The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice (11 page)

Carrasco, surprisingly to Dow, seemed to take the instruction with good grace. He bowed easily. ‘It is so withdrawn, my Lord.'

But across the hall rose another king, a man much older than Carrasco, a tall haggard figure robed in black and gold and with only a thin band of dark metal upon his brow as a crown.

‘The Sea Lord is wise,' this second king said, in a cultivated tone. ‘Captain Vincente's honour is indeed unimpeachable. There can be no doubt that he has reported only what he witnessed, however incredible it seems. My fellow monarch is correctly chastised.'

But Dow could sense a new tension in Vincente at this apparent support. The captain bowed stiffly, and replied with an elaborate politeness. ‘My thanks, Ferdinand of the Scale, King of Castille.'

The king returned the bow. ‘Nevertheless, Captain, I am puzzled. This boat that you describe, it was not large?'

‘Fifty feet perhaps, no more.'

Ferdinand seemed to muse. ‘It was not an ocean-going vessel then, for such a modest craft could not hope to survive the seas and storms of a deep ocean voyage. Would you not agree?'

Vincente was tight lipped. ‘It seems unlikely that it was ocean going, yes, but then everything about it was unlikely.'

‘
Unlikely it was ocean going.
So, by your own judgement, it could only have come from local waters. In other words, it could only have come from New Island. And yet you persist in your claim that the boat, and the attack, had nothing to do with the New Islanders?'

‘The entire city of Lonsmouth was burned, Your Majesty – which is of far more harm to the New Islanders than it is to us. Why would they do that to themselves? No, the attack came from some other source.'

‘What other source, pray?'

‘That I don't know, although logic would tell me that if it came not from New Island, then that only leaves the Twin Isles.'

‘The Twin Isles?' Ferdinand frowned in seeming astonishment. ‘Our last tribute fleet reported no troubles there, not at Whale Island, nor at Red. They certainly reported no magical boats.'

‘Nevertheless, Majesty, the Twin Isles are home, as we know, to cunning craftsmen and artificers. Who knows what they might have built in secret. A fleet must be sent there to investigate.'

‘A fleet commanded by yourself, I suppose.' The king was shaking his narrow head. ‘Nay, all this talk of the Twin Islands is merely a feint to misguide us. As was the burning of Lonsmouth, no doubt. A strategic sacrifice by the New Islanders to direct our suspicions elsewhere.'

‘Your majesty,' Vincente said, ‘I assure you, it was no feint or strategy. The New Islanders are stricken by this attack. Ask Dow here.'

‘Enough!' snapped the king. ‘My respect for you is unbounded, Captain, but I will not have this half-savage
boy
insult the dignity of this chamber by speaking again. He should never have been brought here.'

Vincente went stiff and coldly formal. ‘You do not understand the threat, sir. We have been assaulted in a way in which we have never been assaulted before. To ignore that is to invite our ruin.'

‘The threat!' exclaimed Ferdinand, drawing himself upright. ‘I understand the threat all too well, sir, though you are blind to it. New Island is the threat. Under the watch of you and your like, they have developed these treacherous new mines which so surprised your fleet. They are in rebellion, and they must be crushed! A fleet, you say? Yes we will send a fleet, but not commanded by you, and not to the Twin Isles. It shall go to New Island – to punish New Island traitors!'

‘Aye!' came shouts from around the hall, and a new tumult broke out between the dignitaries.

‘My Lord and Monarchs,' cried Vincente, commanding silence for a last moment. ‘By all means send a fleet to New Island. It is necessary in any case, to restore order. But mark my words, you will find no enemy there, only hunger and disease. The true enemy is elsewhere. And I can only hope that we learn where exactly that is before they choose to attack again!'

And with that he whirled and stalked back across the hall, with Dow hurrying in his wake. Around them wrangling broke out again between the various factions, but Dow no longer paid heed. He and Vincente came to the Valignano section – Commander Fidel had come down and was waiting there with Benito, the king.

‘Well, that went much as anticipated,' commented the first officer amid the commotion.

Vincente laughed grimly. ‘Better, in some ways. I half expected a formal charge of treason from Ferdinand.'

Benito also seemed unsurprised by the turn of events. ‘It's too soon for that yet, and he knows it. As for the Twin Isles – well, the Lords don't like to be rushed, that's all. Time is what's needed. As you said, sending a fleet to New Island will do no harm. And in the meanwhile we can continue to lobby the lesser kings to convince them of your argument ...'

Vincente glanced around the hall, disgusted now. ‘No one here even cares about Stone Port. All they're waiting for is the chance to debate what
really
matters to them. The fate of the Lord Designate.'

‘With Carrasco and Ferdinand once again leading the charge,' added Fidel.

‘And the very throne in the balance,' sighed the king.

The three men fell into sour silence, and watched on as the council disputed. Eventually it was agreed that a new fleet would be despatched to New Island, under joint command of Valdez and Castille.

But Dow saw that indeed many in the hall were indifferent and impatient. He sensed, as Vincente had suggested, that there was some other issue, unspoken but urgent, waiting to be dealt with: the matter, no doubt, that had forced this winter session in the first place.

But whatever that might be, the assembly were to be denied in their hope to see it aired. As soon as the decision was taken to send the fleet, the Sea Lord – having said not another word since defending Vincente – rose abruptly from this throne. Mutters grew in the hall, turning to outright groans when the high chamberlain, flustered by the hurriedness of it all, announced that the Sea Lord was adjourning the council until that afternoon.

Shouts of protests rang out, but Ibanez the Third had already limped through the door behind the dais and vanished – and following him, pushed by the attendant, went the figure in the veiled chair.

The hall dissolved into angry movement and noise. Vincente, Fidel and Benito exchanged glances, and bent their heads together in a conference that Dow could not hear. But a few moments later they were interrupted; a messenger dressed in the uniformed finery of the Sea Lord's guard descended the stairs to where they stood.

‘Your Majesty,' he announced, ‘my Lord Ibanez craves your attendance, and also that of Captain Vincente and his first officer, in his private apartments forthwith, should that be convenient.'

Eyes widening, Benito bowed his head. ‘It will of course be our pleasure to attend the Sea Lord directly.'

The messenger returned the bow. ‘If you will follow me thus, my Lords.' He turned, and then paused a moment to look back. ‘Forgive me, but the Sea Lord has one other request. He asks that the New Island boy attend as well.' His eyes fell on Dow. ‘He that rode the maelstrom.'

4. THE PLIGHT OF THE SEA LORD

D
ow had thought that the Great Hall was a large space, but as the guard led King Benito's party up through the palace, he realised that the Hall was in fact only a small hollow nestled in the palace's lower tiers; around it and above it was a far vaster complex of state rooms and apartments and galleries, all busy with officials and servants, going about their business.

And yet as Dow and the others climbed stair after stair to the highest levels, the crowds of functionaries dwindled away, and a silence began to weigh in the hallways. By the time they reached the Royal Apartments, their footsteps were echoing and most of the chambers glimpsed through open doorways were dark. Gold and silver and crystal glinted everywhere, but dust sheets covered much of the furniture, and windows that opened to the outer world were shuttered fast. The air felt stale.

At length, their escort led them through a set of bronze doors that were guarded by two sentries, and then up a last flight of stairs until they emerged into what seemed to be a void of warm, stifling darkness, without ceiling or walls. But as Dow's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that they stood under the great dome that roofed the palace. An immense space was captured there beneath the curved ceiling, but the circular floor was quite bare, save for a suite of low couches and chairs at the very centre.

Spaced evenly around the dome were windows, perhaps thirty in all – each twice man-height, rising from the level of the floor – that would, if open, have given commanding views in every direction. But they were closed, made visible now only by the lines of light around their tall shutters, except for one window alone, thrown half-wide to reveal a sliver of grey sky beyond, and which gave the chamber its only pale illumination.

‘Please make yourselves comfortable,' their escort said, indicating the couches, his voice falling dully in the heavy air. ‘The Sea Lord will be with you shortly.' And with a final bow he was gone.

Nobody sat down. The couches were arranged about a wide, low table, and upon the table there rested a large object that was draped in a white cloth, like the dust clothes that covered the furniture on the lower levels. What it might be, Dow could not guess, other than that it was about five feet long and several feet wide, and partly curved along the edges.

The waiting drew out. Dow – feeling like a trespassing child under the great silent dome – crossed cautiously to look through the half-open window. It faced forward, he discovered, over the
Twelfth Kingdom's
bow. Far, far below, a section of the foredeck was visible, an open space where a troop of marines appeared to be drilling. Beyond that were the forward masts, eight of them, bare of sails, and beyond that again the bow fortifications and the four gigantic bowsprits extending out across the sullen sea.

And it was the sea that struck Dow most, for he felt no movement, no swaying, even so high up, as there surely would have been on any normal ship, no matter how torpid the ocean. The palace could have been on solid ground, yet there, undeniably, was the water. The mind and the eye could not agree.

Commander Fidel joined him at the window.

‘These are not bright days for the Sea Lord,' the first officer said, nodding at the other windows, so firmly shuttered. ‘I've seen this audience room full of light and people and laughter. But not now.'

Glancing about at the gloom, Dow found things like light and laughter difficult to imagine. ‘Why?' he asked. ‘What's wrong?'

‘This is a palace in mourning, or in a state that is very close to mourning. Have you not heard rumour of it yet? It's all the Lords of the Fleet care about – rather than some far off raid at Stone Port.'

Dow only shook his head.

Fidel looked around briefly, to be sure that no one else had come into the chamber, and then bent his head closer. ‘I speak of Ibanez's son – his only son and sole heir to the throne, Nadal, the Lord Designate, our future sovereign. He is missing, and has been so for nearly five years now.'

‘Missing?'

Fidel nodded gravely. ‘Lost at sea. At least, so it's thought, for no one knows for certain. And without certainty, Ibanez has wrapped himself in darkness and solitude, to brood upon doubts.'

‘But what happened?'

‘Nadal went exploring. He was always – so they say – enamoured with tales and legends of the great discoverers of old, and was ever eager to go roaming himself. Ibanez, however, was long loath to permit it – there are, after all, no battles to be won in the northern ice, or profits to be made in the southern doldrums. Only dangers await there.

Nevertheless, Nadal was a full grown man and of strong will, and not to be denied. So at last he prevailed over his father, and five years ago was granted leave to set forth with a small fleet. But neither he nor any of that fleet have been sighted since, even though they should have returned within three years at the very most.'

Dow's interest was gripped. A voyage of exploration! ‘Where did they go? What were they looking for?'

Fidel was staring through the window, considering the horizon. ‘What does any explorer look for? Glory. Immortality. Answers, perhaps. But to put it simply, Nadal went north, to the Ice. You see, some years ago now reports began to come in – from our deep-sea fishermen, who will sometimes stray far from the normal sea lanes in search of rare and exotic catches – of strange happenings in the northern ocean. The fishermen spoke of warm currents where no warm currents should be, and of great openings in the ice fields, glimpsed from a distance, wider than any ever seen before. No one could explain it, but talk began to grow. Maybe the way was opening at last.'