Floe, page 27
part #3 of Thaw Trilogy Series
“When Una talks to Thist or Thusk, she shows a lifelike moving picture of Anklya on her front screen for them to talk to. Better than speaking to a bare wall. Very realistic, and quite a good-looking woman, I have to say.”
Cruthar coughed. “Well, she is that. Our Anklya is a member of the Council of Electors in People’s Town. A powerful woman in a very important position. And she is also on the board of directors of my berg company, the one deeded to me by Reader Thess before he, before he, died.” Odel nodded solemnly; he had heard of Sire Thess’ murder by The Tharn, of Thusk’s killing of that chief in return.
“She’s on your board?” Odel was confused. “Politics I can understand; she would be good at that, her being at Pernie’s court in ShadowFall for so many years. But—is she that good at business, too?”
Cruthar smiled broadly, slamming his flagon down on the table with a thump! “Damn, man, but she is good at everything. She is also a good mother!” At Odel’s dropped jaw, the berg-man laughed. “Mr. Odel, Anklya is my wife!”
37.
Captain Lork was all smiles as he spotted the towers of WaterEdge on the western horizon. “Land, ho!” he shouted, pointing at the spires. “We have arrived!” His delight stemmed from the obvious grandeur of the city they were approaching—the towers, the majestic white buildings that peppered the green hillsides overlooking the harbor—and from the wealth all of that represented. Wealth that can be taken if we’re clever enough, he thought. His mind was already assessing the possibility of melt-sea raids, assuming he could train enough Na Saamese to sail on the strange new liquid medium rather than on the unyielding solidity of the Ice Sea.
Ten meters away from Lork, atop Una at the center of the trimaran fleet of boats, Thist and Altamun Kech were likewise smiling, shaking hands. Thist had been watching Lork’s reactions as they approached WaterEdge. He said in a low voice, “Altamun, once we arrive have your local spies keep tabs on this pirate, Lork. I still don’t trust him.”
The Kech answered in a hoarse whisper, “General, I’m not sure I have any contacts after being gone so long. Who is in charge now since you had to put down a rebellion here?” Thist could tell that the Kech was hoping the new fellow would be one of his old friends.
“Awhalpa Kech,” said Thist. “Know him?”
“Yes, General, he was one of my subordinates before…before I was kidnapped by Captain Noor. A good man.” Altamun was wondering what his own status would be, returning to his post after his absence.
“Good,” Thist remarked. “For the time being, you will report to him, until we can figure out something more suitable.” Altamun gave a weak smile at that, as if not in agreement, but Thist quickly dropped the subject; to him, once a decision was made there was little reason to discuss it. Avoiding Lork’s stare, he turned his attention toward WaterEdge, hoping Wakan would be arriving as his godsphere messages had indicated.
Meanwhile, as the fleet of three unusual ships passed into the WaterEdge harbor, Lork paid even closer attention to the layout of the piers and docks, and in particular to the trebuchets and catapults entrenched, all but concealed, in revetments protecting the approaches. These people have been raided before, he thought, and have decided to not let that happen again. Still, he memorized the defensive features, trusting to another observer, a skilled crewman of his on the Hillmork, who would be sketching up the harbor’s defense information unobtrusively. You never can tell when it’s good to know things.
Crowds of people now clogged the harbor front, looking for a chance to see the three strange lashed-up boats, or two boats with a green cylinder between them. A shout soon arose from thousands of voices: “It’s the Una!” “It must be General Thist returning!” Cheers and shouting erupted, punctuated by a few boos. “He destroyed WaterEdge,” one yelled, “and took our princess!”
Altamun Kech dropped his jaw at the shouts. “What do they mean, Thist, destroyed? You said you had to put down a rebellion here, but—” He stopped talking as Thist pointed to the top of the hill overlooking the harbor. There, where once stood the legendary Pink Palace, was only desolation: a pile of stones, some scattered down the hillside, from this distance looking like a ragged field of pink clover. “You—you—did that? To our palace? A thousand years of history?”
Thist shrugged. “Rebellion, resistance, they have a price,” he said. “If Princess Sathronin or Loranthip Kech had surrendered outright, there would have been little or no destruction. But they didn’t, and so my catapults and trebuchets had to pound down their army. And that palace. My aerial force and the bird-riders took out most of their foot soldiers.” Thist was firm, his jaw set. He wanted this Kech to understand that new republics were going to replace all of the matriarchal Sisterdoms, period. He would wait until later to tell Altamun about the one Sisterdom that had been vanquished and erased from history, being divided among its neighboring princesses. Pernie can be vengeful, he reminded himself. Sometimes a bit too much. He was not proud of that fight, nor of what he had been ordered to do to the survivors. But freedom has a price, too! He reminded himself. And he was not oblivious to the fact that Motherland had a millennia-old tradition of subversion, treachery, and even assassination. Maybe Pernie has to be cruel to be thorough? I still shudder, though. How could I order such cruelty? What have I become? Shaking his head to clear such thoughts, he concentrated on problems already at hand. Rebellions, for one.
Thist realized that establishing the new version of Motherland was becoming as bloody a fight as the old inter-Sisterine wars of the past. And I am the one who has to fight for it, he thought. Do I want to do it? Can I do it? As his mind wandered from immediate concerns, just enjoying the familiar sight of the coast of Motherland, he wondered, Could I just leave? Could I really make a life somewhere else, without all this killing, this responsibility? The memory of the one warm night in Noor’s Town, with its joyous people, its street music, its fantastic aromas and sweet foods, kept haunting him. Could I do it? Give up Pernie, Anklya, and just disappear in the Lordship Isles? He tried not to think of a Pernie angry at him for leaving Motherland. But she has no navy, no flying Una, so could never reach me if she wanted to.
Thist’s treasonous thoughts, once allowed, would not cease. Or would I want to return to my homeland, try to make a life there? At the thought of Anklya up in his homeland, now The People’s Lands, he realized that without Una flying him there, he most likely could never return. Over twenty-five hundred kilometers distant, he would first face that six hundred meter cliff, then have to traverse through a large country of hostile Solar Priests where he was wanted for theft, then find his way up many kilometers of raging rapids north of God’s Port. Or find the secret lift that Cruthar told me about. But lacking knowledge of where that access point even was, that was not an option. He could think of no way ever to get back home, not without the flying god-machine that had made his journeys so easy. The ancients did this kind of travel as a matter of daily life, he thought. What must their lives have been like?
Whispering to himself, arguing with his concerns, Thist said, “But home is where you make it, my Sire Thess used to say, and Mother’s Palace with Pernie is not the worst home.” Altamun Kech paid him no attention; the priest was in tears as the extent of the Pink Palace damage became more apparent as they docked.
“Obliterated,” Altamun groaned. “Totally gone.”
* * *
“Thist,” Wakan Kech shouted, striding up the dock and looking over Ice God toward Una in the middle of the lash-up of ships. “Are you all right? Are you captured?” Then, as Thist waved back, Wakan said, appraising the strange configuration of boats, “What is this arrangement, anyhow? I’ve never seen any ships like these other two.”
By now Lork had had enough of being ignored and jumped down from his ship to greet Wakan and the others who were with him. To Lork, having never seen but one other native of the High Antis, Wakan looked like a close relative of Alty-Moon: tall, dignified, olive-skinned, and dressed in that incredibly beautiful material, that godscloth. Dark red in this case, serving to set off the distinctive and dignified features of the impressive Kech priest.
“Alty-Moon”—Lork waved at Thist and his companion—“will you introduce me?” Wakan waited while Thist and Altamun clambered over gangplanks laid across Una and Ice God to reach the dock. After an embrace with the little general, Wakan said to his Kech countryman, “What is this flamboyant red-haired fellow saying, Altamun? Anything worth hearing? He’s the pirate you spoke of?”
Within a few minutes, Altamun interpreting for them as Lork stumbled over some words, Wakan and Lork shook hands, followed by First Mate Attuk and other crew. Wakan turned to Thist. “Where is Thusk? I have brought our best healer, Insart Fyth, to attend to him.” Fyth was a stooped and wizened old man, probably the oldest person Thist had ever met, judging by the curtain of facial wrinkles, the paleness of the sticklike, heavily veined arms protruding from his dark robes like white serpents. But the healer’s voice was deep, calm, and assured. Thist could only hope that with his age had come knowledge. If not, Una could certainly guide him.
* * *
That evening, Wakan and Thist sat alone in a private room in what had been the palace of a now-deposed (and decapitated) WaterEdge noble. Wakan puffed on his ivory pipe and said, “Fyth tells me that your Una and he agree that Thusk’s condition is stable but serious. There is a possibility that blood clots could travel from that injury into his heart, and kill him. I am at a loss, Thist.”
Thist replied, “Wakan, I was worried about this. If I do nothing, he may die. If I do anything at all, he may die. There is no safe way of cutting into his injured brain, and even if there were, no way to take away only the damaged part. If we did, who knows then what would be left of our Thusk?” Una’s video archives had brought up case after case of brain injuries that resulted in epileptic seizures, a loss of awareness, or diminished intellectual ability, even catatonic states. “So I have thought of one last resort. But it means transporting Thusk safely carefully, back to Mother’s Palace.”
Wakan listened in disbelief as Thist outlined his plan. “You really think this could work, Thist?”
“I know of no other way to bring my twin back to a real life.” Or even one that’s not quite real, he concluded.
* * *
Based on Thist’s verbal specifications, WaterEdge carpenters were busily constructing a large, articulated horse-drawn carriage on which Una would rest. Wakan was still doubtful of Thist’s plan. “I have sent for more horses, Thist. I think it will take at least eight of them to pull your Una across our miserable roads. Once things settle down, we really need to devote resources to pave our main highways with smooth stones; what we have is not good for transporting people or cargo quickly.”
Thist nodded; he had entertained similar thoughts of wide, smooth, paved roads. But not only for commercial purposes, my friend. I want to give my Mothersmen and their carts and wagons good roads for rapid deployment anywhere in Motherland, to put down other rebellions. And horses, we need hundreds or thousands of horses for those carriages; I want to start a breeding program. He didn’t know if the small number of such animals existing in Motherland was because of some natural problem like infertility, but suspected they may have been deliberately kept low in numbers for use by nobles only. There are so many things in Motherland that need correcting! Why did all of this go on for so long? But he already knew the answers: power, control, tradition, ignorance—the usual suspects.
* * *
At tables in the serving hall of a harborside inn, Lork and Attuk and the Na Saamese crewmen were enjoying the hospitality of Motherland. Wakan had made arrangements for a good hostel, fine provisions, and other delights to be made available to their guests as reward for bringing Una and her surviving crew safely back to WaterEdge. The matter of the two Mothersman guards killed by Lork’s own harpoons, as well as the loss of Una’s ability to fly, were not discussed by anyone but Thist and Wakan. Altamun Kech, for other reasons, was told not to talk about Na Saam or any of the unfortunate events that happened there. He was made to know that his future career—and perhaps his life—depended upon his silence.
Though none of the Na Saamese, save Lork, understood Motherspeak or any of the several other languages encountered along the WaterEdge harbor, all of Lork’s fellow icers were alert to finding and recording possible stores of treasure, of resources, or any other potentially valuable plunder, should their captain give the word to seize it. Amidst the bragging and laughing and smoking and drinking, groups around each table were comparing notes on their findings.
“Lots of grain in warehouses,” one icer said loudly. “’Nuff to feed hundreds back home.” “We seen bolts of that godscloth stuff, all colors, too.” “I’d like to take back one of them catapults,” another said, “and go pound that stone fort of Dvora to dust.” Other suggestions floated through conversations, becoming louder as the beer and ale flowed freely.
“Cap’n,” Attuk offered, over a flagon of a very good beer, “Mebbe we should just offer to trade with these people, ’stead of thinkin’ of smash-and-grab? I mean, they’s treatin’ us better’n we get at home. ’Sides, they’s all livin’ better than us ’round here, seems t’ me.”
Lork snorted. “Trade? What do we have to offer anybody? On our melt-ships we got nothing. Even if we went home, what could we bring back that they might want? Ice-bear skins? In this hot weather? Walrus tusks? Sealskins?” He took a swig of beer and grew silent. “Even their beer’s better than ours. Nope, nothing. Hel, that’s why we raid over the Ice Sea. We have nothing anybody wants, so we raid to feed our families.” A thought struck him as he said that. I guess we’re no different than the ice-bears and the sorihan birds, then, are we? Not liking that train of new thought, he dismissed it.
Attuk sat and thought, occasionally sipping his beer. “Cap’n, while we was building that cradle for their big green Una, I overheard that Alty-Moon translatin’ some information from one of our smiths back to that little Thist. They was very interested in how our skritchers was built, how our smiths was able to bend and stretch and flatten and weld together the godsmetal.” As Lork bent over to hear better, the first mate continued, “I don’t think they knows how to do what our smiths can do. I mean, the only weapons they had aboard that Una of theirs, besides just knives and spears, was just two little bows made out of regular curved godsmetal arc pieces, and we got tons of those. We find ’em just like that. Didn’t take much to make those ‘springbows,’ they call ’em.
“What I’m sayin’, Cap’n, is, a few of our crew is smiths I brung along in case we was needin’ repairs or somethin’ built. We can give these Mothers a good smith, not the best, just one who can do a little somethin’ with godsmetal that they cain’t. He can stay and teach them. In return, we can prob’ly name a price—in metals, or grain, or that there godscloth of theirs. We’d be rich, back home.”
Realization dawned on Lork and he laughed so loud that his crew in the pub stopped talking and stared at him. “Boys!” he yelled. “Ol’ Attuk here is a blooming genius! He just told me how to trade with these Mothers!” Rousing cheers started up, calming down only when a bevy of smiling young women swarmed in through several doors to meet and greet the exotic foreigners. Wakan had rightly figured that sailors of any nation, away from home for weeks, would welcome compliant feminine companionship. At Thist’s objection to subjecting Motherland women to such a practice, Wakan had just laughed. “Thist, Thist, for a man of the world you are too naive. WaterEdge has always had a ready supply of these willing women. Just because Mother’s City is prudish and reserved, not all of our country is so, so, shall we say, ‘uptight’?”
* * *
Two days later Wakan and Thist were riding in Una’s cabin with the comatose Thusk, the gentle swaying of the horse-drawn conveyance making it difficult for both of them to stay awake during the long hours every day on the main road to Mother’s City. The Kech said, “I have established the Creesile relay system for this trip, Thist. We change horses and drivers at a station, take on provisions, then keep on going without further delay. It took some doing but I was able to convince Pernie to let me use all of her horses and distribute them along this road for the sole purpose of getting you and Thusk back to the palace as fast as possible.” Pointing upwards, he said, “I didn’t plan on bringing that pirate captain up there and one of his crew with us. But that superstructure on top, it makes for easy surveillance and control of our…guests.”
Thist said, “Wakan, I didn’t tell Captain Lork and the godsmetal smith, Zeerance Kleete, that Una was recording their every word. Which is why I don’t worry about them trying anything against us.” He smiled. “And the farther we get into Motherland, the less likely they are to try escaping.” Wakan laughed. Thist didn’t know that the Kech had ordered guardsman springbow snipers to kill either of the two pirates if they did try to get away from the caravan.
Atop Una, in the wooden superstructure left attached after the ship hull was removed, Lork and Kleete sat, enjoying their open-air view of the rolling hills and croplands of Motherland. As overloaded ox-drawn wagons of fragrant green produce, bound for the markets at WaterEdge, passed beside them, Lork looked down on them approvingly. “A lot of room here in this big country, Zeerance,” he said. “A lot of people, and a lot of food.”
“A lot of everything, Cap’n,” the smith replied, spreading his muscled arms wide. “You think they wouldn’t miss it if we took a little bit for ourselves?” Both men laughed, but nervously. Behind them rode six large Mothersmen guards, outfitted in black-leather armor and carrying both spears and springbows.
Lork was convinced that they would kill him if he tried anything, so he was on his best behavior. He felt uneasy being so outnumbered by the foreigners, but when he had insisted upon traveling to Mother’s City to meet Mother Perneptheranam, he was forced to leave his crew, save Kleete, at WaterEdge, with Attuk in command. “Not as hostages, Lork,” Thist had explained through Altamun’s translation, “but as guests. You are the hostage.” Besides, Thist had already given orders to keep those crews away from the harbor; they would be transported out in the country to a safe farmstead until Lork returned. With plenty of food, beer, and women, he was certain the icers would not complain. Meanwhile, Motherland Army engineers were going to study those converted iceboats, to strip apart the skritcher mechanisms and the harpoon launchers to see how they worked.
