‘Is Janek going, did you say?’ Rorsefne asked suddenly, breaking the mood.
‘It seems so.’
Rorsefne laughed quietly. ‘I wonder how he was convinced. No matter. With luck he’ll be the one killed and she’ll find herself a man to marry, though they’re scarce enough. You’ll skipper the yacht?’
‘I said I would, though I don’t know why. I am doing many things I would not do elsewhere. I am in something of a quandary, Lord Rorsefne.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rorsefne chuckled. ‘You’re simply not adjusted to our way of doing things.’
‘Your nephew puzzles me. Somehow he managed to talk me into agreeing with him, when everything I feel disagrees with him. He is a subtle young man.’
‘He has his own kind of strength,’ Rorsefne said affectionately. ‘Do not underestimate Manfred, captain. He appears weak, both in character and in physique, but he likes to give that appearance.’
‘You make him seem very mysterious,’ Arflane said half jokingly.
‘He is more complicated than us, I think,’ Rorsefne replied. ‘He represents something new - possibly just a new generation. You dislike him, I can see. You may come to like him as much as you like my daughter.’
‘Now you are being mysterious, sir. I expressed no liking for anyone in particular.’
Rorsefne ignored this remark. ‘See me after the hunt,’ he said in his failing voice. ‘I’ll show you the charts. You can tell me then if you accept the commission.’
‘Very well. Good-bye, sir.’
Leaving the room, Arflane realized that he had been drawn irrevocably into the affairs of the Rorsefne household and that, ever since he had saved the man’s life, his fate had been linked with theirs. They had somehow seduced him, made him their man. He knew that he would take the command offered by Pyotr Rorsefne just as he had taken the command of the yacht offered by Manfred Rorsefne. Without appearing to have lost any of his integrity, he was no longer his own master. Pyotr Rorsefne’s strength of character, Ulrica Ulsenn’s beauty and grace, Manfred Rorsefne’s subtlety, even Janek Ulsenn’s belligerence, had combined to trap him. Disturbed, Arflane walked back towards the breakfast room.
6 The Whale Hunt
Divided from the main fleet by a low wall of ice blocks, the yacht, slim-prowed and handsome, lay in her anchor lines in the private Rorsefne yard.
Tramping across the ice in the cold morning, with the sky a smoky yellow, broken by streaks of orange and a dark pink that the ice reflected, Arflane followed Manfred Rorsefne as he made his way towards the yacht through the still-soft layer of snow. Behind Arflane came Janek and Ulrica Ulsenn, sitting on a small, ornate sleigh drawn by servants. Man and wife sat side by side, swathed in rich furs, their hands buried in huge muffs, their faces almost wholly hidden by their hoods.
The yacht had already been crewed, and the men were preparing to sail. A bulky, spring-operated harpoon gun, rather like a giant crossbow, had been loaded and set up in the bow. The big harpoon with its half score of tapering barbs jutted out over the bowsprit, a savage phallus.
Arflane smiled as he looked at the heavy harpoon. It seemed too big for the slender yacht that carried it. It dominated the boat - a fore-and-aft-rigged schooner - it drew all attention to itself. It was a fine, cruel harpoon.
He followed Manfred up the gangplank and was surprised to see Urquart standing there, watching them from sharp, sardonic eyes, his own harpoon cradled as always in his left arm, his gaunt features and tall body immobile until he turned his back on them suddenly and walked aft up the deck towards the wheelhouse.
Janek Ulsenn, his lips pursed and his expression one of thinly disguised anxiety, was helping his wife on board.
Arflane thought that perhaps she should he helping her husband.
A ship’s officer in white and grey fur came along the deck toward the new arrivals. He spoke to Manfred Rorsefne, though protocol demanded that he address the senior member of the family, Janek Ulsenn.
‘We’re ready to sail, sir. Will you be taking command?’
Manfred shook his head slowly and smiled, stepping aside so that he no longer stood between Arflane and the officer.
‘This is Captain Arflane. He will be master on this trip. He has all powers of captain.’
The officer, a stocky man in his thirties with a black, rimed beard, nodded to Arflane in recognition. ‘I know of you, sir. Proud to sail with you. Can I show you the ship before we loose lines?’
‘Thanks.’ Arflane left the rest of the party and accompanied the officer towards the wheelhouse. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Haeber, sir. First officer. We have a second officer, a bosun, and the usual small complement. Not a bad crew, sir.’
‘Used to whale hunting?’
A shadow passed across Haeber’s face. He said quietly: ‘No, sir.’
‘Any of the men whaling hands?’
‘Very few, sir. We have Mr Urquart aboard, as you know, but he’s a harpooner of course.’
‘Then your men will have to learn quickly, won’t they?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’ Haeber’s tone was carefully noncommittal. For a moment it was in Arflane’s mind to echo Haeber’s doubt; then he spoke briskly.
‘If your crew’s as good as you say, Mr Haeber, then we’ll have no trouble on the hunt. I know whales. Make sure you listen carefully to every order I give and there’ll be no great problems.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Haeber’s voice became more confident.
The yacht was small and neat. She was a fine craft of her class, but Arflane could see at once that his suspicions as to her usefulness as a whaler were justified. She would be fast - faster than the ordinary whaling vessels - but she had no strength to her. She was a brittle boat. Her runners and struts were too thin for heavy work and her hull was liable to crack on collision with an outcrop of ice, another ship, or a fully grown whale.
Arflane decided he would take the wheel himself. This would give the crew confidence, for his helmsmanship was well known and highly regarded. But first he would let one of the officers take the ship on to the open ice while he got the feel of her. Her sails were ready for letting out and men stood by the anchor capstans along both sides of the deck.
After testing the wheel, Arflane took the megaphone Haeber handed him and climbed the companionway to the bridge above the wheelhouse.
Ahead he could see the distant outlines of ships sailing under full canvas towards the South Ice. The professional whalers were well ahead and Arflane was satisfied that at least the yacht would not get in their way before the main hunting began and the whale herd scattered. It was always at this time that the greatest confusion arose, with danger of collision as the ships set off after their individual prey. The yacht should come in after the whalers had divided and be able to select a small whale to chase - preferably some half-grown calf. Arflane sighed, annoyance at having to hunt such unmanly prey just for the sport of the aristocrats who were now traipsing along the deck towards the bridge. They were evidently planning to join him, and, since the craft was theirs, they had a right to be on the bridge so long as they did not interfere with the captain’s efficient command of the ship.
Arflane lifted the megaphone.
‘All hands to their posts!’
The few crewmen who were not at their posts hastened to them. The others tensed, ready to obey Arflane’s orders.
‘Cast off anchors!’
As one, the anchor men let go the anchor lines and the ship began to slide towards the gap in the ice wall. Her runners scraped and bumped rhythmically as she gained speed down the slight incline and passed between the blocks, making for the open ice.
‘Ready the mains’l!’
The men in the yards of the mainmast placed their hands on their halyards.
‘Let go the mains’l!’
The sail cracked open, its boom swinging as it filled out. The boat’s speed doubled almost at once. At regular intervals Arflane ordered more sail on and
soon the yacht was gliding over the ice under full canvas. Air slapped Arflane’s face, making it tingle with cold. He breathed in deeply, savouring the sharp chill of it in his nostrils and lungs, clearing the stale city air from his system. He gripped the bridge rail as the boat rode the faint undulations of the ice, carving her way through the thin layer of snow, crossing the black scars left by the runners of the ships who had gone ahead of her.
The sun was almost at zenith, a dull, deep red in the torn sky. Clouds swept before them, their colours changing gradually from pale yellow to white against the clear blue; the colour of the ice changed to match the clouds, now pure white and sparkling. The other ships were hull down below the distant horizon. Save for the slight sounds that the ship made, the creak of yards and the bump of the runners, there was silence.
Tossed by the tearing skids, a fine spray of snow rose on both sides of the boat as she plunged towards the South Ice.
Arflane was conscious of the three members of the Friesgalt ruling family standing behind him. He did not turn. Instead he looked curiously at the figure who could be seen leaning in the bow by the harpoon gun, his gloved fingers gripping a line, his bizarre, strangely dressed hair streaming behind him, his lance cradled in the crook of his arm. Urquart, either from pride or from a wish for privacy, had spoken to no one since he had come aboard. Indeed, he had boarded the craft of his own accord and his right to be there had not been questioned.
‘Will we catch the whalers, captain?’ Manfred Rorsefne spoke as quietly as ever; there was no need to raise his voice in the near-tangible silence of the icelands.
Arflane shook his head. ‘No.’
He knew in fact there was every chance of catching the professional whalers; but he had no intention of doing so and fouling their hunting. As soon as they were well under way, he planned to take in sail on some pretext and cut his speed.
An hour later the excuse occurred to him. They were leaving the clean ice and entering a region sparsely occupied by ridges of ice standing alone and fashioned into strange shapes by the action of the wind. He deliberately allowed the boat to pass close by one of these, to emphasize the danger of hitting it.
When they were past the spur, he half turned to Rorsefne, who was standing behind him. ‘I’m cutting speed until we’re through the ridges. If I don’t, there’s every chance of our hitting one and breaking up - then we’ll never see the whale herd.’
Rorsefne gave him a cynical smile, doubtless guessing the real reason for the decision, but made no comment.
Sail was taken in, under Arflane’s instructions, and the boat’s speed decreased by almost half. The atmosphere on board became less tense. Urquart, still in his self-appointed place in the bow, turned to glance up at the bridge. Then as if he had satisfied himself on some point, he shrugged slightly and turned back to look out towards the horizon.
The Ulsenns were sitting on a bench under the awning behind Arflane. Manfred Rorsefne leaned on the rail, staring up at the streamers of clouds above them.
The ridges they were now passing were carved into impossible shapes by the elements.
Some were like half-finished bridges, curving over the ice and ending suddenly in jagged outline. Others were squat, a mixture of rounded surfaces and sharp angles; and still others were tall and slender, like gigantic harpoons stuck butt-foremost into the ice. Most of them were in clumps set far enough apart to afford easy passage for the yacht as she glided on her course, but every so often Haeber, at the wheel, would steer a turn or two to one side or another to avoid a ridge.
The ice under the runners was rougher than it had been, for this ground was not travelled as much as the smoother terrain surrounding the cities. The boat’s motion was still easy, but the undulation was more marked than before.
In spite of the lack of canvas, the yacht continued to make good speed, sails swelling with the steady following wind.
Knowing there was as yet little for him to do, Arflane agreed to Rorsefne’s suggestion that they go below and eat. He left Haeber in charge of the bridge and the bosun at the wheel.
The cabins below were surprisingly large, since no space was used for carrying cargo of any kind other than ordinary supplies. The main cabin was as luxuriously furnished, by Arflane’s standards, as the Ice Spirit’s had been, with chairs of canvas stretched on bone frames, an ivory table and ivory shelves and lockers lining the bulkhead. The floor was carpeted in the tawny summer coat of the wolf (a beast becoming increasingly rare) and the ports were large, letting in a great deal more light than was usual in a boat of her size.
The four of them sat around the carved ivory table while the cook served their midday meal of broth made from the meat of the snow-kite, seal steaks, and a mess of the lichen that grew on the surface of the ice in certain parts of the plateau. There was hardly any conversation during the meal, which suited Arflane. He sat at one end of the table, while Ulrica Ulsenn sat at the other. Janek Ulsenn and Manfred Rorsefne sat on his right and left. Occasionally Arflane would look up from his food at the same time as Ulrica Ulsenn and their eyes would meet. For him, it was another uncomfortable meal.
By the early afternoon the boat was nearing the region where the whales had been sighted. Arflane, glad to be away from the company of the Ulsenns and Manfred Rorsefne, took over the wheel from the bosun.
The masts of some of the whalers were now visible in the distance. The whaling fleet had not, it appeared, divided yet. All the ships seemed to be following much the same course, which meant that the whales were still out of sight.
As they drew nearer, Arflane saw the masts of the ships begin to separate; it could only mean that the herd had been sighted. The whalers were spreading out, each ship chasing its individual quarry.
Arflane blew into the bridge speaking tube. Manfred Rorsefne answered.
‘The herd’s been spotted,’ Arflane told him. ‘It’s splitting up. The big ones will be what the whalers are after. I suppose we’ll find a little whale for ourselves.’
‘How long to go, captain?’ Rorsefne’s voice now held a trace of excitement.
‘About an hour.’ Arflane answered tersely, and replaced the stopper of the speaking tube.
On the horizon to starboard was a great cliff of ice rising hundreds of feet into the deep purple of the sky. To port were small sharp ridges of ice running parallel to the cliffs. The yacht was sailing between them now towards the slaughtering grounds where ships could be discerned already engaged in hunting down and killing the great beasts.
Standing on the bridge, Arflane prepared to go down and take the wheel again as he saw the prey that the yacht would hunt: a few bewildered calves about half a mile ahead of them, almost directly in line with the boat’s present course. Rorsefne and the Ulsenns came up to the rail, craning their necks as they stared at the quarry.
They were soon passing close enough to be able to see individual ships at work.
With both hands firmly on the wheel and Haeber beside him with his megaphone ready to relay orders, Arflane guided the boat surely on her course, often steering in a wide arc to avoid the working ships.
Dark red whale blood ran over the churned whiteness of the ice; small boats, with harpooners ready in their bows, sped after the huge mammals or elsewhere were hauled at breakneck pace in the wake of skewered leviathans, towed by taut harpoon lines wound around the small capstans in the bows. One boat passed quite close, seeming hardly to touch the ground as it bounced over the ice, drawn by a pain-enraged cow who was four times the length and twice the height of the boat itself. She was opening and shutting her massive, tooth-filled jaws as she moved, using front and back flippers to push herself at almost unbelievable speed away from the source of her agony. The boat’s runners, sprung on a matrix of bone, came close to breaking as she was hurled into the air and crashed down again. Her crew were sweating and clinging grimly to her sides to avoid being flung out; those who could doused the running lines with water to stop them burning. The cow’s hide, scarre
d, ripped, and bleeding from the wounds of a dozen harpoons, was a brown-grey colour and covered in wiry hair. Like most of her kind, it did not occur to her to turn on the boat, which she could have snapped in two in an instant with her fifteen-foot jaws.
She was soon past, and beginning to falter as Arflane watched.
In another place a bull had been turned over on to his back and was waving his massive flippers feebly in his death-throes. Around him, several boatloads of hunters had disembarked on to the ice and were warily approaching with lances and flenching cutlasses at the ready. The men were dwarfed by the monster who lay dying on his back, his mouth opening and shutting, gasping for breath.
Beyond, Arflane saw a cow writhing and shuddering as her blood spouted from a score of wounds.
The yacht was almost on the calves now.
Arflane’s eyes were attracted by a movement to starboard. A huge bull-whale was rushing across the ice directly in the path of the yacht, towing a longboat behind him. A collision was imminent.
Desperately, he swung his wheel hard over. The yacht’s runners squealed as she began to turn, narrowly missing the snorting whale, but still in danger of fouling the boat’s lines and wrecking them both. Arflane leaned with all his strength on the wheel and barely succeeded in steering the yacht on to a parallel course. Now he could see the occupants of the boat. Standing by the prow, a harpoon ready in one hand, the other gripping the side, was Captain Brenn. His face was twisted in hatred for the beast as it dragged his longboat after it. The whale, startled by the sudden appearance of the yacht, now turned round until its tiny eyes glimpsed Brenn’s boat. Instantly it rushed down on Brenn and his crew. Arflane heard the captain scream as the huge jaws opened to their full extent and crunched over the longboat.
A great cry went up from the whalers as the bull shook the broken boat. Arflane saw his friend flung to the ice and attempt to crawl away, but now the whale saw him and its jaws opened again, closing on Brenn’s body.
The Complete Ice Schooner Page 7
