‘Thank you,’ said Arflane brusquely, ‘but I have seen all I want. She is a good ship. Don’t let her rot, also.’
His face troubled, Hinsen started to say something, but Arflane turned away. He left the poop and descended to the lower deck, clambered over the side, climbed down the ladder, and marched back towards the underground city, his boots crunching in the snow.
4 The Shipsmasher Hostel
After his visit to the ice schooner Konrad Arflane became increasingly impatient with his wait in Friesgalt. He had still had no word from the Ulsenns about the old man’s condition and he was disturbed by the atmosphere he found in the city. He had come to no decision regarding his own affairs; but he resolved to try to get a berth, even as a petty officer for the time being, on the next Brershill ship that came in.
He took to haunting the fringes of the great dock, avoiding contact with all the ships and in particular the Ice Spirit, and looking out for a Brershill craft.
On the fourth morning of his wait a three-masted bark was sighted. She was gliding in under full sail, flying a Brershill flag and travelling faster than was wise for a vessel so close to the dock. Arflane smiled as she came nearer, recognizing her as the Tender Maiden, a whaler skippered by his old friend Captain Jarhan Brenn. She seemed to be sailing straight for the part of the dock where ships were thickest, and the men working there began to scatter in panic, doubtless fearing that she was out of control. When she was only a short distance from the dock she turned smoothly and rapidly in a narrow arc, reefed sails, and slid towards the far end of the line where other whaling vessels were already moored. Arflane began to run across the ice, his ridged boots giving him good purchase.
Panting, he reached the Tender Maiden just as she was throwing down her anchor ropes to the mooring hands who stood by with their spikes and mallets.
Arflane grinned a little as he seized the bone spikes and heavy iron mallet from a surprised mooring hand and began driving a spike into the ice. He reached out for a nearby line and tautened it, lashing it fast to the spike. The ship stirred for a moment, resisting the lines, and then was still.
From above him on the deck he heard someone laughing. Looking up, he saw that the ship’s captain, Jarhan Brenn, was standing at the rail.
‘Arflane! Are you down to working as a mooring hand? Where’s your ship?’
Arflane shrugged and spread his hands ironically, then grabbed hold of the mooring line and began to swing himself up it until he was able to grasp the rail and climb over it to stand beside his old friend.
‘No ship,’ he told Brenn. ‘She was given up to honour a bad debt of the owner’s. Sold to a Friesgalt merchant.’
Brenn nodded sympathetically. ‘Not the last, I’d guess. You should have stayed at the whaling. There’s always work for us whalers, whatever happens. And you didn’t even marry the woman in the end.’ He chuckled.
Brenn was referring to a time, six years since, when Arflane had taken a trading command as a favour to a girl he had wished to marry. It was only after he had done this that he had realized that he wanted no part of a girl who could demand such terms. By then it had been too late to get back his command of the whaler.
He smiled ruefully at Brenn and shrugged again. ‘With my poor luck, Brenn, I doubt I’d have sighted a whale in all these six years.’
His friend was a short, stocky man, with a round ruddy face and a fringe beard. He was dressed in heavy black fur, but his head and hands were bare. His greying hair was cropped close, for a whaler, but his rough, strong hands showed the calluses that only a harpoon could make. Brenn was respected as a skipper in both the South Ice and North Ice hunting fields. Currently, by the look of his rig, he was hunting the North Ice.
‘Poor luck isn’t yours alone,’ Brenn grunted in disgust. ‘Our holds are just about empty. Two calves and an old cow are all we have aboard. We ran out of provisions and plan to trade our cargo for more supplies, then we’ll try the South Ice and hope the hunting’s better. Whales are getting hard to find in the north.’
Brenn was unusual in that he hunted both south and north. Most whaling men preferred one type of field or the other (for their characteristics were very different) but Brenn did not mind.
‘Aren’t all the hunting fields poor this season?’ Arflane asked. ‘I heard that even seal and bear are scarcer, and no walrus have been seen for two seasons.’
Brenn pursed his lips. ‘The patch will pass, with the Ice Mother’s help.’ He slapped Arflane’s arm and began to move down the deck to supervise the unloading of the cargo from the central hold. The ship stank of whale blood and blubber. ‘Look at our catch,’ he said, as Arflane followed him. ‘There was no need for flenching. We just hauled ‘em in and stowed ‘em whole.’ Flenching was the whaling man’s term for cutting up the whale. This was normally done on the ice, and then the pieces were winched aboard for stowing. If there had been no need to do this, then the catch must be small indeed.
Balancing himself by gripping a ratline, Arflane peered into the hold. It was dark, but he could make out the stiff bodies of two small calves and a cow-whale which did not look much bigger. He shook his head in sympathy. There was hardly enough there to reprovision the ship for the long haul to the South Ice. Brenn must be in a gloomier mood than he seemed.
Brenn shouted orders and his hands began to lower themselves into the hold as derricks were swung across and tackles dropped. The whaling men worked slowly and were plainly depressed. They had every reason to be in poor spirits, since the proceeds of a catch were always divided up at the end of a hunting voyage, and every man’s share depended on the number and size of the whales caught. Brenn must have asked his crew to forgo its share in this small catch in the hope that the South Ice would yield a better one. Whaling men normally came into a dock with plenty of credit and they liked to spend it. Whalers with no credit were surly and quick-tempered. Arflane realized that Brenn would be aware of this and must be worrying how he would be able to control his crew during their stay in Friesgalt.
‘Where are you berthing?’ he asked quietly, watching as the first of the calves was swung up out of the hold. The dead calf had the marks of four or five harpoons in its hide. Its four great flippers, front and back, waved as it turned in the tackle. Like all young land whales, there was only sparse hair on its body. Land whales normally grew their full covering of wiry hair at maturity, after three years. As it was, this calf was twelve feet long and must have weighed only a few tons.
Brenn sighed. ‘Well, I’ve got credit at the Shipsmasher hostel. I always pay in a certain amount of my profit there every time we dock in Friesgalt. My men will be looked after all right, for a few days at least, and by that time we should be ready to sail again. It depends on the sort of bargain I can make with the merchants - and how soon I can make it. I’ll be out looking for the best offer tomorrow.’
The Shipsmasher, named, like all whaling men’s hostels, after a famous whale, was not the best hostel in Friesgalt. It had claims in, fact, for being the worst. It was a ‘top-deck’ hostel on the third level from the top, cut from ice and not from rock. Arflane realized that this was a bad time to ask his friend for a berth. Brenn must be cutting all possible corners to provision and re-equip his ship on the gamble that the South Ice would yield a better catch.
The derricks creaked as the calf was swung towards the side.
‘We’re getting ‘em out as soon as possible,’ Brenn said, ‘There’s a chance that someone will want the catch right away. The faster the better.’
Brenn shouted to his first officer, a tall, thin man by the name of Olaf Bergsenn. ‘Take over, Olaf, I’m going to the Shipsmasher. Bring the men there when you’re finished. You know who to put on watch.’
Bergsenn’s lugubrious face did not change expression as he nodded once and moved along the stained deck to supervise the unloading.
A gangplank had been lowered and Arflane and Brenn walked down it in short, jerky steps, watched by a knot of gloomy
harpooners who lounged, harpoons across their shoulders, near the mainmast. It was a tradition that only the captain could leave the ship before the cargo had been unloaded.
When they got to the city wall, the guard recognized Arflane and let him and Brenn through. They began to descend the ramp. The ice of the ramp and the wall beside it was ingrained with powdered rock that had itself worn so that it now resembled stone. The rope rail on the other side of the ramp also showed signs of constant wear. On the far wall of the crevasse, for some distance down, Arflane could see people moving up and down the ramps, or working on the ledges. At almost every level the chasm was crisscrossed by rope bridges, and some way up the crevasse, above their heads now, was the single permanent bridge, which was only used when especially needed.
As they stumbled down the ramps towards the third level Brenn smiled once or twice at Arflane, but was silent. Arflane wondered if he were intruding and asked his friend if he would like him to leave him at the Shipsmasher, but Brenn shook his head.
‘I wouldn’t miss a chance of seeing you, Arflane. Let me talk to Flatch, then we’ll have a barrel of beer and I’ll tell you all my troubles and listen to yours.’
There, were three whaling hostels on the third level. They walked past the first two - the King Herdarda and the Killer Pers - and came to the Shipsmasher. Like the other two, the Shipsmasher had a huge whale jawbone for a doorway and a small whale skull hanging as a sign outside.
They opened the battered door and walked straight into the hostel’s main room.
It was dark, large, and high-roofed, though it gave the impression of being cramped. Its walls were covered with crudely tanned whale hides. Faulty lighting strips flickered at odd places on ceiling and walls and the place smelled strongly of ale, whale meat, and human sweat. Crude pictures of whales, whaling men, and whaling ships were hung on the hides, as were harpoons, lances, and the three-foot broadbladed cutlasses, similar to the one Arflane wore, that were used mainly for flenching. Some of the harpoons had been twisted into fantastic shapes, telling of the death-struggles of particular whales. None of these whaling tools were crossed, for the whale men regarded it as unlucky to cross harpoons or flenching cutlasses.
Groups of whaling men lounged at the closely packed tables, sitting on hard benches and drinking a beer that was brewed from one of the many kinds of weed found in the warm ponds. This ale was extremely bitter and few but whaling men would drink it.
Arflane and Brenn walked through the clusters of tables up to the small counter. Behind it, in a cubbyhole, sat a shadowy figure who rose as they approached.
Flatch, the owner of the Shipsmasher, had been a whaling man years before. He was taller than Arflane but almost unbelievable obese, with a great belly and enormously fat arm and leg. He had only one eye, one ear, one arm, and one leg, as if a huge knife had been used to shear off everything down one side of him. He had lost these various organs and limbs in an encounter with the whale called Shipsmasher, a huge bull that he had been the first to harpoon. The whale had been killed, but Flatch had been unable to carry on whaling and had bought the hostel out of his share of the proceeds. As a tribute to his kill he had named the hostel after it. As recompense he had used the whale’s ivory to replace his arm and leg, and a triangle of its hide was used as a patch for his missing eye.
Flatch’s remaining eye peered through the layers of fat surrounding it and he raised his whale-bone arm in greeting.
‘Captain Arflane. Captain Brenn.’ His voice was high and unpleasant, but at the same time barely audible, as if it was forced to travel up through all the fat around his throat. His many chins moved slightly as he spoke, but it was impossible to tell if he greeted them with any particular feeling.
‘Good morning, Flatch,’ Brenn said cordially. ‘You’ll remember the beer and provisions I’ve supplied you with all these past seasons?’
‘I do, Captain Brenn.’
‘I’ve need of the credit for a few days. My men must be fed, boozed, and whored here until I’m ready to sail for the South Ice. I’ve had bad luck in the north. I ask you only fair return for what I’ve invested, no more.’
Flatch parted his fat lips and his jowls moved up and down. ‘You’ll get it, Captain Brenn. Your help saw me through a bad time for two seasons. Your men will be looked after.’
Brenn grinned, as if in relief. He seemed to have been expecting an argument. ‘I’ll want a room for myself,’ he said. He turned to Arflane. ‘Where are you staying, Arflane?’
‘I have a room in a hostel some levels down,’ Konrad Arflane told him.
‘How many in your crew, captain?’ Flatch asked.
Brenn told him, and answered the few other questions Flatch asked him. He began to relax more, glancing around the hostel’s main room, looking at some of the pictures on the walls.
As he was finishing with Flatch a man got up from a nearby table and took several steps towards them before stopping and confronting them.
He cradled a long, heavy harpoon in one massive arm and the other hand was on his hip. His face, even in the poor, flickering light, could be seen to be red, mottled, and ravaged by wind, sun, and frostbite. It was a near-fleshless head and the bones jutted like the ribs of a ship. His nose was long and narrow, like the inverted prow of a clipper, and there was a deep scar under his right eye and another on his left cheek. His hair was black, piled and plaited on his head in a kind of coiled pyramid that broke at the top into two stiff pieces resembling the fins of a whale or a seal. This strange hairstyle was held in place by clotted blubber and its smell was strong. His furs were of fine quality, but matted with whale blood and blubber, smelling rancid; the jacket was open to the neck, revealing a whale-tooth necklace. From both earlobes were suspended pieces of flat, carved ivory. He wore boots of soft leather, drawn up to the knee and fastened against his fur breeches by means of bone pins. Around his waist was a broad belt, from which hung a scabbarded cutlass and a large pouch. He seemed a savage, even among whaling men, but he had a powerful presence, partially due to his narrow eyes, which were cold, glinting blue.
‘You’re sailing to the South Ice, did I hear you say, skipper?’ His voice was deep and harsh. ‘To the south?’
‘Aye.’ Brenn looked the man up and down. ‘And I’m fully crewed - or as fully crewed as I can afford.’
The huge man nodded and moved his tongue inside his mouth before spitting into a spittoon near the counter.
The spittoon had been made from a whale’s cranium. ‘I’m not asking for a berth, skipper. I’m my own man. Captains ask me to sail with them, not the other way about. I’m Urquart.’
Arflane had already recognized the man, but Brenn by some fluke could never have seen him. Brenn’s expression changed. ‘Urquart - Long Lance Urquart. I’m honoured to meet you.’ Urquart was known as the greatest harpooner in the history of the icelands. He was rumoured to have killed more than twenty bull-whales single-handed.
Urquart moved his head slightly, as if acknowledging Brenn’s compliment. ‘Aye.’ He spat again and looked broodingly at the cranium spittoon. ‘I’m a South Ice man myself. You hunt the North Ice mainly, I hear.’
‘Mainly,’ Brenn agreed, ‘but I know the South Ice well enough.’ His tone was puzzled, though he was too polite, or too overawed, to ask Urquart directly why he had addressed him.
Urquart leaned on his harpoon, clutching it with both big, bony hands and sucking in his lips. The harpoon was ten feet long, and its many barbs were six inches or more across, curving down for nearly two feet of its length, with a big metal ring fixed beneath them where tackle was tied.
‘There’s a great many North Ice men have turned to the South Ice this season as well as last,’ said Urquart. ‘They’ve found few fish, Captain Brenn.’
Whaling men - particularly harpooners - invariably called whales ‘fish’ in a spirit of studied disdain for the huge mammals.
‘You mean the hunting’s poor there, too.’ Brenn’s face clouded.
&
nbsp; ‘Not so poor as on the North Ice from what I hear,’ Urquart said slowly. ‘But I only tell you because you seem about to take a risk. I’ve seen many skippers - good ones like yourself - do the same. I speak friendly, Captain Brenn. The luck is bad, both north and south. A decent herd’s not been sighted all season. The fish are moving south, beyond our range. Our ships follow them further and further. Soon it’ll not be possible to provision for long enough voyages.’ Urquart paused, and then he added, ‘The fish are leaving.’
‘Why tell me this?’ Brenn said, half angry with Urquart in his disappointment.
‘Because you’re Konrad Arflane’s friend,’ Urquart said without looking at Arflane, who had never met him in his life before, had only seen him at a distance.
Arflane was astonished. ‘You don’t know me, man . . .’
‘I know your actions,’ Urquart murmured, then drew in a deep breath as if talking had winded him. He turned slowly on his heel and walked with a long, loping stride towards the door, ducked his head beneath the top of the frame, and was gone.
Brenn snorted and shifted his feet. He slapped his leg several times and then frowned at Arflane. ‘What was he talking about?’
Arflane leaned back against the counter. ‘I don’t know, Brenn. But if Urquart warned you that the fishing is poor on the South Ice, you should heed that.’
Brenn laughed briefly and bitterly. ‘I can’t afford to heed it, Arflane. I’ll just pray all night to the Ice Mother and hope she gives me better luck. It’s all I can do, man!’ His voice had risen almost to a shout.
Flatch had reseated himself in his cubbyhole behind the counter, but he rose, looking like some monstrous beast himself, and glanced enquiringly with his single eye as Brenn faced him again and ordered whale steaks with seka weed and a barrel of beer to be brought to them at their table.
Later, after Brenn’s men had come in and been cheered by the discovery that Flatch was willing to provide them with everything they needed, Arflane and Brenn sat opposite each other at a side table with the beer barrel against the wall. Every so often they would turn the spigot and replenish their cups. The cups were unbreakable, fashioned of some ancient plastic substance. The beer did not, as they had hoped, improve their spirits, although Brenn managed to look confident enough whenever any of his men addressed him through the shadowy gloom of the hostel room.