The Complete Ice Schooner

  Manfred laughed.

  ‘Cheer up, captain. Janek won’t bother us on the voyage. He’s an accountant, a stay-at-home merchant who knows nothing of sailing. He could not interfere if he wished to. He won’t help us find the Ice Mother’s lair - but he won’t hinder us, either.’

  Although Manfred’s reassurance seemed genuine, Arflane still could not tell if the young man had actually guessed the real reason for his disappointment. For that matter, he wondered if Janek Ulsenn had guessed what had happened in his wife’s bedroom that night. The look he had given Arflane seemed to indicate that he suspected something, though it seemed impossible that he could know what had actually taken place.

  Arflane was disturbed by the turn of events. He wanted to see Ulrica at once and talk to her about what had happened. He had a suddenly feeling of deep apprehension.

  ‘When will you begin inspecting the ship and picking the crew, captain?’ Manfred was asking.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Arflane told him ungraciously. ‘I’ll see you before I get out there.’

  He made a curt farewell gesture with his hand and left the room. He began to walk through the low corridors, searching for Ulrica.

  He found her in the main living room where, on the previous night, he had first caressed her. She rose hurriedly when he entered. She was pale; she held her body rigidly, her hands gripped tightly together at her waist. She had bound up her hair, drawing it back tightly from her face. She was wearing the black dress of fine sealskin which she had worn the day before at the funeral. Arflane closed the door, but she moved towards it, attempting to pass him. He barred the way with one arm and tried to look into her eyes, but she averted her head.

  ‘Ulrica, what is it?’ The sense of foreboding was now even stronger. ‘What is it? Did you hear that your husband intends to come with us on the voyage? Is that why . . . ?’

  She looked at him coolly and he dropped his arm away from the door.

  ‘I am sorry, Captain Arflane,’ she said formally. ‘But it would be best if you forgot what passed between us. We were both in unusual states of mind. I realize now that it is my duty to remain faithful to my - ‘

  Her whole manner was artificially polite.

  ‘Ulrica!’ He gripped her shoulders tightly. ‘Did he tell you to say this? Has he threatened you . . . ?’

  She shook her head. ‘Let me go, captain.’

  ‘Ulrica . . .’ His voice had broken. He spoke weakly, dropping his hands from her shoulders. ‘Ulrica, why?’

  ‘I seem to remember you speaking quite passionately in favour of the old traditions,’ she said. ‘More than once I’ve heard you say that to let slip our code will mean our perishing as a people. You mentioned that you admired my father’s strength of mind and that you saw the same quality in me. Perhaps you did, captain. I intend to stay faithful to my husband.’

  ‘You aren’t saying what you mean. I can tell that. You love me. This mood is just a reaction - because things seem too complicated now. You told me that you were rightfully mine. You meant what you said this morning.’ He hated the tone of desperation in his own voice, but he could not control it.

  ‘I mean what I am saying now, captain; and if you respect the old way of life, then you will respect my request that you see as little of me as possible from now on.’

  ‘No!’ He roared in anger and lurched towards her. She stepped back, face frozen and eyes cold. He reached out to touch her and then slowly withdrew his hands and stepped aside to let her pass.

  She opened the door. He understood now that no outside event had caused this change in her. The cause was her own conscience. He could not argue with her decision. Morally, it was right. There was nothing he could do; there was no hope he could hold. He watched her walk slowly away from him down the corridor. Then he slammed the door, his face twisted in an expression of agonized despair. There was a snapping sound and the door swung back. He had broken its lock. It would no longer close properly.

  He hurried to his room and began to bundle his belongings together. He would make sure that he obeyed her request. He would not see her again, at least until the ship was ready to sail. He would go out to the Ice Spirit at once and begin his work.

  He slung the sack over his shoulders and hurried through the winding corridors to the outer entrance. Bloody thoughts were in his mind and he wanted to get into the open, hoping that the clean air of the surface would blow them away.

  As he reached the outer door, he met Manfred Rorsefne in the hall. The young man looked amused.

  ‘Where are you off to, captain?’

  Arflane glared at him, wanting to strangle the supercilious expression from Rorsefne’s face.

  ‘I see you’re leaving, captain. Off to the Ice Spirit so soon? I thought you were going tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Today,’ Arflane growled. He recovered some of his self-assurance. ‘Today. I’ll get started at once. I’ll sleep on board until we sail. It will be best . . .’

  ‘Perhaps it will,’ Rorsefne agreed, speaking half to himself as he watched the big, red-bearded sailor stride rapidly from the house.

  10 Konrad Arflane’s Mood

  Of the newly-discovered facts about his own character that obsessed Konrad Arflane, the most startling was that he had never suspected himself capable of renouncing all his principles in order to possess another man’s wife. He also found it difficult to equate with his own idea of himself the knowledge that, having been stopped from seeing the woman, he should not become reconciled, or indeed grateful.

  He was far from being either. He slept badly, his attention turned constantly to thoughts of Ulrica Ulsenn. He waited without hope for her to come to him and when she did not he was angry. He stalked about the big ship, bawling out the men over quibbling details, dismissing hands he had hired the day before, muttering offensively to his officers in front of the men, demanding that he should be made aware of all problems aboard, then swearing furiously when some unnecessary matter was brought to him.

  He had had the reputation of being a particularly good skipper; stern and remote, but fair. The whaling hands, whom he preferred for his crewmen, had been eager to sign with the Ice Spirit, in spite of the mysterious voyage she was to make. Now many were regretting it.

  Arflane had appointed three officers - or rather he had let two appointments stand and had signed on Long Lance Urquart as third officer, below Petchnyoff and old Kristoff Hinsen. Urquart seemed oblivious to Arflane’s irrational moods, but the two other men were puzzled and upset by the change in their new skipper. Whenever Urquart was not in their quarters - which was often - they would take the opportunity to discuss the problem. Both had liked Arflane when they had first met him. Petchnyoff had had a high regard for his integrity and strength of will; Kristoff Hinsen felt a more intimate relationship with him, based on memories of the days when they had been rival skippers. Neither was capable of analysing the cause of the change in Arflane’s temperament; yet so much did they trust their earlier impressions of him that they were prepared for a while to put up with his moods on the hope that, once under way, he would become the man they had first encountered. Petchnyoff s patience as the days passed was increasingly strained and he began to think of resigning his command, but Hinsen persuaded him to wait a little longer.

  The huge vessel was being fitted with completely new canvas and rigging. Arflane personally inspected every pin, every knot, and every line. He climbed over the ship inch by inch, checking the set of the yards, the tension of the rigging, the snugness of the hatch covers, the feel of the bulkheads, until he was satisfied. He tested the wheel time after time, turning the runners this way and that to get to know their exact responses. Normally the steering runners and their turntable were immovably locked in relation with each other. On the foredeck, though, immediately above the great gland of the steering pin, was housed the emergency bolt, with a heavy mallet secured beside it. Dropping the bolt would release the skids, allowing them to turn in towards each other, creating in effec
t a huge plough-share that dug into the ice, bringing the vessel to a squealing and frequently destructive halt. Arflane tested this apparatus for hours. He also dropped the heavy anchors once or twice. These were on either side of the ship, beneath her bilges. They consisted of two great blades. Above them, through guides let into the hull, rods reached to the upper deck. Pins driven through the rods kept the blades clear of ice; beside each stanchion mallets were kept ready to knock the pegs clear in case of danger or emergency. The heavy anchors were seldom used, and never by a good skipper; contact with racing ice would wear them rapidly away, and replacements were now nearly unobtainable.

  At first men and officers had called out cheerfully to him as he went about the ship; but they soon learned to avoid him, and the superstitious whaling hands began to speak of curses and of a foredoomed voyage; yet very few disembarked of their own accord.

  Arflane would watch moodily from the bridge as bale after bale and barrel after barrel of provisions were swung aboard, packing every inch of available space. With each fresh ton that was taken into the holds, he would again test the wheel and the heavy anchors to see how the Ice Spirit responded.

  One day on deck Arflane saw Petchnyoff inspecting the work of a sailor who had been one of a party securing the mainmast ratlines. He strode up to the pair and pulled at the lines, checking the knots. One of them was not as firm as it could be.

  ‘Call that a knot, do you, Mr Petchnyoff?’ he said offensively. ‘I thought you were supposed to be inspecting this work!’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘I’d like to be able to trust my officers,’ Arflane said with a sneer. ‘Try to see that I can in the future.’

  He marched along the deck. Petchnyoff slammed a belaying pin he had been holding down on to the deck, narrowly missing the surprised hand.

  That evening, Petchnyoff had got half his kit packed before Hinsen could convince him to stay on board.

  The weeks went by. There were four floggings for minor offences. It was as if Arflane were deliberately trying to get his crew to leave him before the ship set sail. Yet many of the men were fascinated by him and the fact that Urquart had thrown in his lot with Arflane must have had something to do with the whaling hands staying.

  Manfred Rorsefne would occasionally come aboard to confer with Arflane. Originally Arflane had said that it would take a fortnight to ready the ship, but he had put off the sailing date further and further on one excuse and another, telling Rorsefne that he was still not happy that everything had been done that could be done, reminding him that a voyage of this kind demanded a ship that was as perfect as possible.

  ‘True, but we’ll miss the summer at this rate,’ Manfred Rorsefne reminded him gently. Arflane scowled in reply, saying he could sail in any weather. His carefulness on one hand, and his apparent recklessness on the other, did little to reassure Rorsefne, but he said nothing.

  Finally there was absolutely no more to be done aboard the ice schooner. She was in superb trim; all her ivory was polished and shining, her decks were scrubbed and freshly boned. Her four masts gleamed with white, furled canvas; her rigging was straight and taut; the boats, swinging in davits fashioned from the jawbones of whales, hung true and firm; every pin was in place and every piece of gear was where it should be. The barbaric whale skulls at her prow glared towards the north as if defying all the dangers that might be awaiting them. The Ice Spirit was ready to sail.

  Still reluctant to send for his passengers, Arflane stood in silence on the bridge and looked at the ship. For a moment it occurred to him that he could take her out now, leaving the Ulsenns and Manfred Rorsefne behind. The ice ahead was obscured by clouds of snow that were lifted by the wind and sent drifting across the bow; the sky was grey and heavy. Gripping the rail in his gauntleted hands, Arflane knew it would not be difficult to slip out to the open ice in weather like this.

  He sighed and turned to Kristoff Hinsen, who stood beside him.

  ‘Send a man to the Rorsefne place, Mr Hinsen. Tell them if the wind holds we’ll sail tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Hinsen paused, his weatherbeaten features creased in doubt. ‘Tomorrow morning, sir?’

  Arflane turned his brooding eyes on Hinsen. ‘I said tomorrow. That’s the message, Mr Hinsen.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Hinsen left the bridge hurriedly.

  Arflane knew why Hinsen queried his orders. The weather was bad and obviously getting worse. By morning they would have a heavy snowstorm; visibility would be poor, and the men would find it difficult to set the canvas. But Arflane had made up his mind; he looked away, back towards the bow.

  Two hours later he saw a covered sleigh being drawn across the ice from the city. Tawny wolves pulled it, their paws slipping on the ice.

  A strong gust of wind blew suddenly from the west and buffeted the side of the ship so that it moved slightly to starboard in its mooring cables. Arflane did not need to order the cables checked. Several hands instantly ran to see to them. It was a larger crew than he normally liked to handle, but he had to admit, even in his poor temper, that their discipline was very good.

  The wolves came to an untidy stop close to the ship’s side. Arflane cursed and swung down from the bridge, moving to the rail and leaning over it. The driver had brought the carriage in too close for his own safety.

  ‘Get that thing back!’ Arflane yelled. ‘Get beyond the mooring pegs. Don’t you know better than to come so close to a ship of this size while there’s a heavy wind blowing? If we slip one cable you’ll be crushed.’

  A muffled head poked itself from the carriage window.

  ‘We are here, Captain Arflane. Manfred Rorsefne and the Ulsenns.’

  ‘Tell your driver to get back! He ought to - ‘ A fresh gust of wind slammed against the ship’s side and sent it skidding several feet closer to the carriage until the slack of the mooring cables in the other side was taken up. The driver looked startled and whipped his wolves into a steep turn. They strained in their harness and loped across the ice with the carriage in tow.

  Arflane smiled unpleasantly.

  With a wind as erratic as this, few captains would allow their ships out of their moorings, but he intended to sail anyway. It might be dangerous, but it would seem worse to Ulsenn and his relatives.

  Manfred Rorsefne and the Ulsenns had got out of the carriage and were standing uncertainly, looking up at the ship, searching for Arflane.

  Arflane turned away from them and went back to the bridge.

  Fydur, the ship’s bosun, saluted him as he began to climb the companionway. ‘Shall I send out a party to take the passengers aboard, sir?’

  Arflane shook his head. ‘Let them make their own way on board,’ he told the bosun. ‘You can lower a gangplank if you like.’

  A little later he watched Janek Ulsenn being helped up the gangplank and along the deck. He saw Ulrica, completely swathed in her furs, moving beside her husband. Once she looked up at the bridge and he caught a glimpse of her eyes - the only part of her face not hidden by her hood. Manfred strolled along after them, waving cheerfully up at Arflane, but he was forced to clutch a line as the ship moved again in her moorings.

  Within a quarter of an hour he had joined Arflane on the bridge.

  ‘I’ve seen my cousin and her husband into their respective cabins, captain,’ he said. ‘I’m settled in myself. At last we’re ready, eh?’

  Arflane grunted and moved down the rail to starboard, plainly trying to avoid the young man. Manfred seemed unaware of this; he followed, slapping his gloved hands together and looking about him. ‘You certainly know your ships, captain. I thought the Spirit was as neat as she could be, until you took over. We should have little trouble on the voyage, I’m sure.’

  Arflane looked around at Rorsefne.

  ‘We should have no trouble at all,’ he said grimly. ‘I hope you’ll remind your relatives that I’m in sole command of this ship from the moment she sails. I’m empowered to take any measure I think fit
to ensure the smooth running of the vessel . . .’

  ‘All this is unnecessary, captain.’ Rorsefne smiled. ‘We accept that, of course. That is the law of the ice. No need for details; you are the skipper, we do as you tell us to do.’

  Arflane grunted. ‘Are you certain Janek Ulsenn understands that?’

  ‘I’m sure he does. He’ll do nothing to offend you - save perhaps scowl at you a little. Besides, his legs are still bothering him. He’s not entirely fit; I doubt if he’ll be seen above deck for a while.’ Manfred paused and then stepped much closer to Arflane. ‘Captain - you haven’t seemed yourself since you took this command. Is something wrong? Are you disturbed by the idea of the voyage? It occurred to me that you might think there was - um -sacrilege involved.’

  Arflane shook his head, looking full into Manfred Rorsefne’s face. ‘You know I don’t think that.’

  Rorsefne appeared to be disconcerted for a moment. He pursed his lips. ‘It’s no wish of mine to intrude on your personal. . .’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It would seem to me that the safety of the ship depends almost wholly upon yourself. If you are in poor spirits, captain, perhaps it would be better to delay the voyage longer?’

  The wind was whining through the top trees. Automatically, Arflane looked up to make sure that the yards were firm. ‘I’m not in poor spirits,’ he said distantly.

  ‘I think I could help

  Arflane raised the megaphone to his lips and bawled at Hinsen as he crossed the quarter deck.

  ‘Mr Hinsen! Get some men into the mizzen to’g’l’nt yards and secure that flapping canvas!’

  Manfred Rorsefne said nothing more. He left the bridge.

  Arflane folded his arms across his chest, his features set in a scowl.