Chapter 2. Negotiations
The morning sun found Omar Bakhoum striding through the early press of Mazigh workmen and professional women as he angled uphill toward the airfield above the train station. The road leading up the hill plunged through a warehouse district, and on either side Omar saw teams of men moving sacks, loading wagons, and driving steam cranes to shift massive pallets of barrels and crates. He even paused to watch four men leading a massive hairy beast up the center of the lane. The animal stood twenty feet high and shambled along on its long-clawed knuckles, but it had sad cow-like eyes and a soft muzzle like a giant horse. It wore a heavy leather and iron harness tethered to a long wagon laden with massive brass pipes that must have weighed more than a ton each.
After the giant beast and its burden had passed, Omar crossed the road and passed through the tall iron gates of the airfield. He approached the small office beside the first hangar and spoke to a young lady in an orange jacket, who said that the airship he wanted was in the last hangar of the row.
He strode along the front of the hangars, peering into the first two to appreciate the massive cavern of each, though each was empty. And when he reached the doors of the third hangar, he stopped.
Omar stood there a long moment, just staring. The airship loomed above him in the shadows of the hangar like a great flying whale hovering effortlessly in the cool morning air. Its skin looked thick and wrinkled with all the layers of canvas and leather that were banded and lashed to it with brass rods and oiled ropes. Down on its belly where the craft kissed the earth he saw a beautifully crafted ship’s hull, an elegantly shaped arc of stained teak and polished brass and shining windows. Every fitting and corner was armored and riveted, and a small sort of cannon poked out from the starboard side.
He was still staring when a woman in a heavy leather jacket and canvas trousers emerged from the shadows and said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Captain Riuza Ngozi,” he said, sparing her a quick glance before resuming his study of the leviathan above them.
“You’ve found her.” She stuck out her hand. “And you are?”
He smiled broadly as he shook her hand. “Omar Bakhoum. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, dear lady. I trust you’ve received my last few letters? The ones about your latest expedition?”
“Ah, Mister Bakhoum, yes.” She nodded slowly as she took her hand back and hooked her thumbs in her belt. She tilted her shaved head to the side as she said, “I did receive your letters, but I wasn’t expecting to meet with you today. When did you arrive in Tingis?”
“Just last night. When I heard you were about to depart on a new expedition beyond the glaciers, I decided it was time for me to come and lend a hand myself.”
“Lend a hand?” The captain frowned. “Sir, I’ve appreciated your correspondence and your help with our translations over the last few months, but our expeditions are carefully planned long in advance. And we’re leaving tomorrow morning. I’m afraid there isn’t time for you to help with this trip.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s some small contribution I could make.” He reached into his right sleeve and pulled out a carefully folded and tied bundle of soft leather, which he handed to her.
Captain Ngozi took the bundle, removed the twine, and unfolded the leather. She hesitated, holding the soft sheet up to the light. “Where did you get this?”
“Rus.” Omar smiled and leaned around to look at the map with her. He pointed to the writing. “This is all in Rus, of course. A rather old and obscure dialect, as I understand it.”
“But this…” The captain traced the ink lines with her fingertips. “This shows the complete northern coastline of Europa. That’s impossible. It’s been buried under half a kilometer of ice for thousands of years. No one knows what it looks like anymore.”
“Sure, sure.” Omar nodded. “But once upon a time it wasn’t covered in ice, you know. The Rus folk used to live up there before the north was frozen. It took me ages to find this map. It’s positively ancient.”
“Then I don’t suppose anyone can read these markings,” the captain said.
“No, not really,” Omar said absently. “Except for me, of course. I speak half a dozen sorts of Rus. See here? This is a mountain called the Troll’s Hump, which is one ten-day from a lake called Woden’s Mirror. And a ten-day, by old Rus reckoning, was about two hundred of your kilometers.”
“This is very impressive, assuming it’s accurate.” Captain Ngozi carried the map a few steps farther from the hangar to better catch the morning light. “How long would it take you to create a translated version of this map with modern measurements?”
Omar smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I can’t say I have much interest in translating the whole map right now. Although I’m fairly certain I could be persuaded to translate a few bits and pieces of it at a time, as needed. I’m sure you catch my meaning, dear lady.”
She lowered the map to look at him. “You want to come with us?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re serious? You want to spend the next two weeks inside a little metal box with four strangers, eating cold rations and shivering through the long Europan nights while entire legions of ghosts wander the ice below us? That’s what you want to do?”
“It doesn’t sound particularly appealing, no, but I do want to see this.” He lifted the map in her hand and touched a small island at the upper edge of the leather. “This island here. The Rus call it Ysland.”
“We’ve never gone that far north before. It must be a thousand kilometers beyond our current flight plan. And besides, we’re already prepped to survey the eastern coast of this island here. Alba.” She indicated a larger island to the south of Omar’s destination.
“Well, that’ll be fine. I’m not looking to build a summer house up there. I’d just like to see whether my little Ysland is really there, and whether it’s buried in the ice. That’s all. We don’t even need to get very close. Only close enough to see whether it’s frozen over.”
The captain narrowed her eyes. “It’s at the top of the world. Why wouldn’t it be frozen over?”
Omar winked at her. “I have a theory or two about that. But for now, I’d just like to take a quick look at it.”
Riuza frowned but shrugged and nodded as she studied the Rus map. “Well, I’ll have to do the math on it, but we can probably come within sight of your island by adding just one or two extra days, depending on the weather. If that’s all you want to do, well, that may be possible. And you really want to sit in the Finch for two weeks just to take one quick look at this Ysland?”
“Absolutely, dear lady. And in return, I may just find the time to make you a properly translated map, complete with your Mazigh measurements and markings.” Omar took back his map, noting the hunger in her eyes as she returned his Rus treasure. “Perhaps I should add that in addition to speaking more Europan languages than you’ve ever heard of, I’m also an experienced military surgeon, a deft tailor, and cook of no small skill. My hummus is smoother than silk.”
“Hm. I’ll need to discuss it with the rest of the team,” she said. “Come back this afternoon around three o’clock and we’ll let you know our decision.”
“Is the team here now?” he asked innocently as he glanced around the dark hangar. In the distance he heard a metal tool fall to the concrete floor. The clattering noise echoed across the chamber.
The captain sighed. “My engineer is here, but the others won’t be here for another hour at least. But we do have a lot of work to prepare for the launch, and we’ll need to discuss the matter in private.”
“Of course, of course,” Omar said. “I’ll just be out here. You can come get me when you’re ready.”
“You’re going to wait here all day? Fine, suit yourself. Just stay out of the way of the ground crew.” Captain Ngozi frowned as she went back inside the hangar.
Omar sauntered out across the cool dew-speckled grass of the airfield. From the far side of the field he could look down on the long curved roof of the train station. Its iron girding stood in stark rows of green-painted beams, and the center of the roof was paneled in shining glass windows that spilled the morning light down onto the platform and the rails below.
Beyond the train station were two more streets of shops and warehouses before the continent of Ifrica came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the Strait of Tarifa. To the west, the strait flooded out in sparkling wavelets to the vast Atlanteen Ocean, and to the east the waters shone a bit bluer in the busy Middle Sea. All across the waters he
