Egilsson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "In Iceland we have some glacial lakes. Jokulsarlon, Fjallsarlon, and Breidarlon. The lakes are filled with icebergs from the glacier.
And of course there are other lakes and rivers that freeze over during the winter.
"But if it's such a good idea, what's to keep someone from getting ice from Norway?"
Christina smiled. "I thought about that. Denmark, Norway and Iceland are all under Danish rule. And I would think King Kristjan feels bad, at least a little, about not paying the ransoms himself. If he gives us a monopoly for, say, ten years, on harvesting ice and snow for export, then that will give us a chance to get the business going. And it wouldn't cost him anything out of pocket."
"You seem to have a head for business," said Antonelli. "But where's the start-up capital coming from?"
"There are a number of possibilities," Christina told him. "We can send a proposal to Other People's Money, or one of the other investment funds. We could get a loan from a bank. Or we could scrounge up private investors ourselves. I sounded out Hendrick Trip-"
"Trip!" exclaimed Antonelli. "You move in more exalted financial circles than I ever did, miss."
"What about when the ice gets to its destination?" asked Janszoon doubtfully. "I don't want to discourage you, but it's very hot in Sale, or Algiers, in the summer when the demand would be the greatest, and since it's a novelty, I am not sure how quickly it would sell."
"Well, that's where you would come in," Christine explained. "Have an ice house built there in advance."
"Ice houses are very expensive," said Antonelli. "You have to dig a hole, then line it with stone. "
Christine disagreed. "I'm sorry, that's not true. At least that's not how we usually did it in the States, before there were refrigerators. We built most of our ice houses above ground, out of wood. There are old ice houses like that on a few of the farms in Grantville, I was told. "Perhaps some people took advantage of natural caves, but that wasn't necessary.
"And perhaps we could get some of the Science Club kids at school to test a few ice house models, and see what design works best."
"In the Maghrib, trees are not as common as they are here." Janszoon warned. "So wood can be expensive. But we do have matmoras, underground granaries, that may have some free space, and there are caves in the mountains."
"Do we have to worry about refrigerators driving us out of the business?" asked Antonelli. He didn't notice that he had said "we."
"Not for a few more years, I think," said Christine. "After all, refrigerators need electricity. And also there's some kind of gas in them. They're both in short supply, so initially the production will be limited. I would imagine that it will be a while before the Barbary Coast gets enough to meet the demand. And anyway, isn't it a bit short of water to make artificial ice?"
"You could say that," Janszoon admitted. "All right. I will demonstrate my commitment to finding a peaceful way by arranging for one of these ice houses to be constructed, once you can show me a reasonable business plan, and that you have investors willing to put up the money you need to harvest the ice, and that your model ice house can preserve ice."
"That's no commitment at all!" Egilsson's eyebrows were pulled down and together, as if they were magnetized. "If this, if that . . . You have promised nothing. Nothing at all."
"What do you expect? I know nothing of this ice trade, so I can't judge the practicality of it all based on my personal experience. Yes, the Americans did it in the nineteenth century, but perhaps it wouldn't work in the here and now. Even with funding, there could be trouble. A winter too mild to produce a decent ice harvest, or a winter so severe that you can't cut the ice. Or problems at sea."
"'Multa cadunt inter calicem supremaque labra,'" Antonelli quoted. It meant, "many things fall between cup and lip."
Janszoon nodded. "If I build this ice house, and no ice arrives, I will be a laughingstock, and an embarrassment to my father. Sale is governed by the Council of Corsair Captains, and his position as admiral is precarious. One sign of weakness, and they will attack him . . . like a school of sharks that has scented blood."
Christine worried her lip. "I think . . . Reverend Egilsson? I think he's making good points-"
"Good points? I . . . I suppose." The Reverend's expression could have curdled milk.
Janszoon seized upon this admission. "Then does my proposition sound fair?
Egilsson looked at Christine, then back at the provisionally reformed corsair. He sighed. "Fair."
****
Author's Note
Olafur Egilsson (1564-1639) is a historical down-timer. My description of his capture and subsequent adventures is based on Reisubok sera Olafs Egilssonar (The Travels of Reverend Olafur Egilsson) translated by Karl Smarri Hreinsson and Adam Nichols (Fjolvi, Ltd., Reykjavik, 2008). Antonelli's proverb is from the Adagia of Erasmus.
Samuel Rishworth is a historical down-timer, and his activities are, as far as I know, the earliest European opposition to the African slave trade. (Bartolome de las Casas had previously protested the Amerindian slave trade.) He appeared in my story, "Stretching Out, Part 4: Beyond the Line," Grantville Gazette 16.
Cornelis Janszoon and his piratical father were historical down-timers, both introduced in "A Pirate's Ken" (Grantville Gazette 15).
****
Solemn Duty
Lieutenant Claus Brockman scraped his boots against the edge of the wooden walkway, trying to remove the mud that had accumulated there. It was early May and that meant spring had finally come to Falun, Sweden, and spring meant that the streets were a sticky mess.
He looked down at his uniform trousers with despair; mud was splattered up past his knees. For this duty he was supposed to look his best, but there was no way that could happen now. He tugged on the tail and sleeves of his jacket to make it as presentable as possible and patted his pocket to make sure the package he was delivering was still secure.
He pushed open the door of the shop and stepped inside, quickly closing the door behind him. As he paused for a moment to soak in the warmth of the general store, an older man at the counter looked up to greet him.
The man eyed Claus's uniform suspiciously. "Yes, how may I help you?"
Claus removed his hat before answering the man. "Excuse me, sir, is your name Erik Svedberg?"
"Yes, that is my name."
Claus felt a rush of relief; he had been tracking down this place for almost a year and a half. Perhaps he had finally found the man he was looking for. "Herr Svedberg, I am Lieutenant Claus Brockman of the United States of Europe Navy. Do you have a son named Bjorn?"
The man stiffened at the question and answered warily. "Yes, I have a son by that name, but I have not seen him for almost three years. Why do you ask?"
Claus tried to calm his nerves for what he had to say. "Herr Svedberg, I have news of your son, very sad news. Sir, it is my duty to inform you that Bjorn was killed while fighting against the forces of Denmark."
The blood drained from the man's face as the news registered. "Bjorn is dead?"
A scream of anguish came from the back of the shop and a woman rushed into the room, throwing herself into the man's arms. The man held the woman tightly as she sobbed against his shoulder.
Claus stood in silence, allowing the couple their grief. After a couple of minutes, the man looked up, as if remembering Claus was standing there. "I am sorry, Lieutenant . . . ?"
"Brockman, sir, Claus Brockman," Claus quickly answered.