Once Upon a Time in the North (3 page)

Lee rang the bell at the Harbor Master's office and went in, having read the brass plate beside the door.

"Good day to you, Mr. Aagaard," he said. "I've come to see whether I can find any work around here. Scoresby is the name, and I have a cargo balloon in storage at the Barents Sea Company Depot. Any likelihood of an aeronaut's services being in demand, do you suppose?"

The Harbor Master was an elderly man with a sour and cautious expression. His cat-daemon opened her eyes briefly and closed them again in disdain.

"Business is slow, Mr. Scoresby," said the old man. "We have four vessels working in the harbor, and when they have gone, I do not expect any more trade for a week. Times are bad."

"Four vessels?" said Lee. "My eyes must be deceiving me. I saw five."

"Four."

"Then my eyes do need fixing. I saw a three-masted hallucination at the end of the east quay."

"There is no work at the east quay, or at the west. Good day, Mr. Scoresby."

"And good day to you, sir."

He and Hester left. Lee rubbed his jaw and looked left, along the quay, to the still schooner.

"I don't like to see any vessel so quiet," he said. "She looks like a ghost ship. There ought to be something the crew could be doing. Well, let's go and see what price they charge for hemp cord."

He strolled along to the chandlery, where at least the stink of fish oil and tanning skins gave way to that of clean tarred rope. The man behind the counter was reading a newspaper, and he barely looked up when Lee came in.

"Good day," said Lee, to no response.

He wandered about the shop, looking at everything, and as usual saw plenty he needed and little he could afford. He scratched his head at the prices until he remembered that this place was an icebound island for six months of the year, and everything had to be imported.

"How's the election going?" he said to the shopkeeper, nodding at his newspaper. "Will Mr. Poliakov become the new Mayor?"

'You want to buy something?"

"Maybe. Ain't seen anything I can afford, at your prices."

"Well, I don't sell newspapers."

"Then good day to you," said Lee, and left.

He turned up into the town. The blue sky of morning had gone, and a bitter wind was bringing gray clouds scudding across from the north. There were only three people in sight: two women with shopping baskets and an old man with a stick. A group of bears stopped their rumbling conversation and watched him as he went past before beginning again, their voices so low he almost felt them through the soles of his feet.

"This is the bleakest, smelliest, most unfriendliest damn place we ever set foot in," Lee said.

"I wouldn't argue with you, Lee."

"Something'll turn up, though."

But nothing turned up that afternoon.

The evening meal was served in the parlor of the boardinghouse, which was a dismal place with a small dining table, an iron stove, a shelf of religious books, and a small collection of battered and dusty board games with names like
Peril of the Pole, Flippety-Flop,
and
Animal Misfitz.
The meal itself consisted of a mutton stew and an apple pie. The pie was tolerable. Lee's fellow boarders were a photographer from Oslo, an official from the Institute of Economics in Novgorod, and a young lady called Miss Victoria Lund, who worked in the public library. She was as pretty as a picture, if it was a picture of a high-minded young woman of unyielding rectitude and severity. She was tall, and on the bony side of slim, and her fair hair was tightly pulled back into a bun. Her long-sleeved white blouse was buttoned to the neck. She was the first young woman Lee had spoken to for a month.

"So you're a librarian, Miss Lund? What kind of books do the people of Novy Odense like to read?"

"Various kinds."

"I might look in myself tomorrow, see if I can find out some information. There's a book called
The Elements of Aerial Navigation
I'd really like to finish reading. Where is your library, Miss Lund?"

"In Aland Square."

"Right. Aland Square. You been working there long?"

"No."

"I see. So you're—ah—newly qualified, I guess?"

'Yes."

"And ... is Novy Odense your hometown?"

"No."

"Then I guess we're both strangers here, huh?"

That brought no response, but her swallow-daemon looked at Hester from the back of her chair, spread his wings wide, and then closed them again, followed by his eyes.

But Lee persevered.

"Would you care for some of this pie, Miss Lund?"

"Thank you."

"You know, right after supper I thought I'd take a stroll along the waterfront and see what the enterprising citizens of Novy Odense have to offer in the way of nighttime entertainment. I don't suppose you'd care to accompany me?"

"No, I would not."

Miss Lund left the table immediately the meal was over, and as soon as she was gone the other two men laughed and clapped Lee on the shoulder.

"Fifteen!" said the photographer.

"I made it fourteen," said the economist, "but you win."

"Fourteen what?" said Lee.

"Words you got out of her," said the photographer. "I bet you'd get more than ten, and Mikhail here said you wouldn't."

"Careful, Lee," murmured Hester.

"So you gentlemen are of a sporting persuasion?" Lee said, taking no notice of her. "Best thing I've encountered today. What do you say to a game of cards, now this delicious repast is but a fading memory and our fair companion has withdrawn? Unless you'd like to take a chance on
Flippety-Flop?
"

"Nothing would please me more," said the photographer, "but I have an appointment to take a portrait of the local headmaster and his family. I can't afford to miss it."

"And as for me, I'm going to a meeting at the town hall," said the other man. "The mayoral election is hotting up. I need to see which way it's going to go."

"Well, this is an exciting town, and no mistake," said Lee. "I can barely contain my exuberance."

"Would you care to step along to the town hall and join me in the audience?" said the economist.

"I believe I would," said Lee, and the other man's robin-daemon twitched her tail.

The election meeting was certainly the place to be that evening. Men and women were making their way up the muddy street towards the town hall, which was brilliantly lit with gas lamps, Lee noticed with satisfaction: if there was a source of gas on the island, he'd be able to fill his balloon without too much difficulty—provided he could pay for it, of course. The people were dressed respectably, and so was Lee, to the extent of his one necktie; and they were talking with some animation.

"Is this the way they usually do politics on Novy Odense?" Lee said to his companion.

"There is a great deal at stake in this election," said the economist, whose name, Lee had learned, was Mikhail Ivanovich Vassiliev. "In fact it's the reason I'm here. My academy is very interested in this man Poliakov. He used to be a Senator, but he hates to be reminded of the fact. He had to resign over a financial scandal, and he's using this mayoral election as a way of rehabilitating himself."

"Oh, is that so?" said Lee, watching the crowd on the steps, and noticing the uniformed stewards. "I see there's a lot of Customs men around. Are they expecting a ruckus?"

"Customs men?"

"The bullies in the maroon uniforms."

"Oh, they're not Customs. That's the security arm of Larsen Manganese."

"I keep hearing that name . . . Who are they?"

"Very big mining corporation. If Poliakov gets in, they will prosper. Rumor has it that the company has been looking for a confrontation with the Customs; it's happening elsewhere throughout the north—private companies invading the public sphere. Security, they call it: what they mean is threat. I've heard they have a large gun that they're keeping secret, for example, and they'd love to provoke a riot and bring it into use—That gentleman is hailing you."

They were at the top of the steps leading to the main doors, but they couldn't move any further because of the crush. Lee turned to look where Vassiliev was pointing, and saw the poet Oskar Sigurdsson waving and beckoning.

Lee waved back, but Sigurdsson beckoned even more urgently.

"Better go see what he wants," he said, and made his way through the crowd.

Sigurdsson's butterfly-daemon was fluttering round and round his head, and the poet was beaming with pleasure.

"Mr. Scoresby! So glad to see you!" he said. "Miss Poliakova, may I introduce Mr. Scoresby, the celebrated aeronaut?"

"Celebrated, my tail," muttered Hester, but the young lady at Sigurdsson's side had Lee's interest at once. She was about eighteen years old, and a contrast in every way to the starched Miss Lund: her cheeks were rosy, her eyes were large and black, her lips were soft and red, her hair was a mass of dark curls. Her daemon was a mouse. Lee took her hand with pleasure.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," he said, and swept off his hat as well as he could in the crush.

Sigurdsson had been saying something.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Sigurdsson," Lee said. "I was unable to concentrate on your words because of Miss Poliakova's eyes. I wager you have dozens of young men come from all over the northlands to gaze at your eyes, Miss Poliakova."

She let them fall for a moment, as if in modesty, and then gazed up through her lashes. Sigurdsson plucked at Lee's sleeve.

"Miss Poliakova is the daughter of the distinguished candidate for Mayor," he said.

"Oh, is that right? Are we going to hear your father speak tonight, miss?"

'Yes," she said, "he will speak, I think."

"Who is he up against in the election?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "I think two men, or perhaps one."

Lee looked at her closely, while trying to muffle Hester's grumbling from inside his coat. Was this young lady genuinely slow-witted, or just pretending to be? She smiled again. She must be teasing. Good! If she wanted to play, Lee was in the mood for that.

The obstruction inside the door had been cleared, and the crowd was moving up the steps, marshaled by the Larsen Manganese security men. Miss Poliakova stumbled, and Lee offered his arm, which she took readily. Meanwhile Sigurdsson was pressing close at his other side, saying something that Lee couldn't quite hear and wasn't interested in, because the closer he got to Miss Poliakova, the more he was aware of the delicate floral scent she was wearing, or perhaps it was the fragrance of her hair, or perhaps it was just the sweet fact of her young body pressed against his side; anyway, Lee was intoxicated.

"What did you say?" he said to Sigurdsson, reluctantly.

The poet had been plucking at his other arm, and was eagerly gesturing for Lee to bend his head as if to receive a confidence.

"I said you might be able to make yourself useful to Olga's father," Sigurdsson murmured as they entered the main hall. The place was set out with wooden chairs, and the platform was decorated with bunting and banners bearing the slogan POLIAKOV FOR PROGRESS AND JUSTICE.

'You don't say," said Lee.

"I'll introduce you after the meeting."