Griffin
I managed to coax Ival into bed, securing us spaces beside each other by whispering to one man that my friend had gotten terribly drunk and might vomit at any moment. It convinced him to stagger to another berth, and allowed poor Ival to sleep on the outside edge of the bunk, with me as a barrier between him and the next man.
Still, sleep came slowly for us both. Who had attacked him? And why? The words he’d related sounded like the ravings of a drunkard or a lunatic.
“Could it have anything to do with the umbra?” I whispered in Whyborne’s ear, as we lay together in the crowded bed. “This ‘worm’ he mentioned.”
“I’ve no idea,” he whispered back. His breath stirred the small hairs of my ear, and sent blood rushing to my cock. I wasn’t at all looking forward to the upcoming days of enforced celibacy. “And ‘break open the mountains?’ None of it makes sense. The Eltdown Shards were found nowhere near a mountain, or what passes for a mountain in England, anyway.”
“Still, a random lunatic seems unlikely.”
“Agreed.” Whyborne sighed.
Well, with any luck the fellow had been swept out to ocean and frozen amidst the ice floes. A callus way of thinking, perhaps, but as he’d tried to kill Ival, I couldn’t find any pity in my heart for him.
The next morning, we gathered around the breakfast table. Iskander declared his desire to take a photograph of the entire expedition. Crowding in so he could capture everyone gave me an excuse to fling a comradely arm around Ival’s shoulders. I’d have to remember to ask Iskander if he would consent to taking a private portrait when we returned to Widdershins.
There was no sign of the sun when we left our hotel. The stars blazed above, shockingly bright in the cold, clear air. Our guides already waited with the sleds, busy strapping the howling, barking dogs into their harnesses. One man coaxed leather moccasins onto the dogs’ feet. Presumably the dogs were used to such footgear, as they wore them with good humor.
“Ordinarily most of our guides would be Tagish,” Jack said. “Or Russian creoles like Vanya. But the measles outbreak this summer...it was an awful thing to see. Whole towns left abandoned, and at least half the aboriginal population of St. Michael carried off. The Russian creoles died in droves as well. At least I could bring men from Hoarfrost with me, and I’m an old hand at mushing myself. Otherwise we might have been in trouble.”
“I wouldn’t mind learning how to drive a sled myself,” I said, stopping to pet one of the enthusiastic dogs. Whyborne stayed well back, regarding them with great uncertainty.
“I’d love to teach you.” Jack looked around. “Speaking of Vanya, where is he? We need to get started.”
One of the other guides shrugged. “I haven’t seen him, Mr. Hogue.”
In the end, the search for the missing Vanya severely delayed our departure. The wait wore on Christine’s nerves, and she cursed the missing man roundly in Arabic as the day—such as it was, given the lack of sunlight—stretched on. As usual in the field, she wore a pair of men’s trousers in lieu of a skirt. The guides stared at her openly, although to be fair they gave Whyborne some rather dubious looks as well.
At last, Jack returned alone. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “Vanya seemed a solid fellow. I wouldn’t have thought him likely to desert us.”
“Probably drunk somewhere,” one of the men opined. “Dirty creole. Lazy drunkards to the last man.”
“What else would you expect from someone whose father was a squawman?” another guide put in. There came a general round of nodding, as if the statement were too obvious to contradict.
I glanced at Iskander, who wore a rather fixed expression on his face. I doubted the guides held any better opinion of Arabs than they did Indians, although presumably the fact Iskander was in charge of their pay might curb their tongues. In his hearing, anyway.
“We should go,” Jack said brusquely, cutting off any further abuse of the missing Vanya’s parentage and habits. “Haswell, take over Vanya’s team. Dr. Whyborne, Dr. Putnam, Mr. Barnett, Griffin, if you’ll come with me?”
We followed him to the sleds. Most were piled high with our supplies, which would have to last us until we arrived in Hoarfrost. Two bore lighter loads, however, and I guessed Whyborne, Christine, Iskander and myself would be expected to ride on them.
“This is my sled—do you trust to ride with me?” Jack asked me with a grin.
“Of course,” I replied immediately.
“You say that now, but we’ve time to make up. Wait until I’ve delivered us to camp without sending the sled over on a boulder.” He clapped me on the arm. “Be sure you bundle up well in the furs.”
Looking rather uncertain, Whyborne settled himself in the sled. I arranged myself between his long legs and covered us both with the fur robes. As I tucked them in about us, I murmured, “It seems likely this Vanya was the man who attacked you last night.”
“Possibly. Although I suppose there might be other reasons for him to vanish,” Whyborne whispered back.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Do you really believe that?”
He sighed, and a rueful smile curled one corner of his mouth. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”