military etiquette. The gates were withdrawn into the seamless glass of the walls and must have been immense; the gateway was forty feet wide and eighty high. Stern-faced Morfaan looked down upon Rel from either side. There were marks about their necks and at the top of their outlandish swords, as if someone had tried and failed to hack them away. The bailey extended a long way back up the mountain, the rear of the fort being significantly higher than the front. Far above, up near the peak, was a tall tower made small by distance. It was round and fat-bellied as a gun bastion, but its Morfaan proportions managed to make it appear as graceful as a palace.

  The fort was huge, far bigger than it appeared on the outside. The rearmost portion of it was built directly into the mountainside. The stone there had been simply scooped away, giving the same glass finish to the rock as the walls had.

  “Melted,” said Zhinsky, tapping Rel on the shoulder and pointing. “They melted the rock. How do you suppose they did it? Look at that, and remember this: you are away from comfortable certainties now, little merchant bo
y. This is the edge of the world. The rules of your kingdom do not apply.”

  “Wait a minute, Zhinsky, what exactly is your role here, besides my greeter?”

  “A little of this, a little of that.”

  “Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed your company, perhaps you better call me captain now. We are bound by military rules here.”

  “Are you sure, little merchant boy?”

  “I’m afraid I must insist.

  Zhinsky chuckled. “As you wish, little captain.”

  The overall impression of the fort was one of great age. For all that the bailey played host to lumber and stone buildings, built by Rel’s own kind, and rang to the practice of arms and the shouts of men, the place had the sense of a monument to the dead, rudely sequestered to this other purpose.

  A Khusiak serving boy was sent away by Zhinsky. He left laughing his head off. Shortly after, a young man in a Maceriyan uniform came to the gate.

  “You are Captain Rel Kressind, Third Karsan Dragoon Sauralier?” he said. As much as Rel was a judge of Maceriyans, he appeared cultured. He wore full uniform, bright and heavily decorated in the Maceriyan manner.

  “I am,” said Rel. He walked forward and shook the man’s hand.

  “Lieutenant Veremond, 15th Perusian Lancer Corps. Pleased to meet you. I will be your guide for the first couple of days here.” He gave a weak smile. “Not that there’s much to show. Don’t let the size of the place fool you, it’s repetitive. You will settle down in no time. Not much to do or see here. Then it’s endlessly arbitrating customs disputes and riding until your backside goes numb.”

  “I better make the most of my first day then, while it is all fresh.”

  Zhinsky ambled up. “I be seeing you. Veremond here is a good man. Very thorough. Not bad rider for a non-Khusiak either.”

  Zhinsky clapped Veremond and Rel on the shoulders and went away across the square, whistling.

  Rel was surprised when Veremond saluted him. Zhinsky winked and waved.

  “Why did you salute him?”

  “Why did I salute him?” said Veremond. “Oh...” A look of understanding dawned on his face. “No reason. We just do. Local joke, that sort of thing. Good old Zhinsky.” He looked after the Khusiak. “Right. The colonel is expecting you.”

  “But I’ve yet to wash. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long few weeks. I’ve come two and a half thousand miles.”

  “He won’t care about that. We all stink of the road out here, and lizard. There isn’t much water, but you’ll get used to that as well. If we all stink, nobody stinks.”

  Rel nodded. “All right.”

  “But I would put your uniform on, sir. And button it up. Estabanado’s a stickler for that.”

  Veremond took Rel to his quarters and departed on some errand. Rel’s room was small. The bed was a long, thin platform seemingly grown out of the crystal walls. Besides that there was a wooden table, chair, pewter wash jug, bowl, chamber pot, candlestick and a chest. Nothing else. A small window opened up right through one wall. He would probably be able to see out of it if he stood on the chair and stretched, but the thickness of the walls would preclude much of a view. It let in a little light and a lot of cold.

  Rel did, after all, have time to soap away the worst of the stink from his armpits, arse and groin, and rinse the dust from his face as he waited for his luggage to follow him up. The water was so cold it made him gasp.

  He had his jacket on anyway. He did up all the buttons, pulling faces at the dirt ingrained into the designs on them. He polished at them with his sleeve until his cases arrived. They had seemed few on the train but filled his room so completely he thought himself excessive.

  To his jacket he added his high-waisted trousers, riding boots and sash. He opened his armschest, but dithered over his cuirass and weapons. He put them on anyway. There were no servants to help him and he struggled with his armour fastenings. The weight of his ironlock carbine felt odd after such a long absence, and he opted to leave it behind. He locked it in its case, it was worth a small fortune. He burnished his sabre’s sheath, and rehooked it upon his belt. When he got his helmet out of its wooden case he found the crest of dracon feathers a little bedraggled, but that could not be helped.

  Veremond came for him shortly after. He nodded in approval. “You’re wise to make the effort,” he said. “This way.”

  He led Rel down long corridors in the walls; all of the same jointless material. He had never paid much attention to his father’s lectures on construction or anything else for that matter. It bored him, but he couldn’t help but think that Trassan would have been fascinated by the place.

  “I will admit it is impressive at first viewing,” said Veremond. “I recapture a little of that first impression when I show people about. One of the reasons I volunteered to meet you sir.”

  “It is quite amazing. How old is it?”

  “No one knows. Ten thousand years some say, two thousand say others. I’ve heard both and every number between. I have shown more than my fair share of academics and magisters about, they often like to talk. They all get the same look on their face you have now sir, and they all believe they are right. They don’t have to live here though. It is unbelievably cold in winter. After the first one of them, you begin to yearn for good honest brick and timber.”

  “It’s cold now,” said Rel.

  Veremond gave him a regretful look. “I’m afraid that it is not.”

  They went downstairs into a long, tall hallway where there was a deal of traffic. “This is the main way, it runs right the way around the wall, through all the towers to emerge either side of the main gate. You’ll soon find your way about, but in general here on the south side are the headquarters, northside is the kitchen and stores and so forth. We’re here,” he stopped by a door. It too was of the heavy, stone-like glass that made the walls, decorated with a crisp, alien design. He opened it onto a windowless antechamber lit by a single lamp. “Colonel Estabanado’s office is through there. I’ll wait here.” He pointed at a trio of chairs; stiff-backed and miserable, as if they had committed some misdeed and waited to be punished themselves.

  Veremond rapped on the inner door. “Enter!” came the reply. Rel went within.

  Colonel Estabanado was writing at his desk in an office that was as dark and cold as Rel’s quarters. There were rich rugs and furnishings, but so little light that their colours all ran into one sorry greyness. Many books filled locked cases lining the three inner walls. The outer wall, to which Estabanado had his back, had one small arrow loop rather than a window. A wooden firing platform gave access to it, reached by four steps. The room smelled of old paper and damp.

  Rel came to stand at attention before his desk.

  “Captain Rel Kressind, Karsan Third Dragoon Sauraliers reporting for duty, sir!” he said, clicking his boots together.

  Estabanado’s pen scratched over paper for a full minute. He tipped pounce onto the paper and lifted it to pursed lips. He took his time, fastidiously blowing from one side of the paper to the other. A blower, thought Rel. Not a tapper. Fine puffs of powder curled off the paper and drifted onto his desk. The colonel folded his message, then wiped his desk down. Only after this performance was completed, most definitely for Rel’s benefit, did Estabanado look up. The first thing he said to Rel was hardly encouraging.

  “I would not like you to think that your family’s station affords you any special privileges here at the Glass Fort, Captain Kressind.”

  “No sir,” said Rel.

  “Your father bought your rank.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Estabanado snorted derisively. “You thought you could do what you liked. You were wrong. Your transfer papers.” He held out his hand.

  Rel handed over the leather tube that contained the papers. Estabanado took it. He left his gaze on Rel’s face. He had a hangdog expression, mouth turned down under this neat beard, eyes pouched and tired. His skin was light brown, typical of Correados, but aroun
d his face and hands it was tanned a darker shade. The sign of a field officer. Estabanado might be severe in manner, but he was no pen pusher.

  He popped the top of the dispatch tube and took out the papers. He went over them quickly.

  “Adultery,” he said, flicking from one page to the next.

  “Yes sir.”

  “In my country, this is a capital offence. Karsa is a land of lax morality. You should not be here.” He tossed the papers onto the desk. “You should be dead.” He folded his hands over one another. “This fort is no place for criminals, Kressind. Few of the men who are here want to be, many have been sent here for punishment. Some, I know, think their posting here is unjust. But they are not common felons. Are you a felon, Captain Kressind? That is the question.”

  “Not by the laws of my country, colonel.”

  “A lawyer’s answer. I will not stand the antics of rich boys with purchased commissions. All soldier here with equal effort. All who don’t are equally flogged. Am I clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I will not brook any display of disobedience. You are men of many lands, but all of you are under my command, and I will be obeyed in all things. Is that clear also?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I see from your record that you have some talent. Therefore, at my discretion, your rank remains intact. For now. However, you will not be assigned a full squadron of men.” Estabanado poured himself a drink of brandy from the decanter on his desk. He did not offer Rel one. “There are simply not enough. This fortress can house three thousand men, if need be. But I am not given such resources. No clear and present threat, I am told.”

  Rel said nothing. Estabanado sipped his brandy.

  “You are a dragoon. We have no medium cavalry as such. I will instead place you in command of a troop of twenty light under Major Mazurek.”

  Rel did not hide his surprise very well.

  “Something amiss, captain?”

  “No sir.”

  “There is. Speak.”

  Rel risked looking at Estabanado.

  “I did not say at ease, Kressind.”

  Rel’s eyes snapped back to regard the wall again. “I am sorry sir. This is my first command. I have not yet finished my training.”