“If you could provide me with at least a couple of similar devices and instruct myself and my knights in their use, the success of our journey would be assured.”
Trell shook his head, smiled paternally. “Friend Calonnin, you know I can’t do that. Commonwealth and Church declarations strictly prohibit the distribution of modern weaponry to non-Commonwealth peoples. Even those races that have attained associate membership cannot obtain energy weapons except under special circumstances. Ownership is restricted to full Commonwealth members. This is not a rule of my making, but it is one I can’t risk breaking.
Trell hoped his friend understood his refusal.
“Until some future date you’ll have to make do with the weapons of your own civilization. In your skilled hands, I’m sure they’ll prove more than adequate.”
“I did not mean to imply they would not,” the Landgrave assured him. “Your light knives would make this business simpler and much quicker, though.”
Trell wagged a finger at him. “Patience is another modern weapon which you can obtain for yourself, Ro-Vijar. But when this obstacle to our future plans is removed, who knows what arrangements we might work out? Arrangements whereby even extreme edicts can be bypassed. But not this time, not today.”
“I understand, friend Trell.” Ro-Vijar stood, panting like an overworked hessavar. “I am leaving my cousin, Sir Das Kooliatin, as ruler of Arsudun during my absence. You may deal as candidly with him as you see fit. He is unimaginative and harbors no delusions about replacing me on the throne—a trusted relative.” This last was mentioned not to compliment the absent Kooliatin, but simply to forestall any idea, however faint, which the human Commissioner might entertain about dealing with someone other than Calonnin.
“Let’s not delay your pursuit any longer, then.” Trell pulled himself up, walked to stand next to the Landgrave. Round pupils met vertical ones. “The sooner this unfortunate business is concluded, the more easily I’ll rest.”
“I also, friend Trell.” Reaching out, he wrapped one huge paw around the Commissioner’s hand. Then Trell leaned forward, placed both his palms on the Landgrave’s shoulders and exhaled into his face.
“My breath is your warmth. Go with the wind, friend Calonnin.”
Ro-Vijar exited, exerting monumental effort to keep from breaking into a run to escape the hothouse hell of Trell’s office for the cool breezes outside.
The Commissioner waited until the Landgrave had left the outer offices. Then he resumed his seat. Touching several switches brought out recordings and the rest of the day’s work. As always, he allowed himself the pleasure of checking several private molecular files and smiling at the hidden bank accounts there. They were listed under numerous names and companies, but the credit was all his. This delightful activity concluded, he passed on to the more prosaic work of Resident Commissioner.
Calonnin would succeed in his mission. The Landgrave was a resourceful and dedicated individual, at least as greedy as Trell. He had great confidence in the native leader, in his imagination and enterprise.
But Calonnin Ro-Vijar was entirely too imaginative and enterprising to be trusted with anything as lethal as modern energy weapons. Nothing like a needler to give a primitive mind delusions of grandeur. No, Ro-Vijar would remain far more manageable, though never exactly docile, if his methods of violent argument were restricted to lance, arrow and sword.
That was important to Trell’s blueprint for the future development of Tran-ky-ky. Keep temptations from Ro-Vijar’s hands and he’d be less likely to conjure up awkward ideas. He touched a control which automatically imprinted his signature of approval on a request for certain materials for quartermaster division, then went on to the next tape.
Trell was perfectly correct in his overall assessment of Calonnin Ro-Vijar’s qualities, but he was wrong on one crucial point. The Landgrave did not need possession of modern weapons to inspire grandiose delusions. He had plenty of those already.
As he chivaned toward the harbor and his waiting craft, Ro-Vijar considered the details of his recent interview with the human Commissioner. If Trell would not provide him with light knives, he would obtain them somewhere else. Were there not three of the irresistible weapons on the persons of the humans he was going to kill? Once that disagreeable task was concluded, he could easily fabricate some clever story for Trell’s ears to explain the disappearance of the human’s weapons. Trell might be suspicious, but what could he prove?
If a cub could trip over a slithering megorph, could not a human trip over the future? These purveyors of wealth from the sky might be rich and wise. They were not omnipotent.
VII
THE OBJECT OF CALONNIN Ro-Vijar’s avaricious thoughts was at that moment nearing the equator of Tran-ky-ky. It was near noon. Ethan was studying the ice sliding past below.
No matter where they passed, the sun always seemed to bring out hidden patterns in the ice ocean’s surface. But what Ethan noticed now startled him more than any fanciful face or half-concealed monster thrown back from subsurface cracks and discolorations.
In places, a thin layer of water lay on the ice. Widely scattered puddles formed unexpected mirrors. Once, the Slanderscree shot through a depression filled with enough water to send spray flying rail-high.
Several hours later, the temperature had dropped enough for the isolated pools to freeze solid again, but the mere sight of free-standing liquid water on Tran-ky-ky was a considerable shock.
It had a much more deleterious effect on the crew. They were used to seeing running water only in their homes, after ice or snow had been melted down for drinking. Their reaction would be comparable to a human watching the ground beneath his feet begin to dissolve. It was overwhelming to learn that one’s world was not indestructible.
Williams and Eer-Meesach moved among the jittery sailors, assuring them that their cataclysmic speculations were groundless, that there was no danger of the ice ocean melting more than a few centimeters in this one exceptionally warm place on the planetary surface. Regardless, Williams told them, the Slanderscree would surely float.
It took him a while to explain the concept of floating.
As soon as the sun dropped a few degrees and the surface water refroze, however, even the most superstitious sailors were convinced they had nothing to fear.
Several warning cries sounded that afternoon from the lookout baskets attached to the top of each mast. Ethan rushed to the helmdeck, the nerve center of the great icerigger, to learn what was happening.
He found Ta-hoding yelling commands to his mates, directing the reefing of several sails. Pika-pina sheets began to shrink in the forest of rigging and spars. Ethan forbore interrupting the captain when he was obviously so busy and was soon able to make out the cause of their slowing for himself.
A green thread lying across the fore horizon grew to become a ribbon, then a deep, verdant band. It stretched as far as a man could see from left to right across the ice sea. The band became a broad swatch and soon they were sliding over an ocean of green instead of white.
The massive duralloy runners of the Slanderscree left parallel grooves in the emerald-rust carpet of their wake. Sir Hunnar moved to stand alongside Ethan.
“’Tis one of the largest fields of pika-pina I have ever seen, friend Ethan. ’Twould be a good place to live, were there any high land about.” Ethan knew the adaptable, prolific plant could live anywhere it could sink its traveling roots into nutrient-rich soil. The islands hereabouts might be only a centimeter or two above the surface. Or perhaps the fields’ taproots went deep through the ice to penetrate subsurface mountaintops.