The City of Ice Page 8

  Gripping the high edge of his bed, Vols emerged blearily from the dregs of sleep. The steam horns of the Prince Alfra hooted sadly, and he shuddered. He reached for the leather flask of water he kept by his bunk. His mouth was dry and his head hurt. He could thank the stars that the bucket by his bed was empty. The Tyn woman had been in while he suffered, leaving him some more of her foul-tasting remedy. He begrudgingly owned that it worked.

  “The symptoms of revelry without the cause,” he said glumly. Shivering, he slipped his legs from out under his blankets, and took a long draught of water. He ran his tongue around his teeth. They were blessedly smooth, free of post-vomit furriness. He considered his medicine, then seized the bowl and drank it down in three, spluttering gulps.

  He wiped his mouth on his nightshirt. The medicine made his stomach flip, but once that had passed he felt better.

  Vols rose carefully so as not to bang his head on Ardovani’s bunk. On the opposite side of the room the Tyn foreman’s small hammock swung. He was alone, his cabinmates having risen without disturbing him. That was no surprise. When he was in the throes of Res’s past he never woke until it was done, no matter how others might try to rouse him.

  The ship pitched slightly. For the benefit of the mageborn and the Tyn, wooden slats lined their quarters and though cold, they were not as cold as bare iron. Three steps took him across the small cabin. He tugged his clothes from the heating pipes running along wall. He gasped in pleasure at the warmth as he slipped them on. More light flooded in as he retrieved his jerkin, uncovering a brass framed porthole looking out to sea. The cabin was fuggy, but the porthole stayed closed. He doubted it could be opened now. Frost and salt rimed the glass. Green ice clinging to the bottom made an effective weld.

  Vols peered outside, looking past his own reflection. Buck toothed, balding, his red hair untameably wild. Res had been handsome. Vols had inherited neither his power nor his looks.

  An angular swell, almost too sharp to be water, slashed the ocean all the way to the horizon. The sea was a startling green draped with laces of foam. A mountain broke the divide between sea and sky, hard to discern against the bland grey cloud cover, but impossible to miss once seen. Not land but, as Captain Heffi had explained, but ice, floating free in the ocean. The ship surged on, spreading a boiling road from its wheels. The ice mountain seemed to sail in the opposite direction, cutting up the horizon. Vols watched it silently for a time.

  Two sharp raps on the door, delivered for propriety’s sake. Magister Ardovani waited for no reply, but pushed into the cabin, bringing with him a cloud of freezing air and the smell of outside on his clothes.

  “Ah, you are up, friend Vols!” said Ardovani. “I came to check on you.”

  “That I am,” said Vols, pulling his over trouser up over his longjohns. They were made of dog felt, a little tickly but warm. “I have felt better.”

  “You have also felt worse,” said Ardovani, handing him his boots.

  “These storms do nothing for my constitution.”

  “Do not be ashamed for that. During the high seas I am as afflicted as you. Even the Ishmalani find this ocean hard, and they are born to the sea.”

  “Were afflicted. You have adapted. I have not. If only we could moderate the water’s heaving but a little.”

  “We both try, my friend. These seas are beyond our magic.”

  Vols gave Ardovani a little frown. His own powers might be a little erratic, but he was a mage, not a mere magister like the Cullosantan. Ardovani responded with a good-natured smile. Vols had been determined to keep Ardovani at arm’s length, he coming from the rival school, but it was immensely hard to dislike him, and Vols was too kind to sustain petty rivalry for long. It had seemed to Vols he was being rude because he felt he should, and so he had given up trying.

  “Yes, well. Perhaps we shall be better prepared for the next storm,” said Vols.

  “Perhaps we shall finally grow used to them and not be vomiting into buckets!” said Ardovani. “That would be a help.”

  “I do hope so. Captain Heffi repeatedly tells me, unnecessarily gleefully I might add, that the seas become wilder once one crosses into the Sotherwinter,” said Vols a touch woefully.

  “We have some high times ahead of us!”

  Ardovani relished adventure. Vols did not, but Ardovani was of that type whose moods are infectious, and he found himself returning the magister’s smile.

  “So, Goodmage Iapetus. Would you care for some breakfast? Hot from the galley.” Ardovani pushed a warm paper package, done up with string, at the mage.

  Vols took it reluctantly. He had intended to let his stomach rest. Ardovani saw it in his face.

  “You need to eat, goodmage.”

  “Thank you,” said Vols. “But I believe what I really need is to get some air.”

  “Very well. You might eat on deck. I shall join you.” Ardovani stepped neatly round him, and retrieved their parkas from their hooks.

  Vols did not protest. He was too timid to raise his need for solitude, and Tullian Ardovani was a very difficult man to put off.

  On deck it was bone-achingly cold, the sort of cold that Vols had no idea existed. It burned the nose and shocked the throat when inhaled. Upon exhalation their breath turned to sparkling clouds of ice crystals. The ship’s complement went about its business as best it could though they all drowned in their outdoor clothing. Oilskins had given way to fur parkas. Over knitted gloves huge mittens engulfed their arms to the elbow, though they folded the mittens back for finer work, they never removed the gloves. To touch the skin of the ship was to leave one’s own attached to the iron, as more than one crew member had painfully discovered.

  Save for one wet patch, roughly square, over the centre of the vessel where the boilers worked, the ship was now frozen stem to stern. The deck sparkled with frost and had to be gritted with ash from the cooking fires. Rippled icicles hung from the ship’s railings, rigging and superstructure, sea spray joining them into solid sheets if left too long. The rhythm of axe heads thocking into ice was a constant of ship life, broken by the occasional clang of steel on steel, and followed always by the musical shattering of ice on the deck. Ice clearing was a neverending task that occupied a large part of the vessel’s crew. By midday they would have cleared those parts that needed clearing, but in a day or two the ice would be back, and thicker than ever.

  “It gets colder every day!’ exclaimed Ardovani as they emerged onto the deck. “And we are but three quarters of the way there. Can you imagine how cold it must be at our destination? I admit that I am freezing now, and I wear all my clothes.” He laughed. “It is true!” he protested, although Vols had said nothing to deny it. “What I shall do when we draw further south, I do not know.”

  Vols made a noncommittal noise. Ardovani was voluble. Vols had determined some time ago that his input was not strictly required, so he let the Cullosantan talk. Ardovani’s habit was to comment enthusiastically at every new thing and talk about it at length. Vols could not object, he shared the magister’s wonder, and letting Ardovani do the talking for both of them was by far the easiest option. As Ardovani chattered, remarking upon this thing or that, Vols attempted a little magic to warm himself, reaching deep inside himself to find that place of perfect calm a mage—of Vols’ modest talents at least—needed to work his magic. Putting Ardovani’s commentary from his mind, he attempted to convince himself that he was in fact perfectly comfortable. Through his magic, reality would fall into line with his opinion.

  It didn’t work. The actuality of the cold was absolute, far too immediate. It would not be swayed.

  So Vols hunkered into his parka and retrieved his breakfast. Deep in his pocket, the package had retained some of its heat. He did not have his mittens on, and chanced his fingers against the cold, pulling the gloves off with his teeth so that he could open the paper. Inside was a small meat pie, surprisingly hot. The heat of it against the cold of his fingers was a pleasing contrast. Vols bit into it, lettin
g the steam flood into his mouth along with the savour. Both were pleasurable. He ate it quickly to save the heat from the cold, suddenly ravenous.

  “Good, is it not? These Ishmalani know how to cook!’ said Ardovani. “Is it—”

  Vols balled up the paper and held up his hand. “Look over there,” he said with alarm. A group of three marines hung from ropes, battering at the thick flow of ice that had accumulated around the rigging close by the middle funnel. Although Trassan had temporarily solved the issue of the overpressure valves, it had become so cold that even the heat of the main exhaust did little to discourage freezing as the steam hit the air, and a large portion of it ended up whirling around to cling to the ship. Most alarmingly, in this ice were trapped motes of part-exhausted magical solids, visible as a faint mage shine beneath the surface.

  “Lieutenant, lieutenant!” called Vols.

  Bannord, looked down from the ice cascade. His face, sweaty with work, was framed by the dog fur of his parka.

  “What little I know of glimmer engines aside, I doubt lambasting that ice with a steel axe is a good idea,” said Vols.

  Bannord looked down at him questioningly.

  Vols spread his fingers. “Bang!” he said. “The interaction between iron and magic is volatile.”

  Bannord shrugged. “There’s not much danger, Kressind says. Blunts the axes quick though.” He held up his hatchet. The edge was eroded by contact with the ice’s glimmer load. “No sooner has he solved one problem, we get another. I don’t envy the boy Trassan.”

  “May I be of assistance?” Vols said. What are you doing? he rebuked himself internally.

  “Magic?” said Bannord. He and his men shared a look. Vols had his great-grandfather’s reputation to live up to. That one incident with the Drowned King aside, he had singularly failed to do so. “By all means, goodmage,” said the marine.

  The insolence in the man’s manner tugged at a rusty lever deep in Vols. He turned to the funnel purposefully and held out his hand toward it.

  Vols saw reality as it was—ice caked the upper parts of the funnel, thick icicles joined it to the rigging. The mage’s trick was to see it as he wished it to be, and convince the world its version of fact was in error. I cannot do it, he thought. Why am I trying?

  But something was happening. The magic came more easily than it had for a long time, taking him by surprise.

  It helped Vols that the ice was laced with glimmer. The fabric of things as they are was thinner because of it. Furthermore this cold, unlike that he had failed to push from his bones, was affecting something other than himself, and thus abstract. Abstracts were easier to deal with than absolutes. For a fleeting moment, Vols saw both states of reality. A moment was all it took.

  “Melt,” he whispered.

  The ice ceased to be ice. All at once it became water that slooshed down to the deck with a wet slap, soaking Bannord’s arm in the process. Everyone on deck turned at his cursing.

  “I’d get out of those wet clothes, Lieutenant,” said Vols. He wished his words did not whistle through his teeth, and that his voice were deeper. They were satisfying to say nevertheless, and there was a good deal of merriment at his quip.

  Ardovani slapped his mittened hands together in delight. “The working of magic in your school is miraculous, friend Vols. The imposition of a shift in basal reality by will alone! I am thankful for the modern age, I should not be able to work magic at all the old way, without formulae or device. You are a marvel.”

  Vols bowed slightly. Privately, he wished what Ardovani said of him was true.

  Taking care not to slip on the water refreezing to the deck, Vols went back inside with his head held high.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Train to Perus

  GARTEN’S HOUSE WAS in uproar. Men in the admiralty’s livery came in and out of the open front door, weaving past each other, threatening collision but always somehow avoiding it. On the way out they bore crates of light wood. Packing straw littered the floor. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. Rain fell through a miserable fog, and it had become cold again.

  Garten pushed his way irritably through the press of men. Charramay stood in the doorway to the dining room trying to catch his attention. Garten was aware she wanted to speak with him. Her need irritated him. Could she not see how busy he was?

  “Garten dear,” she began timorously.

  “Careful with that!” shouted Garten to one man. “You have it upside down!”

  The man stopped, causing the one following to bump into his back.

  “The arrows man, the arrows!” Garten tapped his hand on the stencilled marks on the side. “Can’t you understand something that plain, eh? Eh? That’s a fine china set for the Ambassadress of Pris. If it gets broken I’ll take it out of your wages!”

  The ingoing and outgoing streams of men tangled themselves into a knot around Garten.

  “Yes Goodfellow Kressind, sorry Goodfellow Kressind,” mumbled the man. Garten winced as he recklessly righted the box. The men resumed their hurried procession. Outside a dray barked impatiently.

  “Garten, if I might, may I have a moment with you?”

  “Look at the state of the floor,” Garten said. Muddy prints covered the tiles. Charramay sniffled and tried to stifle a cough. “Darling, get in out of this draught! You’ll catch your death.”

  “It’s just a cold, dear,” she said. Garten smiled at her. She opened her mouth to speak. Garten’s smile turned to a frown.

  “Have you seen the post?” Garten said. “Dortian! Dortian! Damn him, where is that man?”

  “Goodfellow!” Dortian came into the hall, his smart suit covered with an apron and sleeve protectors. Somehow he maintained his poise when all around him lost theirs.

  “Where the hells have you been?”

  “Overseeing the devastation of your study, goodfellow,” he said drily.

  Garten managed a smile.

  “Surely they must have a very good library at the embassy?” ventured Charramay.

  “They’re my books! All packed?”

  “Almost,” said Dortian. “We have made good time. You leave in two hours. Most articles are ready to be taken to the station and loaded upon the ministerial train.”

  “Do you have the post?”

  “I do, goodfellow.” Dortian went into the first of the house’s reception rooms. He came back out with a sheaf of papers.

  “Has she replied?” asked Garten.

  Dortian handed the most important letters to Garten, and passed the rest on to a maid. “I believe so, goodfellow.”

  Garten riffled through his post, coming to a neatly folded letter sealed with a slab of wax bearing a three-towered mark. He smiled as he tore it open. The smile grew as he read.

  “Finally! A relief! Such a relief. She replied, and will be coming.”

  “Very good, goodfellow,” Dortian nodded and went back to his duties.

  Charramay tugged at his arm. Garten turned to her. She was a foot shorter than he. Some said she was plain and that she lacked wit. It was true it took her a while to understand certain things. But she was refined, considered in her actions, kind and sweet. Garten loved her for those qualities, and there was a cunning to her that others overlooked. She looked so earnest his anger was doused. He grasped her gently and steered her into the relative quiet of the dining room.

  “I am sorry, husband to take you from this hubbub, but we have had so little time together of late,” she said.

  “It is I who should be sorry my sweet. My temper has been short for too long. I am afraid you have borne the brunt of it.”

  She nodded, her eyes downcast.

  He placed a hand under her chin and tilted her face back up to look at him. “You understand. This is such an opportunity! Trassan has his ship, Katriona her factory, Aarin his Guidership—this is my chance to make my mark, to make father proud! It is no little thing I do, accompanying Duke Abing to the election of a new High Legate. I will have a chance to
meet and talk with the highest lords of all Ruthnia, and effect real decisions. If I am careful, and not a little lucky, then the world will be our bauble, my love. A minister’s coat awaits me, and then, in a few years, who knows? Chancellor, prime minister?” he smiled at her. He meant to tease himself, but it was a thin veneer to his ambition.

  Charramay dabbed at her running nose. “I understand.”

  “Then, once my position is secure, perhaps you may pursue your dreams?”

  She hugged him close, but did not speak. She had heard his promises too many times before to put much currency in them.

  He stood back. “Be safe. Dortian will look after you. If you need additional help, or become lonely, go to Katriona. Give my love to the children.”

  “We should have brought them home from school,” she said.

  Garten smiled. His purpose was to reassure, any other woman but Charramay would have found it condescending. “We cannot coddle them. Too much indulgence is bad for their mental constitution. We cannot interrupt their studies, even for such an important day as this. I will write to them, tell them of my new position. They can take pride in that.”

  “Be careful Garten. The fog is all over the isles. It is always so when the Morfaan come into this world.”

  “It is the weather, my love. Such fogs are nothing unusual this time of the year.”

  Charramay’s round face pulled inwards, like a pudding on the verge of collapse. “It is the mists of the Morfaans’ own land that cloak them from the sun. The gate to our world from their land of exile is open. Noises have been heard on coasts, the things from their realm!”

  Garten gave her a sympathetic hug.

  “Enough folktales,” he said. “There are monsters enough in this world without imagining those of another.” He embraced her again. “Now go and rest. If you insist on standing here in this cold you will only become more ill. I will come to you before I leave. We shall sit a while and talk of pleasant things before I go.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She took his hand. He squeezed it. She went to her room, her maid following.