There was a woman in the great cleft-city of Brershill who was passing fair.
At least so ran opinion in that segment of low-level society of which she was undisputed queen. Though there were others, oldsters for the most part, who resented her beauty, finding her very fame an affront to decent living. Custom died hard in Brershill, most conservative -- or most backward of the Eight Cities of the Plain, the great ice steep men had once called the Matto Grosso. And in truth Coranda had given some cause for offence. If she was beautiful she was also vain and cold, cold as the ice plains that girdled the world: in her vanity she had denied even that sacrifice most beloved of great Ice Mother, the first-blood that belonged to the goddess alone. Long past the time of puberty she was, and the ceremonies of womanhood; and still the Mother waited for her due. In the blizzards that scourged the cleft, in the long winds of winter, her complaint might be heard, chilling the blood with threats and promises. All men knew they lived by the Mother’s mercy alone; that one day, very soon now, the world would end, mantled for eternity in her sparkling cloth. Coranda, ran the whisper. Coranda, holding their lives in the hollow of her hand. Coranda heard, and laughed; she was just twenty, slim and black haired and tall.
She lay on a couch of white fur, toying with a wine cup, mocking the young men of the cities as they paid her court. To Arand, son of the richest merchant of Brershill, she confided her belief that she herself was of the Mother’s Chosen and thus above the pettiness of sacrifice. ‘For,’ she said, smoothing her long hair, ‘is not the Mother justly famed for beauty, for the perfection of skin that matches the fresh-laid snow? The darkness of her eyes, all-seeing, the slenderness of the hands that guard us all? And have I not’ -- she tossed her head -- ‘have I not, among your good selves at least, some claim to prettiness? Though Eternal Mother forbid’ -- blushing, and modestly lowering her eyes -- ‘that I should fall into the sin of pride.’ Arand, more than a little drunk, straightway burbled her divinity, speaking heresy with the ease of long practice or stupidity till she swept from him indignantly, angry that he should speak lightly of the deity in her presence. ‘Will not the Mother’s rage,’ she asked Maitran of Friesgalt appealingly, ‘descend alike on his head and mine? Will you protect me from the lightnings that fly in storms, lightnings such words may bring?’
That was a cunning touch, worthy of Coranda; for the animosity with which most Friesgaltians regarded the folk of Brershili was well known, Maitran’s knife blade gleamed instantly, and would no doubt have brought the Mother a pleasing offering had not Brershillian stalwarts pinned and disarmed the combatants. Some blood was shed certainly, from thumped noses and mouths, while Coranda regarded the wriggling heap with interest. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I think I must call my father’s men, to punish; for do I mean so little to you all that you come here to my house and brawl?’ She ran to the gong placed beside the door of the chamber, and would certainly have summoned an irate guard had not earnest entreaty prevailed.
‘Well,’ she said, tossing her head again in disgust. ‘It seems you all have too much spirit, and certainly too much energy, for my comfort and your own safety. I think we must devise a small occupation, something that will absorb your wildness and will no doubt bring a suitable reward.’
There was a quietness at that; for she had hinted before that marriage to some rich and worthy boy might at long last assuage the Mother’s need. She brooded, suddenly thoughtful, stroked hands across her gown so the fabric showed momentarily the convexities of belly and thighs. Lowered her eyes, glided swaying to the couch. They made way for her, wary and puzzled. Rich they all were, certainly, or they would none of them have passed her father’s iron- bound doors; but worthy? Who could be worthy of Coranda, whost beauty was surely Ice Mother’s own?
She clapped her hands; at the gesture a house-servant, blue livened, laid beside her a box. It was made from wood, rarest of substances, inlaid with strips of ivory and bone. She opened it languidly; inside, resting on a quilting of white nylon, was a slim harpoon. She lifted it, toying with the haft, fingers stroking the razor edges of the barbs. ‘Who will prove himself?’ she asked, seemingly to the air. ‘Who will take the Mother’s due, when Coranda of Brershill comes to marriage?’
Instantly, a babble of voices; Karl Stromberg and Mard Lipsill of Abersgalt shouted willingness, Frey Skalter the Keltshillian, half-barbaric in his jewelled furs, attempted to kiss her foot. She withdrew it smartly, equally sharply kicked him in the throat. Skalter overbalanced, swearing, spilling wine across the pale floor. There was laughter; she silenced it sharply, lifting the little harpoon again, watching them all from long lashed, kohl-painted eyes. She relaxed, still holding the weapon, staring at the ceiling in the fast blue flicker of the lamps. ‘Once,’ she said, ‘Long ago, in the far south of our land, a whaler was blown off course by storms. When the Ice Mother’s anger was spent, and she sent sunlight again and birds, none could make out where her breath had driven them. There was ice, a great smooth plain, and mountains; some of them smoked, so they said, throwing cinders and hot winds into the air. A very queer place it was indeed, with furry barbarians and animals from a child’s book of fancies, stranger than men could believe. There they hunted, spilling and killing till their holds were full and they turned north to their home. Then they came on the strangest wonder of all.’
In the quiet the buzzing of the eternal fluorescent tubes sounded loud. Skalter poured himself more wine, carefully, eyes on the girl’s face. Arand and Maitran stopped their glaring; Stromberg thoughtfully wiped an errant red trickle from his nose.
‘In the dark of dawn,’ said Coranda dreamily, ‘in the grey time when men and ships are nothing but shadows without weight and substance, they met the Fate sent by Ice Mother to punish them their crimes. It surrounded them, flickering and leaping, soundless as snow, weird as Death itself. All across the plain, round their boat as they sailed, were animals. They ran and moved, playing; whole herds and droves of them, bulls and calves and cows. Their bodies were grey they said, and sinuous as seals; their eyes were beautiful, and looked wisely at the ship. But without doubt they were spirits from the Mother’s court, sent to warn and destroy; for as they turned and leaped they saw each had but one horn, long and spiralling, that caught and threw back the light.’
She waited, seeming indifferent to her audience. At length Lipsill broke the silence. ‘Coranda .. . what of the boat?’
She shrugged delicately, still playing with the barbed tip of the spear. ‘Two men returned, burned by the Mother’s breath till their faces were black and marbled and their hands turned to scorched hooks. They lived long enough to tell the tale.’
They waited.
‘A man who loved me,’ she said, ‘who wanted to feel me in his bed and know himself worthy, would go to that land of shadows on the rim of the world. He would bring me a present to mark his voyage.’
Abruptly her eyes flicked wide, scorning at them. ‘A head,’ she said softly. ‘The head of the unicorn....’
Another pause; and then a wild shouting. ‘Ice Mother hear me,’ bellowed Skalter. ‘I’ll fetch your toy for you. . .
‘And me. . .
‘And me. . .
They clamoured for attention.
She beckoned Skalter. He came forward, dropping to one knee, leaning his craggy face over hers. She took his hand and raised it, closed the fingers gently round the tip of the harpoon. Stared at him, fixing him with her great eyes. ‘You would go?’ she said. ‘Then there must be no softness, Frey Skalter, no fainting of the spirit. Hard as the ice you will be, and as merciless; for my sake alone.’ She laid her hand over his, stroking the fingers, smiling her cat-smile. ‘You will go for me?’
He nodded, not speaking; and she squeezed slowly, still smiling. He stiffened, breath hissing between his teeth; and blood ran back down his arm, splashed bright and sudden on the weapon’s shaft. ‘By this token,’ she said, ‘you are my man. So shall you all be; and Ice Mother, in her charity, will decide.’
&
nbsp; Early day burned over the icefields. To the east the sun, rising across the white plain, threw red beams and the mile- long shadows of boats and men. Above, dawn still fought with darkness; the red flush faded to violet-grey, the grey to luminous blue. Across the blue ran high ripplings of cloud; the zenith gleamed like the skin of a turquoise fish. In the distance, dark-etched against the horizon, rose the spar-forest of the Brershill dock, where the schooners and merchantmen lay clustered in the lee of long moles built of blocks of ice. In the foreground, ragged against the glowing sky, were the yachts; Arand’s Chaser, Maitran’s sleek catamaran, Lipsill’s big Ice Ghost. Karl Stromberg’s Snow Princess snubbed at a mooring rope as the wind caught her curved side. Beyond her were two dour vessels from Djobhabn; and a Fyorsgeppian, iron beaked, that bore the blackly humorous name Bloodbringer. Beyond again was Skalter’s Easy Girl, wild and splendid, decorated all over with hair-tufts and scalps and ragged scraps of pelt. Her twin masts were bound with intricate strappings of nylon cord; on her gunnel skulls of animals gleamed, eyesockets threaded with bright and moving silks. Even her runners were carved, the long-runes that told, cryptically, the story of Ice Mother’s meeting with Sky Father and the birth and death of the Son, he whose Name could not be mentioned. The Mother’s grief had spawned the icefields; her anger would not finally be appeased till Earth ran cold and quiet for ever. Three times she had approached, three times the Fire Giants fought her back from their caverns under the ice; but she would not be denied. Soon now, all would be whiteness and peace; then the Son would rise, in rumblings and glory, and judge the souls of men.
The priest moved, shivering in a patterned shawl, touching the boats and blessing, smearing the bow of each with a little blood and milk. The wind soughed in the riggings, plucked at the robes of the muffled woman who stood staring, hair flicking round her throat. The headlamps swung on their poles, glowing against the patched hulls, throwing the priest’s shadow vague and fleeting as the shadow of a bird. The yachts tugged at their lines, flapping their pennants, creaking their bone runners, full of the half-life of mechanical things. All preparations were made, provisions stored, blood and seed given in expiation to the ice. The hunters grunted and stamped, swinging their arms in the keen air, impatient and unsure; and to each it seemed the eyes of Coranda promised love, the body of Coranda blessings.
The ceremony ended, finally. The priest withdrew to his tasselled nylon tent; the polebearers lifted their burden and trudged back across the ice. The boats were turned, levered by muffled men with crows till the sharp bows pointed, questing, to the south. A shout; and Lipsill’s craft first blossomed sail, the painted fabric flying and cracking round the mast. Then the catamaran. Skalter’s deceptively clumsy squarerigger; quick thud of a mallet parting the sternline and Lipsill was away, runners crisping, throwing a thin white double plume from the snow that had drifted across the ice. Stromberg followed, swinging from the far end of the line, crossing his scored wake as Skalter surged across Princess’s bows. A bellowing and the Keltshillian crabbed away, narrowly missing disaster, raising a threatening fist. Karl laughed, fur glove muffling the universal gesture of derision; the boats faded in the dawn light, swerving and tacking as they jockeyed for the lead. If the display moved Coranda she gave no sign of it; she stood smiling, coldly amused at the outcome of a jest, till the hulls were veiled in the frost-smoke of the horizon and the shouts lost beneath the wind.
The yachts moved steadily through the day, heading due south under the bright, high sun, their shadows pacing them across the white smoothness of the Plains. With the wind astern the squarerigger made ground fast; by evening she was hull down, her sails a bright spark on the horizon. Stromberg crowded Snow Princess, racing in her wake; behind him, spread out now, came the others, lateens, bulging, runners hissing on the ice. The cold was bracing and intense; snow crystals, blowing on the wind, stung his cheeks to a glow, beaded the heavy collar of his jerkin. Lipsill forged alongside, Ice Ghost surging and bucking. Karl raised a hand, laughing at his friend; and instantly came the chilling thought that one day, for Coranda, he might kill Lipsill, or Lipsill him.
They camped together, by common consent; all but Skalter, still miles ahead. Here, away from the eternal warmth of the cleft-cities, they must husband their reserves of fuel; they huddled round the redly-glowing brazier, the reflection lighting their faces, glinting out across the ice. The worn hulls of the yachts, moored in a crescent, protected them from the worst of the wind. Outside, beyond the circle of light, a wolf howled high and quavering; within the camp was cheerfulness, songs and stories passing round the group till one by one they took a last swig from their spirit flasks, checked their lines and grapples and turned in. They were up early next dawn, again by unspoken agreement, hoping maybe to steal a march on Easy Girl; but keen as they were, Skalter was ahead of them. They passed his camp, an hour’s sail away. Ice Ghost crushed the remains of the brazier fire, the turned-out remnants still smouldering on the ice; one runner spurned the embers, sent a long banner of ash trailing down the wind. They glimpsed his sails once before the wind, rising again, blocked visibility with a swirling curtain of snow.
They were now nearing the wide cleft of Fyorsgep, southernmost of the Cities of the Plain. The smooth ice was crossed by the tracks of many ships; they shortened sail cautiously, shouting each to the next along the line. Hung lanterns in the rigging, pushed on again by compass and torchlight, unwilling to moor and give away advantage. Snow Princess and Ice Ghost moved side by side, a bare length separating them.
It was Stromberg who first heard the faint booming from astern. He listened, cocking his head and frowning; then waved, pointing behind him with a bulky arm, The noise came again, a dull and ominous ringing; Lipsill laughed, edging his boat even closer. Karl stared back as behind them an apparition loomed, impossibly tall in the gloom and whirling flakes. He saw the heavy thrusting of bowsprit and jibboom, the cavernous eyes of the landwhale skulls that graced the vessel’s stem. They held course defiantly as she closed, hearing now mixed with the fog gongs the long-drawn roar of her runners over the ice. Stromberg made out the carved characters on her bow; the Sweet Lady, whaler, out of Friesgalt, bound no doubt for the Southern Moorings and a night’s carouse.
The jibboom was between the boats, thrusting at their rigging, before they were seen. An agonized howl from above, movement of lanterns and dark figures at the vessel’s rail; she rumbled between the yachts as they parted at the last instant, the long shares of her ice anchors nearly scraping their booms. They saw the torchlit deck, fires burning in crow’s-nest and rigging; and the curious feature of an iceboat, the long slots in the bilges in which moved the linkages of the paired anchors. Dull light gleamed through her as she passed, giving to her hull the appearance of a half-flensed whale; a last bellow reached them as she faded into the greyness ahead.
‘Abersgaltian bastards....’
The skipper then had seen the big insignia at the masthead. This Lady was anything but sweet.
The night’s camp brought near-disaster. Maitran came in late and evil tempered, a runner stay cracked on the catamaran, bound with a jury-lashing of nylon rope. Some chance remark from Arand and he was on his feet, knife-blade glinting. He held the weapon tip-uppermost, circling and taunting his enemy. Arand rose white-faced, swathing a bearskin round one forearm. A quick feint and thrust, a leaping back; and Lipsill spoke easily, still seated by the fire.
‘The prize, Friesgaltian, comes with the head of the unicorn. Our friend would doubtless look well enough, grinning from Coranda’s wall; but your energy would be expended to no purpose.’
Maitran hissed between his teeth, not deigning to glance round.
‘You risk in any case the anger of the Ice Mother,’ the Abersgaltian went on, reaching behind him to his pack. ‘For if our Lady is in fact her servant then this hunting is clearly her design, and should bring her glory. All else is vanity, an affront to her majesty.’
Hansan, the Fyorsgeppian, dark-faced and
black-browed, nodded sombrely. ‘This is true,’ he said. ‘Bloodspilling, if it be against the Mother’s will, brings no honour.’ Maitran half turned at that, uncertainly; and Lipsill’s arm flaired up and back. The harpoon head, flung with unerring force, opened his cheek; he went down in a flurry of legs and arms and Stromberg was on him instantly, pinning him. Lipsill turned to Arand, his own knife in his hand. ‘Now, now Brershillian,’ he said gently; for the other, roused, would no doubt have thrown himself on his prostrate enemy and extracted vengeance. ‘No more, or you will answer to us all....’
Arand sheathed his dagger, shakily, eyes not leaving the stained face of the Friesgaltian, Maitran was allowed to rise; and Lipsill faced him squarely. ‘This was evil,’ he said. ‘Our fight is with the wind and wide ice, not each other. Take your boat, and stay apart from us.’
In Stromberg’s mind rose the first stirring of a doubt.
They moved fast again next morning, hoping for some sign of Skalter’s yacht; but the wind that had raged all night had cleaned his tracks, filling them with fresh snow. The ice lay scoured, white and gleaming to the horizon.
They were now past the farthest limit of civilization, on the great South Ice where the whale herds and their hunters roamed. Here and there were warm ponds, choked with brown and green weed; they saw animals, wolf and otter, once a herd of the shaggy white bison of the Plains; but no sign of the ghostly things they sought. The catamaran reached ahead of the rest, the Friesgaltian reckless and angry, crowding sail till the slim paired hulls were nearly obscured beneath a cloud of pale nylon. Stromberg, remembering the split strut, sent up a brief and silent prayer.
Maitran’s luck held till midday; then the stay parted, suddenly and without warning. They all saw the boat surge off course, one keel dropping to glissade along the ice. For a moment it seemed she would come to rest without further harm, then the ivory braces between the hulls. overstressed, broke in their turn. She split into halves; one hull bounded end over end, shedding fragments and splinters of bone, the other spun, encumbered by the falling weight of mast and sail, flicked Maitran in a sharp arc across the ice. He was up instantly, seemingly unhurt, running and waving to head them off.