The beer had in fact succeeded in turning Brenn in on himself and he was uncommunicative, constantly twisting his head around to look at the door, which had now been closed. Arflane knew that Brenn was expecting no one.
At last he leaned over the table and said, ‘Urquart seemed a gloomy individual, Brenn - perhaps even mad. He sees the bad luck of everything. I’ve been here for some days, and I’ve seen the catches unloaded. They’re smaller than usual, certainly, but not that small. We’ve both had as poor catches and they’ve done us no harm in the long term. It happened for me for several seasons running and then I had plenty of luck for another three. The owners were worried, but . . .’
Brenn looked up from his cup. ‘There you have it, Arflane. I’m my own master now. The Tender Maiden’s mine. I bought her two seasons back.’ Again he laughed bitterly. ‘I thought I was doing a sensible thing, seeing that so many of us have had our ships sold over our heads in past years. It looks as if I’ll be selling my own craft over my own head at this rate, or hiring out to some Friesgaltian merchant. I’ll have no choice. And there’s my crew - willing to gamble with me. Do I tell them Urquart’s news? They’ve wives and children, as I have. Shall I tell them?’
‘It would do no good,’ Arflane said quietly.
‘And where are the fish going?’ Brenn continued. He put his cup down heavily. ‘What’s happening to the herds?’
‘Urquart said they’re going south. Perhaps the clever man will be the one who learns how to follow them - how to live off what provisions he can find on the ice. There are more warm ponds to the south - possibly a means of tracking the herds could be devised . . .’
‘Will that help me this season?’
‘I don’t know,’ Arflane admitted. He was thinking now about his conversation aboard the Ice Spirit and he began to feel even more depressed.
Flatch’s whores came down to the main room of the hostel. Flatch had done nothing by halves. There was a girl for every man, including Arflane and Brenn. Katarina, Flatch’s youngest daughter, a girl of eighteen, approached them, holding the hand of another girl who was as dark and pretty as Flatch’s daughter was fair and plain. Katarina introduced the other girl as Maji.
Arflane attempted to sound jovial. ‘Here,’ he said to Brenn, ‘here’s someone to cheer you up.’
Leaning back, with the drunken, dark-haired girl Maji cuddled against his chest, Brenn roared with laughter at his own joke. The girl giggled. On the other side of the table Arflane smiled and stroked Katarina’s hair. She was a warmhearted girl and able instinctively to make men relax. Maji winked up at Brenn. The women had succeeded, where Arflane had failed, in restoring Brenn’s natural optimism.
It was very late. The air was stale and hot and the hostel room was noisy with the drunken voices of the whalers. Through the poor, flickering light Arflane could see their fur-clad silhouettes reeling from table to table or sitting slumped on the benches. Brenn’s crew was not the only one in the Shipsmasher. There were men from two other ships there, a Friesgaltian North Ice whaler and another North Icer from Abersgalt. If South Ice men had been there there might have been trouble, but these crews seemed to be mingling well with Brenn’s men. Out of the press of bulky bodies rose the long lances of the harpooners, swaying like slender masts in a high wind, their barbed tips casting distorted shadows in the shuddering light from the faulty strips. There were thumps as men fell or knocked over barrels. There was the smell of spilled bitter beer which ran over the tables and swamped the floor. Arflane heard the giggles of the girls and the harsh laughter of the men and, though the temperature was too warm for his own comfort, he felt himself begin to relax now that he was in the company of men whom he understood. Off-ship, crews had more or less equal status with the officers, and this contributed to the free and easy atmosphere in the Shipsmasher.
Arflane poured himself another cup of beer as Brenn began a fresh story.
The outer door opened suddenly and cold air blew in, making Arflane shiver, though he was grateful for it. Silence fell as the men turned. The door slammed shut and a man of medium height, swathed in a heavy sealskin cloak, began to walk between the tables.
He was not a whaling man.
That could be judged from the cut of his cloak, the way he walked, the texture of his skin. His hair was short and dark, cut in a fringe over his eyes and scarcely reaching to the nape of his neck. There was a gold bracelet curving up his right forearm and a silver ring on the second finger of his right hand. He moved casually, but somewhat deliberately, and had a slight, ironic smile on his lips. He was handsome and fairly young. He nodded a greeting to the men, who still stared at him suspiciously.
One heavily built harpooner opened his mouth and laughed at the young man, and others began to laugh too. The young man raised his eyebrows and put his head on one side, looking at them coolly.
‘I am seeking Captain Arflane.’ His voice was melodious and aristocratic, with a Friesgalt accent. ‘I heard he was here.’
‘I’m Arflane. What do you want?’ Konrad Arflane looked with some hostility at the young man.
‘I’m Manfred Rorsefne. May I join you?’
Arflane shrugged and Rorsefne came and sat on the bench next to Katarina Flatch.
‘Have a drink,’ said Arflane, pushing his full cup towards Rorsefne. He realized, as he made the movement, that he was quite drunk. This realization caused him to pause and rub his forehead. When he looked up at Manfred Rorsefne, he was glowering.
Rorsefne shook his head. ‘No, thank you, captain. I’m not in a drinking mood. I wanted to speak with you alone if that is possible.’
Suddenly petulant, Arflane said, ‘It is not. I’m enjoying the company of my friends. What is a Rorsefne doing in a top-deck hostel anyway?’
‘Looking for you, obviously.’ Manfred Rorsefne sighed theatrically. ‘And looking for you at this hour because it is important. However,’ he began to rise, ‘I will come to your hostel in the morning. I am sorry for intruding, captain.’ He glanced at Katarina Flatch a trifle cynically.
As Rorsefne made his way towards the door, one of the men thrust a harpoon shaft in front of his legs and he tripped and stumbled. He tried to recover his balance, but another shaft took him in the back and sent him sprawling. He fell as the whalers laughed raucously.
Arflane watched expressionlessly. Even an aristocrat was not safe in a whaling hostel if he had no connection with whaling. Manfred Rorsefne was simply paying for his folly.
The big harpooner who had first laughed at Rorsefne now stood up and grabbed the young man by the collar of his cloak. The cloak came away and the harpooner staggered back, laughing drunkenly. Another joined him, a stocky, redheaded man, and reached down to grab Rorsefne’s jacket. But Rorsefne rolled over to face the man, his smile still ironic, and tried to get to his feet.
Brenn leaned forward to see what was going on. He glanced at Arflane. ‘D’you want me to stop them?’
Arflane shook his head. ‘It’s his own fault. He’s a fool for coming here.’
‘I’ve never heard of an intrusion like it,’ Brenn agreed, settling back.
Rorsefne was now on his feet, reaching past the redheaded whale man towards the sealskin cloak held by the big harpooner. ‘I’ll thank you for my cloak,’ he said, his tone light, but shaking slightly.
‘That’s our payment for your entertainment,’ grinned the harpooner. ‘You can go now.’
Rorsefne’s eyes were hooded as he folded his arms across his chest. Arflane admired him for taking a stand.
‘It would seem,’ said Rorsefne quietly, ‘that I have given you more entertainment than you have given me.’ His voice was now firm.
Arflane got up on impulse and squeezed past Flatch’s daughter to stand to the left of the harpooner. Arflane was so drunk that he had to lean for a moment against the edge of a table.
‘Give him the cloak, lad,’ he said, his voice slurring. ‘And let’s get on with our drinking. The boy’s not worth our trouble
.’
The big harpooner ignored Arflane and continued to grin at the young aristocrat, dangling the rich cloak in one hand, teasing him. Arflane lurched forward and grabbed the cloak out of the man’s hand. The harpooner turned, grunting, and hit Arflane across the face. Brenn stood up from his corner, shouting at his man, but the harpooner ignored him and bent to pick up the cloak from where it had fallen. Perhaps encouraged by Arflane’s action, Manfred Rorsefne also stooped forward towards the cloak. The redheaded whale man hit him. Rorsefne reeled and then struck back.
Arflane, sobered somewhat by the blow, took hold of the harpooner by the shoulder, swung him round, and punched him in the face. Brenn came scrambling over the table, shouting incoherently and trying to stop the fight before it went too far. He attempted to pull Arflane and the harpooner apart.
The Friesgalt whale men were now yelling angrily, siding, perhaps for the sake of the fight, with Manfred Rorsefne, who was wrestling with the redheaded whaler.
The fight became confused. Screaming girls gathered their skirts about them and made for the back room of the hostel. Harpoons were used like quarter-staves to batter at heads and bodies.
Arflane saw Brenn go down with a blow on the head and tried to reach his friend. Every whale man in the hostel seemed to be against him. He struck out in all directions but was soon overcome by their numbers. Even as he fell to the floor, still fighting, he felt the cold air come through the door again and wondered who had entered.
Then a great roaring voice, like the noise of the north wind at its height, sounded over the din of the fight. Arflane felt the whale man’s hands leave him and got up, wiping blood from his eyes. His ears were ringing as the voice he had heard roared again.
‘Fish, you cave-bound fools! Fish, I tell you! Fish, you dog hunters! Fish, you beer swillers! Fish to take the rust off your lances! A herd of a hundred or more, not fifty miles distant at sou’-sou’-west!’
Blinking through the blood, which came from a shallow cut on his forehead, Arflane saw that the speaker was the man he and Brenn had encountered earlier - Long Lance Urquart.
Urquart had one arm curled around his great harpoon and the other around the shoulders of a half-grown boy who looked both excited and embarrassed. The lad wore a single plait, coated with whale grease, and a white bearskin coat that showed by its richness that he was a whaling hand, probably a cabin boy.
‘Tell them, Stefan,’ Urquart said, more softly now that he could be heard.
The boy spoke in a stutter, pointing back through the still open doorway into the light. ‘Our ship passed them coming in at dusk. We were loaded up and could not stop, for we had to make Friesgalt by nightfall. But we saw them. Heading from north to south, on a line roughly twenty degrees west. A big herd. My father - our skipper - says there hasn’t been a bigger herd in twenty seasons.’
Arflane bent to help Brenn, who was staggering to his feet, clutching his head.
‘Did you hear that, Brenn?’
‘I did.’ Brenn smiled in spite of his bruised, swollen lips. ‘The Ice Mother’s good to us.’
‘There’s enough out there for every ship in the dock,’ Urquart continued, ‘and more besides. They’re travelling fast, from what the lad’s father says, but good sailing should catch ‘em.’
Arflane looked around the room, trying to find Manfred Rorsefne. He saw him leaning against a wall, a flenching cutlass, that had obviously been one of the wall’s ornaments, clutched in his right hand. He still wore his ironic smile. Arflane looked at him thoughtfully.
Urquart also turned his attention from the men and seemed surprised when he saw Rorsefne there. The expression passed quickly and his gaunt features became frozen again. He took the boy’s shoulders and shifted his harpoon to cradle it in his other arm. He walked towards Manfred Rorsefne and took the cutlass from him.
‘Thanks,’ said Rorsefne, grinning, ‘it was becoming heavy.’
‘What were you doing in this place?’ Urquart asked brusquely. Arflane was surprised by his familiarity with the youth.
Rorsefne nodded his head in Arflane’s direction.’ ‘I came to give a message to Captain Arflane, but he was busy with his friends. Some others decided I should provide entertainment since I was here. Captain Arflane and I seemed agreed that they had had enough . . .’
Urquart’s narrow, blue eyes turned to look carefully at Arflane. ‘You helped him, captain?’
Arflane let his face show his disgust. ‘He was a fool to come alone to a place like this. If you know him take him home, Urquart.’
The men were beginning to leave the hostel, pulling their hoods about their heads, picking up their harpoons as they hurried back to their ships, knowing that their skippers would want to sail with the first light.
Brenn clapped Arflane on the shoulder. ‘I must go. We’ve enough provisions for a short haul. It was good to see you, Arflane.’
In the company of two of his harpooners, Brenn left the hostel. Save for Urquart, Rorsefne, and Arflane, the place was now empty.
Flatch came stumping down between the overturned tables, his gross body swaying from side to side. He was followed by three of his daughters, who began to clean up the mess. They appeared to take it for granted. Flatch watched them work and did not approach the three men.
Urquart’s strangely arranged hair threw a huge shadow on the far wall, by the door. Arflane had not noticed before how closely it resembled the tail of a land whale.
‘So you helped another Rorsefne,’ Urquart murmured, ‘though once again you had no need to.’
Arflane rubbed his damaged forehead. ‘I was drunk. I didn’t interfere for his sake.’
‘It was a good fight, however,’ Manfred Rorsefne said lightly. ‘I did not realize I could fight so well.’
‘They were playing.’ Arflane’s tone was weary and contemptuous.
Gravely, Urquart nodded in agreement. He shifted his grip on his harpoon and looked directly at Rorsefne. ‘They were playing with you,’ he repeated.
‘Then it was a good game, cousin,’ Rorsefne said, looking up into Urquart’s bleak eyes. ‘Eh?’ The Long Lance’s tall, gaunt figure was immobile, the features composed. His eyes looked towards the door. Arflane wondered why Rorsefne called Urquart ‘cousin,’ for it was unlikely that there was a true blood link between the aristocrat and the savage harpooner.
‘I will escort you both back to the deeper levels,’ said Urquart slowly.
‘What’s the danger now?’ Manfred Rorsefne asked him. ‘None. We’ll go alone, cousin, and then perhaps I’ll be able to deliver my message to Captain Arflane after all.’
Urquart shrugged, turned, and left the hostel without a word.
Manfred grinned at Arflane, who merely scowled in return. ‘A moody man, cousin Long Lance. Now, captain, would you be willing to listen while I tell you what I came to say?’
Arflane spat into the whale cranium nearby. ‘It can do no harm,’ he said.
As they walked carefully down the sloping ramps to the lower levels, avoiding the drunken whalers who staggered past them on their way upward, Manfred Rorsefne said nothing and Arflane was too bored and tired to ask him directly what his message was. The effects of the beer had worn off, and the pains in his bruised body were beginning to make themselves felt. The shadowy figures of the whalers, hurrying back to their ships through the dim light, could be seen in front of them and behind them. Occasionally a man shouted, but for the most part the whalers moved in comparative silence, though the constant shuffle of their ridged boots on the causeways echoed around the crevasse. Here and there a man clung to the swaying guard ropes, having staggered too close to the edge. It was not unusual for drunken sailors to lose their footing and fall to the mysterious bottom of the gorge.
Only when Arflane stopped at the entrance to his hostel and the last of the whalers had gone by did Rorsefne speak.
‘My uncle’s better. He seems eager to see you.’
‘Your uncle?’
‘Pyo
tr Rorsefne. He is better.’
‘When does he want to see me?’
‘Now, if it is convenient.’
‘I’m too tired. Your fight
‘I apologize, but I had no intention of involving you . . .’
‘You should not have gone to the Shipsmasher. You knew that.’
‘True. The mistake was mine, captain. In fact, if cousin Long Lance had not brought his good news, I could have your death on my conscience now . . .’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Arflane said disdainfully. ‘Why d’you call Urquart your cousin?’
‘It embarrasses him. It’s a family secret. I’m not supposed to tell anyone that Urquart is my uncle’s natural son. Are you coming to our quarters? You could sleep there, if you’re so tired, and see my uncle first thing in the morning.’
Arflane shrugged and followed Manfred Rorsefne down the ramp. He was half asleep and half drunk and the memory which kept recurring as he walked was not that of Pyotr Rorsefne, but of his daughter.
5 The Rorsefne Household
Waking in a bed that was too soft and too hot, Konrad Arflane looked dazedly about the small room. It was lined with rich wall hangings of painted canvas depicting famous Rorsefne ships on their voyages and hunts. Here a four-masted schooner was attacked by gigantic land whales, there a whale was slain by a captain with poised harpoon; elsewhere ships floundered in ice breaks or approached cities across the panorama of the ice; old wars were fought, old victories glorified; valiant Rorsefne men were at all times in the forefront, usually managing to bear the Rorsefne flag. Action and violence were on all sides.
The Complete Ice Schooner Page 5
