Mixun picked up a handful of snow. It melted quickly in the warm palm of his hand.
“Sancrist is a long way from here. Will the ice last, or will it all melt before we get there?”
This time the gnomes didn’t laugh. They deferred to the successful calculator, who made a rapid computation on his neighbor’s pants leg. When he was done, he smiled broadly.
“We can lose sixty percent of our total ice and still stay afloat,” he said. “The maximum amount we can expect to melt between here and Sancrist is no more than thirty-two percent.”
Mixun didn’t understand the percentages, but he was soothed by the gnome’s bland confidence. He had no reason to complain. Raegel had wanted to get office-wall, and now they were-in a way.
Raegel! He was still in the storehouse! Without a word, Mixun leaped over the gnomes, scrambling over the ridge toward Nevermind South. As he skidded down the slick hill to the camp (now teeming with gnomes again), he saw the great wheel machines being partially dismantled. One wheel was already being pegged into place at the edge of the iceberg so that the heavy plow blades dipped into the sea. Once in motion, the machines would act like giant waterwheels, paddling the floating island of ice to its ultimate destination.
Mixun burst into the storehouse, expecting to find a frantic Raegel stricken with fear. He did not.
“Raegel?” he called gently. The only reply was a soft and steady snoring.
Once he was wakened, Raegel didn’t believe Mixun’s story. The gnomes had sawn off a giant raft of ice, three miles long and a mile wide? It was ridiculous, and damned impossible!
“Come see for yourself,” Mixun said, rising from the iceblock table in the Efficient Eatery.
From the snow village, the only view was out to sea anyway, so Mixun and Raegel climbed the ridge above the town to see water all around them. Raegel opened his mouth a few times, but no words came out. He sat down on the mound of ice and gazed at the endless ocean.
Mixun held a ringer to the wind, then squinted at the sun. “North by west,” he said sagely. “Dead on for Sancrist Isle.” He sat down by his bemused companion. “It’s too much to believe. If these little folk can do something this grand, why don’t they command the world?”
“Don’t let the size of the deed fool you,” Raegel said. “Gnomes are smart, but they’re also more than a little loony. It took a thousand of them to carve out this island of ice, but in another time and place the same thousand might devote themselves to something totally useless, like…” He struggled for an example. “Counting the ants in an anthill or trying to catch clouds in a jar.”
“There’s gotta be something in this for us!” Mixun said, rising suddenly. “Some way to turn this to our advantage!”
“I’ll think on it. All this ice must be worth something. After all, it’s a chill wind that blows us no good.”
Mixun frowned and slapped Raegel on the back of the head.
The ridge above Nevermind South was the highest point on the floe. From there they could see for miles to all points of the compass. On their second day at sea, Mixun spotted the white sails of a ship bearing down on them from the northeast. It was running before the wind, while the ponderous ice island was paddling steadily against the prevailing zephyr. He interrupted Raegel’s plotting and pointed to the oncoming vessel.
“What do you think they’re thinking right now?” he said.
Raegel grinned. “They’re likely wondering what a big berg like this is doing so far from Icewall!”
The ship, a tubby two-master flying the colors of Solamnia, closed rapidly. It crossed the narrow “bow” of the island and drove down the length of the iceberg, barely a cable’s length away. Mixun and Raegel waved cheerfully to the astonished sailors working the rigging of the merchant ship.
The two-master sailed on, and so did the floe. The vast, bulky berg could not manage much speed, but the gnomish machines were tireless, and drove them at a tireless pace. Within three days, they were passing through the Sirrion Straits into the southern sea. The farther north they went, the more shipping they encountered. Five days after the Splash, the iceberg entered the major trading route between the western islands and the mainland. An hour did not pass without some vessel in sight-fat argosies with scarlet sails, trim sloops with brightly striped hulls, and dull gray fishing smacks from the coast of Kharolis. Their reaction to the mighty floe was the same: all put their helms over and steered wide of the glistening apparition.
All but one ship, that is. At sunset on the fifth day, a lugger appeared astern, loafing in the wake created by the iceberg’s paddles. Its green hull and dark blue sails made the craft hard to see against the water or evening sky. Mixun spotted the lugger and hunted up Raegel to get his opinion. The gangling redhead, munching a frozen fish fritter from the Efficient Eatery (every day was experimental food day, it seemed), climbed the ridge and followed his friend’s pointing finger until he spied the small ship.
“Pirates,” he said flatly.
“My thought too!” Mixun said. He dodged to and fro, nervously flexing his hands. “I wish I had a sword!”
“Why?”
“Why? Why? Pirates, that’s why!”
“I don’t think they’ll bother us,” said Raegel, pulling an uneaten fish tail out of his mouth and tossing it aside. “We’re not exactly a rich merchant ship.”
Mixun insisted on warning the gnomes, and Raegel agreed. They slipped and slid down the hill to camp. It was much warmer in the Sirrion Sea, and the iceberg was melting noticeably. Every surface was covered with a thin sheen of water, rendering everything slicker than an old gnome’s bald pate. Raegel and Mixun got used to falling down, but the gnomes embarked on an orgy of invention, trying to come up with devices to provide sure and steady walking. As the two men made their way to the Chief Designer’s house, they passed through a mob of bizarrely equipped gnomes. Some were on stilts. Others had fastened various spiky protuberances to their feet, while some merely sought to lessen the damage of frequent falling by covering their bottoms with pads and pillows.
Upon reaching the Chief Designer’s door, they saw a hand-lettered sign that read PULL STRING. There was no string in sight.
“Now what?” asked Mixun.
Raegel pointed to another, smaller sign over the doorknob: IN CASE OF STRING FAILURE, RING BELL.
“What bell?” Mixun demanded, voice rising.
As if in answer, a young gnome appeared through a swinging flap cut in the bottom of the door. He handed Mixun a brass hand bell, bowed, and crawled back through the door flap. The stocky fighter looked to his friend for guidance.
“Ring it,” said Raegel.
Mixun tried. He swung the bell hard, but instead of “ding-ding” or “clang,” the bell made a sweetly musical sound, like a songbird. It contrasted so sharply to the expected sound of a bell Mixun almost dropped it. He tried again, and the bell again went “tweet-tweet.”
“Even their bells are crazy!” he said.
The young gnome reappeared, opening the door this time. He did not admit the men but emerged with a step ladder and a ball of twine. Without a word, he set up the ladder and used it to replace the broken cord on a bracket beside the door. Once more he bowed and went back inside.
“Oh no,” said Mixun. “I’m not pulling any string. It’s your turn!”
With much affected dignity, Raegel grasped the string. “Twine waits for no man,” he said, giving the line a yank. No bell rang. There was a flat, flatulent sound, and a strange, unnatural voice boomed, “Come in!”
Mixun opened the door. Inside, he saw the string was attached to a bellows. When pulled, it forced air through a series of carved, flute-like tubes. Wind passing through the holes made the device speak two understandable words. Muttering, Mixun and Raegel went inside.
The Chief Designer, whose beard was longer than its owner was tall, was perched on a tall stool in the center of a round table. He was drawing furiously on a long roll of parchment, and when he finished what he was doing, he tore off that portion of the roll and handed it to a waiting assistant. This room, and the room beyond, was filled with young gnomes seated at long communal tables, busily scratching away with long quill pens.