The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice (17 page)

‘To that end, four of the
Chloe's
cutters are being refitted to be made ready for arctic conditions. We're giving them tougher rigging to withstand the northern gales, and bracing the planking of their bows to cope with collisions upon bergs and floes.

‘Now command of such boats always falls to the junior lieutenants – to you four, in other words – nevertheless, it is a position of importance, for on a mission such as ours a boat may have to strike out for some distance, and for some number of days, on its own. What's more, none of you, I know, have ever ventured to the Ice before, and so have little idea of what to expect. For that matter, some of you have limited experience with handing small craft at all, especially in close quarters under sail.

‘And so we come to Mr Amber.' Four heads swivelled to stare down the table at Dow. ‘He is, of course, no officer – but it would be foolish to ignore his experience in small boats. He is a fisherman, wise in the ways of treacherous waters and narrow passages; you all, I know, witnessed his riding of the maelstrom. He will not be in command of a boat, but he will assume a second-in-command position in the craft of our most junior, and least experienced, lieutenant. Understood, Mr Samson?'

Dow's astonishment at this news was matched perhaps only by that of Samson himself, the youngest officer present, sitting close to Dow's end of the table. His face – he looked no older than most of the boyish midshipmen – was only vaguely familiar to Dow, even after two months at sea, for he was not prominent among his fellow lieutenants. He was tall, yes, a head above Dow even when both were seated, but there was a portliness to him, and a self-consciousness, that robbed his size of authority. His only response to Fidel's question was a ducking of his eyes and a flush of his skin.

His fellow lieutenants, however, were more visibly outraged – and Diego could not stay silent.

‘But this is—' he began.

‘It's an order direct from the captain,' said Fidel. ‘And I've just given Mr Amber a lesson on the basics of nicre and ice, so he is quite as well informed as the rest of you – or should I say, quite as ignorant.'

Diego glowered, but said no more.

Fidel returned to his theme. ‘We depart with the tide tomorrow. We will, once we're clear of land and properly underway to the North, commence a series of sea exercises with the cutters to sharpen your skills.'

The lieutenants groaned. ‘All of us, sir?' asked Diego, aggrieved. ‘I was winner three times of the Carcel Regatta back home. I think I can already sail a boat around an iceberg without crashing into it.'

‘All of you, Lieutenant.'

Diego sighed. ‘I wouldn't mind if there was any point to it all, but Nadal is dead; we all know that. If he wanted to go and perish in the Ice that was his business, but why should
we
have to suffer?'

There came movement from Nell's corner; she shut her book with a clap, and stood abruptly. Under the eyes of the men, she gathered her papers together and made towards the doors.

‘You'll excuse me, Commander,' she said to Fidel. ‘I'll leave Lieutenant Diego to reflect upon his boyhood regatta wins, rather than on the noble seamen who have died in the hope of new discoveries. It's good to know that being the nephew of a king is not his only talent. But perhaps he should be more worried; Mr Amber here may give him a run for his money in the trials.' She paused in the doorway, her stare passing coolly over them all. ‘It's a long time, after all – since the Great War indeed – since a Ship King has raced a New Islander.'

Then she was gone. A laugh came from somewhere along the table, hastily suppressed. Diego turned to glare at his companions, his face reddening. Dow hid his own smile. So – he was not the only one with whom the scapegoat was displeased … Fidel was shaking his head. ‘Gentlemen, you'll ignore her remarks, scapegoat or not. I don't care who she has singled out as her favourites among you – these trials will be competitive, yes, but sensibly so. They will not become races to settle personal scores. Understood?'

The other lieutenants nodded obediently, but Diego was only staring stonily at Dow.

Personal was exactly what it was going to be.

6. NORTHWARD BOUND

T
he
Chloe
departed Haven Diaz next morning, under a grey sky and in the face of a cold north-east wind. After clearing the bay, they turned north once more along the coast. By day's end, the stony shores of Valignano had given way to the fertile fields of Castille, the largest and richest of the western kingdoms, where Ferdinand of the Scale reigned. His royal seat was the great port of Coris, but Dow was not granted a sight of the city, for it lay at the eastern end of a deep twin-armed gulf, into which the
Chloe
did not venture.

They pressed on north. For two further days the coast of Castille slid slowly by, and then a mountainous peninsula reared ahead, the kingdom of Leone. Its inland peaks were tinged with snow, but they were different mountains compared to the wet and green highlands of Dow's home, for their lower slopes were brown and bare of grass or forests. A day later, the
Chloe
had rounded the peninsula and stood off the very north-western point of all Great Island, and the path to the Ice lay open.

Yet hemmed in by north winds, Vincente now steered eastwards for a time, keeping in sight of land. The northern shores of Leone slid by, followed next day by the wild hills of the realm of Marchis. A day further on again they'd reached the barren coastline of Malmonte – a kingdom consisting almost entirely of desert. Its capital was Illreste, but before that city hove into view, the wind changed to blow clean and strong from the southwest. Gratefully, the
Chloe
turned north once more, and so at last left Great Island altogether behind.

Now the voyage was truly begun. To Dow, the ship seemed to shake off a strange lethargy imposed by the nearness of land, and leap towards the open horizon. Lighter now by the dead-weight of over sixty cannon, the
Chloe
might indeed have been a new ship entirely; livelier in sea-manner, heeling and rolling more sharply than before, but also lifting more freshly into an oncoming swell, and riding more easily before the wind.

But it was in the crew – also trimmed by some hundred-odd souls – that Dow noted the greatest transformation. On the voyage from New Island they had seemed as well-drilled a company as any he could imagine, but in hindsight their efficiency had verged on boredom.

There was no boredom now. This was no routine voyage in familiar waters, this was an expedition into the little known realm of the Ice, undertaken at the worst time of the year in which to do so. And more, this was a last desperate mission to rescue close to a thousand of their fellow mariners who, if not already dead, were surely not far from it.

The awareness seemed to enliven everyone on board, from the captain all the way down to the lowest cook's assistant. Once the land sank away behind the
Chloe
's stern, a new urgency quickened in everyone's step and a new sharpness gleamed in everyone's glance – and, yes, even a nervousness. For though the Ice and its perils might lie far ahead yet, there were dangers aplenty to be found before then, in the wilds of the northern ocean.

It was now too that the boat trials began.

The summons from Fidel came on the second day out from land. When Dow duly reported to the main deck he found himself assigned to one of four small crews waiting by the davits. The
Chloe
bore eight boats in all, of various shapes and sizes, but only four – of a type known as cutters – had been refitted for the ice regions. Each cutter would take a crew of six rowers, plus a lieutenant as commander, seconded by a midshipman.

Dow stood uncertainly to one side of his own crew. His was the only party not to include a midshipman, for Dow himself was to be second-in-command. The question was, would a Ship Kings crew accept such an arrangement; a New Islander in position of authority over them? Would Lieutenant Samson accept it? And most importantly – to Dow's mind – could they all work together well enough to outperform
Diego's
boat?

Samson's manner was not encouraging. At first he avoided Dow completely, issuing instructions in a slightly reedy voice to the men to ready their cutter for launch. Then Diego chimed in to make things worse; glancing across from his own boat, where he'd been snapping short-tempered orders to his crew, he called out, ‘Mind your midshipman there, Mr Samson, he's wont to go looking for whirling holes in the ocean into which he can plunge.' In response to which, Samson shot Dow a harried, angry look, as if it was all
his
fault.

But then a wiry figure sidled up to Dow and gave a friendly half-salute – it was none other than Alfons. Dow hadn't even noticed, in his distraction, that the poet was part of his crew. The weathered old sailor added a wink, and, with a nod towards Diego, muttered slyly from the side of his mouth. ‘Never you mind, Mr Amber. We all know he don't like you – but who's he anyway? A Valdez man, for one, and none too loyal to the captain or to this ship, from what I hear. Nah – us lot below decks don't pay heed to the likes of him; we make up our own minds. You're good luck, lad, we know it.'

‘I am?' said Dow, unnerved to hear this yet again.

‘Oh, aye. That's why we volunteered for this duty, me and my mates. But young Samson there, well, it can't be easy for him. He's a sad stick at the best of times, and now his own kind are laughing in his face because he's stuck with you as a second. And yet he knows, too, that you're ten times the sailor he'll ever be. He saw you in the whirlpool, same as the rest of us.'

Dow was struck silent a moment, watching the flustered Samson. He hadn't thought about it that way.

‘Anyways,' said Alfons, ‘he ain't mean at heart, is what I'm saying. It's just that he's too green to know what's what yet, and all he has to go on is what a propped-up fool like Diego tells him.'

Dow could only smile. Were crewmen really supposed to talk about their officers like this? However, Alfons had already tipped him another wink and slipped away to assist his fellow sailors with the boat, just as Samson himself approached. Dow stood straight and gave the lieutenant a smart salute.

Samson returned it, his hand fluttering awkwardly, and said, ‘At ease, Mr Amber. I'm instructed by Commander Fidel that for the purposes of this exercise, you will assume the rank of acting midshipman.'

‘Aye, Excellency.'

The young lieutenant nodded with an attempt at severity, but his eyes had trouble meeting Dow's. ‘Very well then. But you will kindly remember that this is not a fishing boat, and that it's
my
boat. You will man the tiller – but you will steer only as I order. Understood?'

‘Understood, Excellency,' was Dow's firm reply.

The preparations complete, the
Chloe
reduced sail and slowed, and the four cutters were swung out from their davits and lowered to the sea. Bouncing up and down in the chop, the crews clutched lines trailing from the battleship's side, awaiting the order to cast off. The day was fair but cold, the sun pale in the southern sky, the wind blowing stiff and chill from the west.

Dow made brief tests of the tiller as his boat surged against the ropes, noting how differently it handled from the
Maelstrom
, the only other craft he'd ever piloted. The cutter – it was named the
Chloe 4 –
was about twenty-five feet long, with four benches that could seat two men side by side. It was usually rowed, not sailed, and so normally carried only a small mast that could bear a single canvas. Now a larger, sturdier rig had been installed – a mast and boom capable of carrying two sails; a mainsail rear of the mast, and a headsail before it. Dow knew nothing at all about steering with such a configuration of canvas; nevertheless, he couldn't wait to be away.

At last Fidel called his instructions down to the boats. ‘Your task is to bear north-west until you stand a mile off the bow; you will then bear west for a mile, then north for a mile, and then directly back to the
Chloe,
which will be northeast of you by then. The signaller here on board will mark each turn by raised ensign, so keep an eye out. The lead boat at each signal will drop a bottle marker, and all following boats must turn at that mark. The first crew home earns double wine ration tonight. Understood? Very well then – cast off!'