A few clouds scudded in puffy formation across a sky of cobalt blue. Ethan turned his gaze as he moved forward. Grizzled and goggled, a seamed face turned to look back and down at him, to smile with teeth white as chips of the harbor around them.
“Upon my word, young feller-me-lad, if we haven’t gone and made it in one piece!” Skua September rubbed one side of a nose as big in proportion to its face as the ship’s bowsprit was to the hull. He turned away to study the town, its winding icepaths forming shiny ribbons between the buildings, the busy Tran walking or chivaning along them. The locals who didn’t stop to gawk at the icerigger held their arms outstretched parallel to the street, the wind filling their membranous dan and scooting them along effortlessly.
Smoke curled skyward from a thousand chimneys. Multistoried gambreled structures swelled haphazardly up the gentle island slope until they crested against the stark gray bulk of a substantial castle.
While Arsudun seemed to contain a population considerably larger than Wannome, Ethan noted with interest the smaller size of the castle. Its diminutive proportions bespoke either the relative impecuniosity of the local government or the becoming modesty of its Landgrave.
Sir Hunnar offered a third possibility. “It looks not more than a dozen years old, Sir Ethan… Ethan. And it appears unusually well built.” Hunnar clambered awkwardly over the railing and down the boarding ladder. He relaxed visibly when he was able to step onto the icepath covering the center portion of the dock. Like all Tran, he was much more at home on the ice than on any unslick solid surface.
Ethan and Skua joined the knight and his two squires, Suaxusdal-Jagger and Budjir. The latter were discussing the town and the assembled crowd in suspicious mutters. They kept their arms tight at their sides, lest a gust of wind catch their dan and send them unexpectedly rocketing forward.
A voice called from the ship to the landing party. Squinting reflexively into the wind, although the suit mask kept his eyes safe, Ethan made out a rotund, survival-suited figure waving down at them from the bow.
“When you get to the port, use the number twenty-two double R if the authorities give you any trouble!” The voice was crisp, insistent, yet feminine for all its controlled power. Colette du Kane paused to murmur something to the wavering figure alongside her, then put an arm around her father to support him.
“That’s our family code. Any processor unit will recognize it instantly, Ethan. From a personal cardmeter to a Church ident. It will give us priority booking on the next shuttle off here and cut through any red tape.”
“Twenty-two double R, okay.” Ethan hesitated when she seemed about to add something else, but then her father bent over suddenly and she had to attend to him. They couldn’t hear anything, but the figure’s movements hinted at wracking, heaving coughs.
They turned, started for the town. Hunnar and the squires kept their speed down to a crawl to keep from outdistancing the humans. They were nearly reduced to walking.
“Strong woman,” September murmured easily. Hunnar spoke to a local who directed them to the left. Following the harbor, they turned in that direction.
“Yes, she is,” Ethan agreed. “But she tends to be a bit domineering.”
“Why fella-me-lad, what do you expect from a scion of one of the merchant families? ’Course, it ain’t fer me to say. You’re the one she proposed to, not me.”
“I know, Skua. But I respect your opinion. What do you think I should do?”
“You want the opinion of a wanted man.” September grinned broadly. Then the smile vanished and September became unexpectedly, unnaturally solemn.
“Lad, you can ask my advice where fighting is concerned, hand-to-hand, ship-to-ship, machine-to machine. You can ask where politics are concerned, or religion, or food or drink. You can ask my advice on any hundred matters, any thousand, and though I don’t know amoeba-spit about half that many I’d still venture you a reply.
“But,” and here he looked at Ethan so sharply, so furiously intent that the salesman missed a nervous step, “don’t ask my advice where women are concerned because I’ve had worse luck with them than fighting or politics or any of the thousand others. No, feller-me-lad,” he continued, some of his perpetual good humor returning, “that’s a choice you’ll have to make for yourself.
“I will tell you this: never confuse physical form and beauty with the capacity for passion. That’s a mistake far too many men make. Beauty ain’t skin deep… it goes a damn sight deeper.
“Now let’s hurry up the pace a bit. Sir Hunnar and his boys are practically fallin’ asleep trying to hang back with us, and I’m as anxious as you are to get to the port.…”
They topped a slight rise. Below and just ahead lay the humanx community of Brass Monkey. At the moment, Ethan had eyes only for three concave depressions scooped from the frozen ground and neatly lined with opaque, ice-free metal. Shuttleboat pits. Just their metal linings, those three perfect bowls, contained a fortune in Tran terms, yet none of them seemed disturbed or in any way vandalized. Of course, he reminded himself, that might be due to the fact that the Tran didn’t possess tools strong enough to cut through duralloy or metal-ceramic crystalloids.
Aligned in one of the pits was a small metal shape that bore a remarkable resemblance to the Slanderscree, save for the absence of masts and its more aerodynamic design. The little boat made Ethan’s stomach flip. He could be on it very soon.
An enormous wall of frozen earth and blocks of ice and snow had been heaped up east of the community to shelter it from the steady wind off the harbor. The port buildings lay close by the near end of the harbor, and the group started down toward an L-shaped, two-story edifice. Two glowing signs shone in recesses above the snow-free main entrance. One read: BRASS MONKEY—TRAN-KY-KY ADMINISTRATION. In jagged local script below it were words translating roughly as SKY OUTLANDER’S PLACE.
An intermittent stream of bundled humans and an occasional Tran were presenting themselves at that entrance. Glassalloy windows, thick enough to be used in starships, offered the building’s inhabitants views of the frozen world outside. Ethan could see in. Some thing was keeping the inside of such windows free from condensation.
“What do we here, Ethan?” Hunnar sounded uncertain. No doubt he was wondering if the strange humans in this place would have icepaths within their structures or if he would be forced to walk any distance.
“We have to book passage off your world. Back to our homes.”
“Your homes,” Hunnar echoed. “Of course.” The knight’s tone indicated a contradictory meaning. Ethan understood the language well enough now to discern such nuances. Hunnar was expressing sorrow at their imminent departure and at the same time, a profound gratitude. Or maybe he was just thinking of the sleeping Elfa Kurdagh-Vlata back on the Slanderscree.
Once more Ethan thought to reassure Hunnar that he had nothing to worry about in the way of competition for the favors of the Landgrave’s daughter. But booking passage should provide sufficient reassurance.
There was an icepath ramp leading to the entrance, bordered by smooth metal for human use. It was grooved for traction despite the present absence of ice. Two sets of doors barred the way in.
They passed the first easily enough, despite the rise in temperature. But when they passed the second set and entered the building proper, Sir Hunnar reeled and the moody Suaxus nearly fell. The cause was immediately apparent. The Tran liked to maintain the temperature in their dwellings perhaps five degrees above freezing. The temperature inside the building, set for the human optimum, was devastatingly higher.