Predator's gold

7

It was a Wednesday, and on Wednesdays Freya’s chauffeur always drove her to the Temple of the Ice Gods so that she could pray to them for guidance. The temple was barely ten yards from her palace, on the same raised platform near the stern of the city, so it was not really necessary to go through the business of calling out her chauffeur, climbing into her official bug, driving the short distance and climbing out again, but Freya went through it anyway; it would not have been seemly for the margravine to walk.

Once again she knelt in the dim candle-glow of the refrigerated temple and looked up at the lovely ice-statues of the Lord and Lady and asked them to tell her what she should do, or at least to send a sign to show her that the things she had already done were right. And once again there was no answer: no miraculous light, no voices whispering in her mind, no patterns of frost arranging themselves into messages on the floor, only the steady purr of the engines making the deckplates judder against her knees, the winter twilight pressing at the windows. Her mind kept drifting off, thinking about stupid, annoying things, like the stuff that had gone missing from the palace. It made her angry and a little scared, that someone could come into her chambers, and take her things. She tried asking the Ice Gods who the thief was, but of course they would not tell her that, either.

Finally she prayed for Mama and Papa, wondering what it was like for them down in the Sunless Country. Since their deaths she had begun to realize that she had never really known them, not in the way that other people know their parents. There had always been nannies and handmaidens to look after Freya, and she saw Mama and Papa only at dinner time and on formal occasions. She had called them “Your Radiance” and “Sir”. The closest she had been to them was on certain summer evenings when they had gone for picnics in the margravine’s ice-barge — simple family affairs, just Freya and Mama and Papa and about seventy servants and courtiers. Then the plague came, and she wasn’t even allowed to see them, and then they were dead. Some servants laid them in the barge and set fire to it and sent it out on to the ice. Freya had stood at her window and watched the smoke going up, and it felt as if they had never existed at all.

Outside the temple, her chauffeur was waiting for her, pacing up and down and scratching patterns in the snow with the toe of his boot. “Home, Smew,” she announced, and as he scurried to slide the lid of the bug open she looked towards the bows, thinking how pathetically few lights there were in the upper city these days. She remembered issuing a proclamation about the empty houses, stating than any of the engine-district workers who wished might move out of their dingy little flats down below and take over some of the empty villas up here instead, but very few had done so. Perhaps they liked their dingy flats. Perhaps they needed the comfort of familiar things just as badly as she did.

Down at the air-harbour a splash of red stood out gaudily amid the whites and greys.

“Smew? Whatever is that? Surely a ship has not arrived?”

The chauffeur bowed. “She put in last night, Your Radiance. A trader called the Jenny Haniver. Shot up by air-pirates or something, and in bad need of repairs, according to Harbour Master Aakiuq.”

Freya peered at the ship, hoping to make out more details. It was difficult to see much through the swirls of powder snow which were being blown off the rooftops. How odd to think of strangers walking about aboard Anchorage again after all this time!

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” she asked.

“The margravine isn’t normally informed about the arrival of mere merchantmen, Your Radiance.”

“But who is aboard this ship? Are they interesting?”

“Two young aviators, Your Radiance. And an older man, their passenger.”

“Oh,” said Freya, losing interest. For a moment she had been almost excited, and had imagined inviting these newcomers to the palace, but of course it would never do for the Margravine of Anchorage to start hobnobbing with tramp aviators and a man who couldn’t even afford his own airship.

“Natsworthy and Shaw were the names Mr Aakiuq told me, Your Radiance,” Smew went on, helping her into the bug. “Natsworthy and Shaw and Pennyroyal.”

“Pennyroyal? Not Professor Nimrod Pennyroyal?”

“I believe so, Your Radiance, yes.”

“Then I — Then I — ” Freya turned this way and that, adjusted her bonnet, shook her head. The traditions which had been her guide since everybody died had nothing to say about What To Do In The Event Of A Miracle. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Smew, I must welcome him! Go to the air-harbour! Fetch him to the council chamber — no, to the big audience-room. As soon as you’ve driven me home you must go and — no, go now! I’ll walk home!”

And she ran back inside the temple to thank the Gods of the Ice for sending her the sign she had been waiting for.

Even Hester had heard of Anchorage. In spite of its small size it was one of the most famous of the ice cities, for it could trace its name right back to old America. A band of refugees had fled the original Anchorage just before the Sixty Minute War broke out, and had founded a new settlement on a storm-wracked northern island. There they survived through plagues and earthquakes and ice ages until the great Traction boom reached the north. Then every city was forced to start moving or be eaten by those that had, and the people of Anchorage rebuilt their home and set off on their endless journeyings across the ice.

It was no predator, and the small jaws at its bows were only used for gathering in salvage or gouging up freshwater ice to feed the boilers. Its people made their living by trading along the fringes of the Ice Wastes, where they would link themselves with elegant little boarding-bridges to other peaceful towns and provide a marketplace where scavengers and archaeologists could gather to sell the things they scratched up from the ice.

So what was it doing here, miles from the trade-routes, heading north into the gathering winter? The question had nagged at Hester while she was helping to moor the Jenny Haniver, and it was nagging at her still when she woke from a long, refreshing sleep in the harbour master’s house. In the grainy dusk which passed for daylight here she could see that the crescents of white mansions overlooking the air-harbour were streaked with rust, and that many of the buildings had broken windows that opened on darkness like the eyeholes of skeletons. The harbour itself seemed to be on the verge of vanishing beneath a tide of decay: the bitter wind whipped litter and snow into drifts against the empty hangars, and a scrawny dog lifted its leg against a heap of old sky-train couplings.

“Such a pity, such a pity,” said Mrs Aakiuq, the harbour master’s wife, as she cooked up a second breakfast for her young visitors. “If you could have seen the dear place in the old days. Such riches, there were, and such comings and goings. Why, when I was a girl we often had airships stacked up twenty deep, waiting for a berth. Sky-yachts and runabouts and racing sloops come up to try their luck in the Boreal Regatta, and gorgeous great liners named after old-world movie-queens, the Audrey Hepburn and the Gong Li. ”

“So what happened?” asked Tom.

“Oh, the world changed on us,” said Mrs Aakiuq sadly. “Prey got scarce, and the great predator cities like Arkangel, which wouldn’t have spared us a second glance once, now chase us whenever they can.”

Her husband nodded, pouring steaming mugs of coffee for his guests. “And then, this year, the plague came. We took aboard some Snowmad scavengers who’d just found bits of an old orbital weapons platform crashed in the ice near the pole, and it turned out to be infected with some kind of horrible engineered virus from the Sixty Minute War. Oh, don’t look so worried; those old battle-viruses do their work fast and then mutate into something harmless. But it spread through the city like wildfire, killing hundreds of people. Even the old margravine and her consort died. And when it was over, and the quarantine was lifted, well, a lot of folk couldn’t see a future any more for Anchorage, so they took what airships there were and went off to find a life in other cities. I doubt there’s more than fifty of us left in the whole place now.”

“Is that all?” Tom was amazed. “But how can so few people keep a town this size working?”

“They can’t,” replied Aakiuq. “Not for ever. But old Mr Scabious the engine master has done wonders — a lot of automated systems, clever Old-Tech gadgets and the like — and he’ll keep us moving long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” asked Hester suspiciously. “Where are you going?”

The harbour master’s smile vanished. “Can’t tell you that, Miss Hester. Who’s to say you won’t fly off and sell our course to Arkangel or some other predator? We don’t want to find them lying in wait for us on the High Ice. Now eat up your seal-burgers and we’ll go and see if we can’t roust out some spare parts to fix that poor battered Jenny Haniver of yours.”

They ate, and then trailed after him across the docks to a huge, whale-backed warehouse. In the dim interior teetering stacks of old engine pods and gondola panels vied for space with spare parts ripped from the flight decks of dismantled airships and curved aluminium envelope-struts like the ribs of giants. Propellors of all sizes hung overhead, swinging gently with the city’s movement.

“This used to be my cousin’s place,” said Aakiuq, shining an electric lantern over the junk-heaps. “But he went and died in the plague, so I suppose it’s mine now. Never fear; there’s not much goes wrong with an airship that I don’t know how to fix, and there’s precious little else for me to do these days.”

As they followed him through the rusty dark some small thing clattered and seemed to scrabble, away among the stacked iron shelves of salvage. Hester, wary as ever, jerked her head in its direction, searching the shadows with her single eye. Nothing moved. Small things must always be falling, mustn’t they, in an old lumber room of a place like this? In a building with dodgy shock-absorbers that swayed and shuddered as Anchorage went ploughing across the ice? And yet she could not shake off the sense that she was being watched.

“Jeunet-Carot engines, wasn’t it?” Mr Aakiuq was asking. He clearly liked Tom — people always liked Tom — and he was making great efforts to help, scurrying to and fro among the mounds of junk and checking notes in a huge, mould-speckled ledger. “I believe I have something that will suit. Your gas-cells are old Thibetan jobs by the look of ’em: those we can’t patch I’ll replace with some nice RJ50s from a Zhang-Chen Hawkmoth. Yes, I believe your Jenny Haniver will be aloft again within three weeks.”

In blue darkness far below, three pairs of keen eyes watched a small screen, staring at a grainy image of Tom and Hester and the harbour master. Three pairs of ears as white as underground fungi strained to catch the tinny, distorted voices which came whispering down from the world above.

Back at the harbour master’s house, Mrs Aakiuq kitted Tom and Hester out with overboots and snowshoes, thermal underwear, thick sweaters of oiled wool, mittens, scarves and parkas. There were also cold-masks; fleece-lined leather objects with isinglass eye-pieces and a filter to breathe through. Mrs Aakiuq did not say where all these things had come from, but Hester had noticed the photographs decked with mourning ribbons on the household shrine, and she guessed that she and Tom were dressing in the clothes of the Aakiuqs’ dead children. She hoped those plague-germs really were as dead as the harbour master had promised. She liked the mask, though.

When they returned to the kitchen they found Pennyroyal sitting by the stove, his feet in a bowl of steaming water and a bandage around his head. He looked pale, but otherwise he was his old self, slurping a mug of Mrs Aakiuq’s moss tea and greeting Tom and Hester cheerfully. “So glad to see you safe! What adventures we shared, eh! Something for my next book there, I suspect…”

A brass telephone on the wall near the stove emitted a tinny jingle. Mrs Aakiuq hurried to lift the earpiece, listening very carefully to the message being relayed by her friend Mrs Umiak at the exchange. Her face broadened into a shining smile, and by the time she set the phone back on its hook and turned to her guests she could barely speak for excitement.

“Great news, my dears! The margravine is to grant you an audience! The margravine herself! She is sending her chauffeur to carry you to the Winter Palace! Such an honour! To think, you will go straight from my own humble kitchen to the margravine’s audience chamber!”