NOVEL NEXT Dragonhunt 19: Thoughts of Ice
I knock once on the door, and wait. We wait some more.
“Is it closed?” Pellas asks.
“No,” I say, keeping my voice down.
Here is one of the richer corridors in Allabrast, despite its plain appearance, and I don't want to ruin the quiet atmosphere. A few dwarves are looking at Guthah and Pellas with a little distaste, likely wondering why two runeknights so low in the ranks are here. Normally I'd scowl back, but I'm in too good a mood.
Suddenly and silently, the door swings inward. One of the staff appears. He's dressed in white furs, but his beard is as dark as mine, and extensive, going right up over his cheekbones. His hairline comes halfway down his forehead as well, and his eyes are very pale—he hails from the far north. I hold up three fingers and he beckons us in.
We enter and the chill hits us immediately. I grin. This place is just like Braztak told me—he recommended it to me a while ago. I glance back at Guthah and Pellas, and am glad to see they're looking around in amazement.
This place, this literal hole-in-the-wall, is no ordinary public house, but an establishment of fine dining. It's done up to look like an ice cave, tiled with smooth white on its floor, walls and ceiling. Some mechanical trickery with the ventilation keeps the air nearly freezing.
We're led to a table of clearest cyan quartz, and sit down on chairs of the same
“I feel I should've washed before coming here,” whispers Guthah. “Or at least changed out of my forging clothes.”
“Probably,” I admit. “But I wanted to get down here as soon as possible.”
“Why?” asks Pellas.
“Like I said, an intellectual reason. Poetic.”
“Honored Runeknights?” says the waiter. His voice, despite the strange accent, still sounds refined. “Which courses do you wish to order?”
“We will all have the Full Fish Course,” I say. “And the accompanying drinks as well.”
“Excellent.”
He vanishes behind a white-tiled wall.
“How much?” Pellas asks. “Are you really paying?”
“We pay at the end,” I say. “This isn't some pub. As for the cost, for the three of us it's about the same amount a good diamond would set you back.”
“A lot, then.”
“Yes. But like I said, I'm paying.”
“It's rude to talk too much about money down here,” says Guthah. “That's the sort of thing dwarves up in the Fireflea District do. Gamblers and the like,” he adds with distaste.
Pellas nods. She looks rather bemused, and even a little scared, shrunken a little into her armor like a turtle.
“Never been somewhere this fancy?” I ask.
“No. My father never climbed as high as this.”
“He was a runeknight, wasn't he?”
“Yes. But he only made it to seventh degree.”
“I'm sure you'll do him proud,” I say solemnly. “You have talent, a great deal of it.”
“I hope so.”
“Your sword is impressive,” says Guthah. “I've never seen anything so sharp.”
Pellas grimaces. “Still not good enough.”
“It got you through the exam,” I say. “It was good enough for that.”
“You should know better than anyone, instructor, that a dwarf is never satisfied with her crafts. She must always strive for better.”
“You can still be a bit satisfied,” I counter. “When you make something that's the pinnacle of your abilities, you need to bask in it a little. Enjoy the realization that you've improved.”
“My father said that too. But he couldn't improve enough. His amulet failed him. When I was born, he was already going gray and wrinkled.”
“He died of age?” says Guthah, surprised.
“Yes. In his fifteen thousandth, three hundred and thirty seventh long-hour.”
I calculate: that equates to a bit over a hundred years. Only slightly more than a commoner dwarf's natural lifespan.
“So I don't think you should get complacent,” Pellas says. “Money should go to materials, not luxury.”
“Like I said,” I say, “This is still about forging. You'll find out why soon enough.”
Guthah nods. “Jerat told us good alcohol always clears his head before he starts hammering.”
I snort. “Jerat says many things. I wouldn't take many of them seriously. Had you all remembering runes while drunk, did he?”
“Sometimes,” says Pellas.
“Well, sorry to disappoint, but the drinks here aren't so strong. This isn't a pub. We're here for an experience of the senses.”
Soon our first course arrives. Slices of trout, raw, on beds of ice.
The name of this institute of fine dining is the House of Snow. In the far north, instead of water falling from the sky, thin flakes of ice do. This is snow. The dwarves who dwell upon the icy mountains there, which do not grow out of the land but instead float upon the great water oceans, pack fish in this substance to preserve it.
The House of Snow specializes in their food—or cuisine, rather. I've learned to be wary of places which serve cuisine instead of ordinary food, since it's often an excuse to serve a great deal less than is generally considered acceptable, but Braztak assured me the food here is worth eating despite the small portions.
And he was right. The trout is more succulent than any fish I've yet tasted. It's soft and almost sweet. The rather dry alcohol, a clear liquid with a sphere of ice floating in the middle, complements the taste and texture perfectly.
All too soon it's gone. The northern waiter comes to collect our plates. I hold my hand over mine to stop him.
“I'd like to admire the ice a bit more,” I say. “I don't get to see it very often.”
“Very well, honored Runeknight.”
Guthah and Pellas look at me oddly. I ignore them and stare into the sphere of ice at the bottom of my glass cup.
I gaze deep. Though ice is often described as a kind of cold glass, now that I'm comparing the two substances alongside each other, they're not at all alike. Glass has no pattern to it. Even etched beautifully, like the many windows in the Fireflea District are, you can tell if you peer closely enough that the patterns are artificial. But ice, I now come to understand, is more like metal. It has a grain, crystals grown against each other.
Molten iron, at a low enough temperature, is iron. Water, at a low enough temperature, is ice. So water could also be called molten ice. Does that make ice metal? Magnetism doesn't pull on it, yes, but neither does magnetism pull on aluminum.
And though dwarves obviously cannot drink molten iron, some creatures can, like the red salamanders that reside in the magma sea—the only kind more brutal than the abyssal ones. So, then, what's the difference between water and molten iron? I stir the ice sphere around the bottom of the glass, feel its slickness against my finger. What's the difference between ice and iron?
The flakes of ice my trout was lying on are now mostly a puddle, despite the chill in the air. Ice melts a lot more easily than iron. There's the major difference. I tip back the glass and take the sphere of ice into my mouth, wedge it between my molars, crunch down. It's brittle, cracking fast and easy.
“I heard that this Xomhyrk has armor made of ice,” Guthah says. “Are you going to attempt the same? Is that why you're so interested in it?”
I laugh. “His armor was tungsten. I could tell by the dark tinge. But the poems were all to do with ice. I think, at least—I couldn't read the script.”
“I've heard tungsten's near impossible to work,” says Pellas.
“Yes,” I say. “And damn expensive to boot. No, my next pieces will be titanium.”
“So not ice either.”
“No. How would you fix the reagents to it? It'd explode.”
“I suppose,” says Guthah. “I've heard tales of dwarves making armor out of stranger things, though. Like bone, or hide.”
“I've made a craft from bone before,” I say. “My first one, actually. Well, tooth.”
“You've told us this story,” says Pellas. “And you said only the rune was tooth.”
“Yes. Point is, if it has metal in it, it's all right. Ice isn't metal though. It's similar but not quite the same.”
“Your next course,” says the waiter. “Encased squid. Please cut carefully—our knives are very sharp.”
The course is exactly as its name suggests: a large squid frozen into a block of ice. We're to cut it apart with diamond-edged saws. I pay careful attention to how minute cracks form with each touch of the blades.
The squid tastes delicious. So do the other courses, and I feel sorry that my mind is only half on the taste, for my attention is fixed on the preserving ice. I dip my hands into snow, crunch blue cubes—this is deep, old ice, and very hard. I gently prick my palms with icicles.
The other patrons scowl at me. Guthah and Pellas start to look embarrassed. I must look insane, but I don't care. I'm fascinated. I'm nearly in a trance. I'm beginning to see runes in the flakes and lines and frozen bubbles. By the time the bill arrives, which is itself etched on ice, a jagged white script I've never seen before is whirling inside my head.