Icerigger - Mission To Moulokin Part 24

"What? But you've said?"

She stared at him, cold cat-eyes dark as the waters beneath the ice sea. "If he should be slain by someone unknown, far from here, if he should perish before we again meet, then I will be barred the delicious op-portunity of killing him myself." She spoke calmly, as if discussing the most ordinary, obvious thing in the world.

"Of course. I should've thought of that."

She continued to stare at him, her head c.o.c.ked slightly to one side. "You fancy you know us, do you not, Sir Ethan?"

"Know you?" Ethan felt glad of the expression-distorting face mask and the goggles behind. "Teeliam, I've lived among you for more than a year now."

" 'Tis true then, you indeed believe you know us. I've seen it in your gestures, in the way you converse with your companions from this distant land of Sofold. But you do not understand us. When I spoke of killing the Thing, it showed in your body and your way of forming words.

"You are?" she paused, half-smiled, "much too civilized, in the sense I believe you use that term. For all that you have shared with such as the magnificent Sir Hunnar and my good friend Elfa, they are still not part of you, nor you of them. They are part of me and this world. You will never change that." There was pride in her tone, and a hint of arrogance.

"Perhaps not." He knew better than to argue with such a recalcitrant customer. "I can only try to help as best I can, the people I've come to care for so strongly."

Teeliam grunted noncommittally, chivaned away. Ethan was unable to tell whether she was voicing a deeply felt opinion, or if such challenge and gruffness were traits forced upon her by the actions of Rakossa. The results might simply have made her resentful of anyone who happened to be happy or optimistic.

Or male.

Still, he considered her words apart from their emotion-charged source. How well _did_ he know any Tran? He counted Elfa, Hunnar, and many others his friends. But he had to admit there were occasions when he could not puzzle out their reasoning, or they his. Might they be doomed to exist forever as psy-chological penpals, able to communicate but only across a vast mental sea of alienness?

So indeed he might not know them as well as he thought. As to never getting to know them, that he hoped was the brash opinion of one used to dealing only in absolutes.

Of one thing he was certain. Despite Teeliam's insistence, contact with and members.h.i.+p in the Com-monwealth would change the Tran, and their world. It had happened to other primitive peoples.

Several had already risen to coequal status with human and thranx, and had been raised to full members.h.i.+p within the government. Others were working hard. Perseverance coupled with safe and benevolent supervision by the government and the United Church would aid any less sophisticated society in making the transition to a modern s.p.a.cetraversing technology with as little pain as possible.

That there sometimes was pain he could not deny, even to himself. That pain would be lessened con-siderably as soon as they returned to Bra.s.s Monkey and conveyed news of their discovery to the proper authorities-doing so took precedence over adding new states to the Trannish confederation. He had no doubt they could swing wide around Poyolavomaar and return to Arsudun uncontested.

He lost a mental step. What could they do, what should they do, on reaching the distant humanx out-post? Who could they report to? He was still unsure of Jobius Trell's exact involvement with Calonnin RoVijar. There was a possibility that Trell was operating directly with the Landgrave of Arsudun. September seemed to think so, but they had no firm proof.

Not that he was inclined to shrug off the giant's opinions. More than once September had hinted that he was used to dealing with a higher echelon of power than was Ethan, that a.n.a.lyzing the motives and actions of powerwielders was not new to him.

Consider that Trell was the Resident Humanx Com-missioner, that he had knowledge of every aspect of outpost operation. Bra.s.s Monkey had a few peaceforcers, stationed there more to protect the natives from the humanx than vice versa. Were they in league with Trell, or with RoVijar directly? And what about the customs handlers, or the portmaster Xenaxis, not to mention the computers and processors?

Who within the modest complement stationed at the outpost could they entrust with such a momentous set of discoveries? Who could not only record and preserve such information against a possibly hostile bureaucracy, but could also transmit that knowledge to incorruptibles offplanet, where they would quickly become so widely disseminated that neither Trell nor anyone else could conceal them?

He took the problem to September. The giant was sitting on the frozen sh.o.r.eline, his white hair blending into the background of sea and land.

September was not moving, simply staring motion-less at the sheet of snow-dusted white where it ran up against the walls of the canyon. It was unusual to see him in such a reflective, downright pensive mood.

"Still in the egg?" The thranx phrase had long since entered the burgeoning roster of interspecies colloquialisms.

"Mmmm? Oh, h.e.l.lo, young feller-me-lad." How oddly quiet he was, Ethan thought, as he turned his attention back to the ice. "No, not in the egg."

"What are you thinking about?"

"My brother. Leastwise, the man who was my brother once."

"You mentioned him before, a long time ago." Ethan sat down alongside the mountainous form. "You said, 'I had a brother, once.' I didn't understand what you meant by 'once.' "

September's mouth relaxed into a grin. He was watching the antics of two furry beetle-sized creatures. They were performing a miniature iceballet, skitter-ing smoothly about where the sh.o.r.e met the frozen river.

"I suppose technically we're still brothers. Once born one, I guess you're stuck with it. Haven't seen him in twenty, twenty-five years. I've done a lot of growin' up since then. Sometimes wonder if he has, though I doubt it."

"If you haven't seen him, then how do you know he hasn't, as you say, done any growing up?"

"You don't understand, feller-me-lad. Sawbill, he was born bad." Long minutes of quiet pa.s.sed.

Septem-ber raised his gaze from skatebugs to skating clouds racing overhead. "Got himself into a rotten, stinking business much too soon. That's a part of it."

"What kind of business?" September hardly ever talked about himself, and then always in his joking manner. To find him both loquacious and introspec-tive was rare enough that Ethan forgot his original reason for seeking out the big man and probed on.

"He dug too deeply into- well, put it brief, he trained himself to become an emoman."

Ethan knew of the men and women and thranx who sold emotions. Their status was only marginally legal, and what they sold was usually best left hidden away in the darker sections of hospitals.

Commonwealth law guaranteeing so much freedom kept them from being closed down, though it could not prevent the occasional killing of one who grew too bold, or re-mained in one place too long. The social side-effects of their profession being what they were, few chose it as a life's work. An emoman (or woman) rarely grew rich. There were other satisfactions to the pro-fession, however, which induced a few to practice it That gave rise to the saying that the most likely candidate for an emoman's trade was himself.

"There was a girl," September continued, rus.h.i.+ng the words as if anxious to be rid of them. "There's always a girl." He chuckled in a bitter, bad-tasting sort of way. "I was interested in her, too much so. I was very young then. Sawbill was also interested in her- as a customer, and in other ways.

"We argued, we fought. I thought- anyhow, Sawbill sold her something he shouldn't have. She wanted it-it's a free galaxy. But he shouldn't have done it She was-repressed, I think's the best way o' puttin' it.

What Sawbill sold her made her unrepressed. Any-ways, she overdosed herself. She-" his expression twisted horribly, "became somethin' less than human but more than dead. Voluntarily turned herself into a commodity. Not a lynx or somethin' decent like that, but something lower, beneath vileness, who?" He stopped, unable to continue.

Ethan wondered if he dared say anything. Finally he spoke as softly, gently as he could. "Maybe if you could find her now. She might've changed, tossed what she was engulfed by, and you could?"

"Lad, I said she overdosed herself. She didn't follow instructions. Happens all the time to those who make use of an emoman's merchandise." There was a mountainous sadness in his voice.

"When Sawbill finally stopped supplyin' her, she hunted up others who would. I can't find her because she's dead, lad. To me and most o' the worlds, any-way. She just sort of got eaten away from the inside.

Not physically. That I might've been able to cope with. The body did just fine, 'til it got used up too. By the time that started, her mind was long gone." He turned his attention back to the ice.

"I hope she's dead, Ethan. Should've done her a great kindness and killed her myself. I couldn't, but as I told you, I was very young then. Everything Sawbill did was perfectly legal. He was always very careful about that. Probably still is, whatever he's doing."

"But couldn't you have stopped him, legal or not? The man was your brother. Couldn't he see what he was doing to the girl?"

"feller-me-lad, emomen have their own code, their own set o' morals. 'Cording to his way of thinkin', he wasn't doing a thing to her. She was doin' it to herself. Commonwealth law sides with him. Emomen's drugs have never proven addictive, not like something such as bloodhype, say. They're big on legality.

Not morality."

"How can you act legally and not morally?" Ethan wanted to know.

September laughed, looking with pity at his young friend. "feller-me-lad, you don't know much about government, do you? Or law."

"Government-that reminds me." Ethan hastened to change the subject. He'd tunneled too deeply into another's soul and had entered hollows he now wished he'd stayed out of. "How are we going to make our discoveries known to proper Commonwealth authorities without letting anyone cover them up?"

"So you're finally as suspicious of Trell as I am, feller-me-lad?"

"Almost."

"Good enough. Never trust an official who smiles that much."

"He knows everything that happens in Bra.s.s Monkey. We need someone who can command a closed beam for offworld transmission."

"Isn't anyone," September grunted. He seemed hard at work on the problem, having already forgotten the moody discourse of moments ago. "Wait now." He rose, towered over Ethan. "Ought to be one office that can send closed messages."

"Don't keep me guessing, Skua. Trell's Commissioner, and he can?"

"Think a second, feller-me-lad. Bra.s.s Monkey's large enough to rate a padre."

Being only an occasional churchgoer, and less religious than most, Ethan hadn't thought of the local representative of the United Church. No one, least of all a comparatively minor functionary like Trell, would dare tamper with a sealed Church communication.

"Now that that little gully's crossed, let's go back and see if we can't help put our s.h.i.+p back together, eh, young feller-me-lad?"

They left the sh.o.r.e and headed toward the icerigger. The fifth and final duralloy runner, the steer-ing skate, was being hoisted into place at her stern. Ethan s.n.a.t.c.hed a surrept.i.tious glance at his companion.

The patina of indestructible confidence had returned to his expression, only slightly tarnished.

Skua September had turned out to be as vulnerable as any human. His huge frame simply gave him greater depths in which to hide his pa.s.sions.

With typical lack of formality, the Moulokinese prepared no noisy demonstration to greet the return of the _Slanderscree_. The townsfolk went about their everyday business and the s.h.i.+pwrights who'd helped replace wheels with runners returned to their yards. Officially, the sole ceremony consisted of minister Mirmib and two aides meeting them at dockside.

"Landgrave Lady K'ferr ShriVehm bids you wel-come again to Moulokin, my friends. Our breath is your warmth.

"There will be a feast tonight to celebrate your unexpected but nonetheless welcome return, at which time you may further enlarge on this wondrous history you have made for us."

"Wondrous isn't the word," Ethan addressed the minister. "Significant would be better. Among other things, it shows that your new confederation isn't as farfetched as we first thought, because all Tran once lived within a far stronger union."

"A union repeatedly scattered by weather stranger than I can believe, or so go the rumors our s.h.i.+pwrights have told me," Mirmib replied.

As it developed, the feast of the night extended in various incarnations for several days, during which time the crew enjoyed the hospitality of Moulokin. Their tales engendered considerable, lively speculation and discussion among the townspeople. Some of the stories lined up neatly with local religions, which grew at once stronger for the confirmation and weaker for the reality of it.

When it was adjudged time for the _Slanderscree_ to embark on its circuitous return to Arsudun, the Moulokinese finally abandoned their casual reserve. They took leave of their work to crowd around the harbor and voice enthusiastic, spontaneous wishes for the safe journey and good wind of their new friends and allies. With the last shouts of the watch patrolling the outer gate adding to the wind pouring down the canyon, the icerigger raced out onto the frozen sea.

Instead of paralleling the cliffs, Tahoding set a course northward. They would cross the endless pressure ridge of ice at a different point, to avoid possible confrontation with any lingering Poyolavomaar forces that might be guarding their first pa.s.sageway through that broken, jumbled barrier.

Ethan stood on the helmdeck, watching the canyon that concealed Moulokin recede behind them.

Tahoding animatedly waddled around the great wheel, happy as a pup. His steersmen also looked pleased at nothing in particular.

When asked to explain his beatific expression, the captain replied, "Why should we not be happy, friend Ethan? We sail with smooth, clean ice beneath us instead of unpredictable rock and dirt. I know now that if I order the mastmen to port a spar one jahn, the _Slanderscree_ will react precisely so," and he out-lined air with a sweeping motion of one long arm.

"No longer need we guess at the results of our maneuvers. No more must I?"

"Below the deck!" came a shout from the mainmast lookout. "Sail five kijat to port!"

"Must be a merchantman, headed for the city." Tahoding strained to look in the indicated direction.

The horizon remained uninterrupted.

"Below the deck!" A note of urgency in the look-out's yell sent idle sailors chivaning to the rail. "Four sails more traveling with the first- no, five! More still!"

"Do you suppose, friend Ethan?" A worried Tahoding let the sentence trail off. His jovial manner had faded.

Dan spread wide, Hunnar came shooting onto the helmdeck via one of the ice ramps leading up from the main deck. He dropped his arms and dan, lost speed, and braked in a shower of ice, then skated impatiently to join the captain and Ethan.

"Turn about, Captain." His tone was grim. "They could be an unusually large group of merchants trav-eling together for protection, but we'd best not take chances."

As if to confirm their worst suspicions, the lookout sounded again. "Eight, nine- I count at least fifteen sails, possibly more!"

"Must be the Poyolavomaar fleet. So they haven't given up. They've waited all this time, hoping we'd return. d.a.m.n!"

"The girl Teeliam was right." Hunnar's gaze was fixed on the portside horizon. "Who should better know a madman's desires than one who was subject to them? Turn about, Captain."

But Tahoding had already begun unleas.h.i.+ng a river of commands to all within earshot. When he concluded, he returned to stare in the same direction as Hunnar and Ethan.

" 'Tis difficult to say what may happen." The plump captain looked concerned. "We cannot swing to star-board, for it would take us into the cliffs. To make headway against the canyon winds, we need the westwind behind us. Yet they are already positioned to make use of it themselves. We have no choice but to swing toward them, catch the westwind on our star-board side, and swing back to Moulokin." He stared up at Hunnar. "We may run into their point rafts before we can swing 'round to the west again."

"Take care of your s.h.i.+p, captain friend. I will take care of other considerations." Hunnar raised his arm and slid back toward the main deck, already organiz-ing in his mind ways to repel potential boarders.

Offwatch crew came pouring onto the deck. Some of the sailors were buckling on swords and armor while double eyelids blinked away sleep.

Ethan continued to stare, looking forward as the prow of the icerigger began to come around and point directly at the onrus.h.i.+ng Poyo rafts. By then the op-position had drawn close enough for the lookouts aloft to distinguish markings and pennants. The faint hope that the vessels might const.i.tute part of some huge merchant fleet vanished.

A stocky, wizened Tran had mounted the helmdeck, stood alongside Ethan. Balavere Longax, Sofold's most respected senior warrior, gestured to their left with a clawed finger. The claw was pitted and dull, a fragment of worn feldspar set on the tip of a gray branch.

"Infantry," he grunted. "Slower than rafts but more maneuverable. They seek to cut us off before we can gather the westwind behind us." He fingered the sword slung at his waist, a weapon far younger than himself. Turning, he shouted toward the main deck. "Ware bowmen! Keep to your s.h.i.+elds, men and women of Sofold!"

Arbalesters, carrying the crossbows devised by Milliken Williams to aid in the defense of Sofold against the a.s.sault of Sagyanak the Death and the Horde over a year ago, took up positions high in the _Slanderscree's_ rigging.

Balavere studied the rush of infantry, now curving slightly toward the raft. "We must pa.s.s through them, but they will not stop us." He glanced back at Ethan, grinned unexpectedly. "Their archers will concentrate their fire here, my friend, to try and pick off our wheelmen. Best you get yourself below."

"If you don't mind, I think I'll stay right here." His own confidence shocked him. Little more than a year on this harsh world had transformed him con-siderably. Contact with the Commonwealth would surely change the Tran. Contact with the Tran had already changed at least one human. He patted the sword slung at his side. It felt familiar, comfortable there. But it was the hand beamer he raised and checked.

"Charge is way down," he told Balavere, squinting to read a tiny gauge through mask and ice goggles.

"I expect Skua's and Milliken's are low also. But the first bowman who comes too close is going to get a strong dose of modern technology."

"I had forgotten about your knives that fight with the long light," the general said. "Good. Remain then and help protect our mobility." He walked over to talk with Tahoding.

"I worry not overmuch about their arrows," Ethan heard the general tell the captain. "They could do worse, if this Rakossa has good advice. Himself I think incapable of much tactical subtlety. Their rafts sail with discipline, so keep the wind and try not to cut us off over-fast. They may try to jam the steer runner with cables."

"Think you I've not been in battle before?" Anxious and concerned as he was, Tahoding wasn't about to let Balavere or anyone else tell him how to handle his s.h.i.+p. "Keep any cables out from our stern and I will deliver all safely to the harbor." He muttered a Trannish curse. "Had we but a few hours longer, we could have outrun them. Only a-."

He was interrupted once more by a cry from the mainmast. "Ten s.h.i.+ps, eighteen kijat to port!"