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The young man laughed, as the two old men looked uneasy. ‘It’s a drumble up in the village. Captain.’ He jerked a thumb towards the cliffs. ‘Killing off fuggies.’

‘They’re great on drumbles in Oldorando,’ Muntras said. ‘And often enough the priests use the drumbles as an excuse to kill off so-called heretics as well as phagors. Religion! Fgh!’

The men continued with reminiscences of the time when they had all been engaged in building up the inland ice trade, and of the Ice Captain’s dictatorial father.

‘You’re lucky not to have a father such as he was, Master Div,’ one of the old men said.

Div nodded as if he was not too sure on that point and left his chair. He ambled to the river’s edge and looked up the cliff, whence came distant shouts.

In a minute, he called to his father, ‘It’s the drumble.’

The others made no response and went on talking, until the youth called again. ‘The drumble, Pa. They’re just going to heave the fuggies over the cliffside.’

He pointed upwards. Some of the other boat travellers were also pointing, craning their necks to look up the cliff.

A horn gave a tantivy, and the baying of hounds intensified. ‘They’re great on drumbles in Oldorando,’ the captain repeated, getting heavily to his feet and walking out to where his son stood, open-mouthed, on the bank.

‘You see, it’s government orders, sir,’ said one of the old men, following and peering into the Ice Captain’s face. ‘They kill off the phagors and take their land.’

‘And then don’t work it properly,’ added the Ice Captain. ‘They should leave the poor damned things alone. They’re useful, are phagors.’

Hoarse phagor shouting could be heard, but little action could be seen. However, in a short time, human shouts of triumph rang out and the riot of vegetation on the cliffs became disturbed. Broken branches flew, rocks tumbled, as a figure emerged from obscurity and plunged downwards, alternately flying and bouncing, to the enormous inconvenience of the mourner birds. The figure crashed onto the narrow bank under the cliff, made to sit up, and toppled into the water. A three-fingered hand was raised, to sink slowly as its owner was carried away by the flood.

Div broke into empty laughter. ‘Did you see that?’ he exclaimed.

Another phagor, endeavouring to escape its human tormentors, began well by leaping down the cliff. Then it slipped and crashed headlong, bouncing on a spur of rock and cartwheeling into the water. Other figures followed, some small, some large. For a spell, figures were raining down the cliff. At the crest of the cliff, where the underpinning was steeper, two phagors jumped free, clutching each other by the hand. They broke through the outermost branches of an overhanging tree, fell clear of the rock, and dropped into the river. An overadventurous dog followed them down, to crash on the bank.

‘Let’s be away from here,’ said Muntras. ‘I don’t care for this. Right, men, gangplank up. All aboard who’s getting aboard. Look lively!’

He shook hands with his old staff in a perfunctory way and strode towards the Lordryardry Lady to see his orders carried out.

One of the Oldorandan merchants said to him, ‘I’m glad to see that even in these benighted parts they’re trying to rid us of those shaggy vermin.’

‘They do no harm,’ said Muntras brusquely, his solid figure not pausing in its stride.

‘On the contrary, sir, they are mankind’s oldest enemy, and during the Ice Age reduced our numbers almost to nothing.’

‘That was the dead past. We live in the present. Get aboard, everyone. We’re pushing off from this barbarous spot with all haste.’

The crew, like their captain, were men from Hespagorat. Without argument, they got the gangplank up and the boat under way.

As the Lady drifted into midstream, her passengers could see ancipital corpses floating in the water, surrounded by clouds of yellow blood. One of the crew called out. Ahead was a live phagor, making wretched attempts to swim.

A pole was quickly brought and