Bong.

"So that's it," Mixun mused aloud. The gray sky echoed the ma.s.sed cheers of the gnomes.

On closer inspection, he found the little people had carved out an amphitheater in the ice facing the tower, and they sat raptly watching as the great weighted blade rose and fell. The tower straddled a deep trench that ran as far as the eye could see east and west. From the piles of frozen slush on either side of the pit, Mixun guessed this was the cut plowed into the ice by the gnomes' digging machines. The trench was so deep he couldn't see the bottom, just gla.s.sy blue ice as far down as the eye could see.

He spotted Slipper in the crowd and hailed him. The tiny gnome waved back, never taking his eyes off the rising weight.

"Slipper-"

"Shh!" hissed two hundred gnomes at once. Mixun snapped his jaw shut, quelled by their unanimity. With a screech, the shackle opened, and the wedge plunged into the ravine. The gnomes cheered wildly.

"Slipper," he said again, once the noise died down.

"What is it?"

"What are you doing?"

"Watching."

"No. I mean, what are you doing there, with that tower?"

"This is the Splitting," said the gnome beside Slipper. He had a fantastic snowsuit on, all covered with small, mirrored gla.s.s panels. Mixun asked what the Splitting was.

"The next phase of the Excellent Continental Ice Project," said Slipper. Mixun had to wait until the wedge dropped again, then with strained patience he asked what the Excellent Continental Ice Project really was.

"We are separating a quant.i.ty of ice from the glacier, to take back home to Sancrist," said the mirror-clad gnome.

"What for?" asked the amused human.

"Fresh water," said Slipper.

"No, for our Low Temperature Laboratory!" said Mirror Suit.

A tubby gnome seated behind these two thrust his head between theirs and boomed, "Yer both wrong! The ice will be used to fight the red dragon, Pyrothraxus, who occupies our ancestral home, Mt. Nevermind! We'll freeze 'im in his lair!'"

Bong.

This time the blow sounded different. A prolonged cracking sound rose, like cloth being torn asunder. Every gnome in the theater rose on stubby legs and gazed rapturously at the tower.

"Slipper?" The little gnome did not answer Mixun until he tugged on the gnome's down-stuffed sleeve. "How much ice are you taking?"

"One point six-eight cubic miles."

"Miles?"

"Hurrah!" cried the gnomes. "Now the Splitting! Next the Splash!"

The ground heaved beneath Mixun's feet. Before he could question or exclaim, the tower over the ravine snapped apart with a loud crack. Rope and timbers whipped into the deep gap, and the gnomes began spilling off their icy seats with commendable rapidity. Mixun found himself being borne along with the flow of white-haired folk. The glacier canted, first a little, then more and more. Gnomes went down like leaves in a fall wind, skidding into hummocks of snow or into Mixun's legs. As little men piled up around him, Mixun lost his balance and fell too.

"Eight degrees! Fifteen degrees! Twenty-one degrees!" shouted a gnome gripping a surveyor's quadrant. Mixun had the horrifying thought that "the Splash" would come when he and all the gnomes were dumped into the frigid sea.

The glacier shivered like a living thing, wracked from end to end by powerful forces. What was left of the derrick vanished into the widening ravine. Mixun rolled over, clawing at the snow for support. To his amazement, green seawater gushed skyward from the gap the gnomes had cut in the ice. So it was true. The little men had carved off a ma.s.sive piece of the Icewall glacier!

For a fleeting, thrilling moment, Mixun felt himself falling. The ice dropped away from him and, in the next heartbeat, slammed into the yielding sea. Mixun flattened on the ice, spun around, and found himself buried under a squirming ma.s.s of frantic, excited gnomes.

By the time he extricated himself, Mixun felt a very slight rolling motion in the ice. He stood easily and surveyed the scene. Where once had been an expanse of ice all the way to the horizon, there was now a widening channel of swirling green water. Mixun dashed to the edge and looked left and right. There was nothing but ocean between them and sh.o.r.e. Cold wind was driving them out to sea at a notable pace.

The gnomes had sorted themselves out and were busily scribbling notes on any surface available-thick pads of paper, sc.r.a.ps of parchment, even their sleeves and the backs of their colleagues.

"What have you done?" Mixun asked, incredulous.

"Splash successfully survived," noted Slipper on his foolscap. "The Splitting was more extreme than calculated."

"Not so," said another gnome. "My figures, posted three days ago on the wall of the Efficient Eatery, clearly indicate a maximum angle of twenty-six degrees before the Splash."

"How many degrees was it?"

The quadrant-bearing gnome had marked his instrument at the most extreme angle. "Twenty-six degrees, two minutes, forty-four seconds!"

Slipper and the other gnomes bowed to the successful predictor. "Excellent calculations, my dear chap! Simply excellent!"

Mixun scratched his sprouting beard and said, "Excuse me, but what happens now?"

"Now we return to Sancrist Isle," said the calculator.

"But how? Won't we just drift with the wind?"

The a.s.sembled gnomes laughed in explosive chirps and soprano guffaws. "Not this iceberg!" Slipper declared. "We have propulsion!"

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 d.a.m.ned 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 compa.s.s. 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 doork.n.o.b: 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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sistant. This room, and the room beyond, was filled with young gnomes seated at long communal tables, busily scratching away with long quill pens.

"Ah, hmm," Raegel said, clearing his throat.

"Yes, what is it?" said the Chief Designer, not looking up from his frantic scribbling.

Raegel stopped. He didn't know how to address the gnome properly. While he dithered, Mixun burst out, "There's a pirate ship following us!"

"Is there?"

The gnome's mild response surprised both men. "Yes, I'm quite sure," said Mixun.

"That's interesting. Of course, we are pa.s.sing within ten nautical miles of Cape Enstar. I understand the region is infested with maritime malefactors."

"What?"

"Pirates," said Raegel. "Cape Enstar crawls with pirates like flies on horse dung. Can we change course, steer wide of the cape?"

The Chief Designer finally looked up. "Change course? No." He resumed drawing.

"But why? There may be danger if we stay on this heading!"

"Give me the rate figures for surface alluviation," he commanded. Six gnomes slid off their benches and came running with sheaves of paper covered in close columns of figures. The Chief Designer ran through four sheets, tossing the unwanted pages in the air, until he came to the one he sought.

"Can't change course," he said. "We'll lose too much ice if we do. Must get home with the maximum amount of ice."

"What if the pirates attack?" asked Mixun.

The head gnome shrugged. "The ice must be defended."

"How? Do you have weapons?"

"No, but we will invent some. I will appoint an Emergency Committee for Iceberg Defense."

Both men were about to protest, but the Chief Designer turned his back on them and resumed work. The other gnomes ignored them too, so they left.

"Little fools," Mixun said when they were outside. "I could take this berg with fifty good men."