Day Two of the Tortallan Delegation's Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra

"Amazing."

"Incredible."

"Smashing!"

"We have nothing like this in Tortall."

"Or Sarain."

"Or Yaman."

The four Tortallans stood huffing out clouds of warm breath into the thin, bitingly cold air. The small yellow sun didn't put out any warmth at all, but it seemed to try and make up for it with dazzlingly bright light that hurt the eyes. The rays rebounded sharply off the snow-covered landscape, making it painful to look too far overhead, and reduced their shadows to nearly nothing.

All around were huge, magnificent sculptures made entirely of snow or ice. There were people, animals, trees, fantastic creatures and plants. They sparkled under the northern sun in silent, frozen majesty.

The Tortallans looked around and back at one another, eyes big with wonder. They were wearing a mishmash of borrowed outerwear: none of their winter clothes were warm enough, so the Scanrans had readily lent them some. Kel had on a green wool coat with a hood, cheerful yellow mittens and a matching hat. Buri had almost disappeared underneath an enormous oatmeal-coloured scarf and hat and her big burgundy coat. Wyldon was wearing a big black hat with earflaps that sat draped over his bald pate like a misshapen animal. They all wore chunky felt boots that laced up to the knee over thick woolen socks. Owen liked the geometric patterns of the red and white beads on his boots. He wasn't so sure about the floppy tuft of wool that was stuck to the crown of his knitted hat or the frolicking reindeer embroidered on his coat. Their party looked uncomfortably overdressed and silly, with about as much style and grace as a bunch of Corus beggars, but at least they were almost warm.

"Who made them?" Buri said, awe in her voice.

"There is a competition, every year in winter," said Thorvald. "The artists come with many assistants in teams from all over the country. As soon as the winners are picked, they go home to plan for next year."

Everyone stood around in appreciative silence, trying to take it all in.

"Is that an ice palace!" said Owen. He pointed excitedly at the middle of the grounds.

"Ja," said Thorvald. He wasn't wearing a hat or scarf. There was frost in his eyelashes, but he didn't seem to feel the cold on his red, wind-chapped skin. "There are rooms inside with ice tables, chairs and beds."

"Do people live in the ice palace?" Owen said hopefully. It was huge!

"We have a story about King Dorkell the Hairy, who built an ice palace and lived there."

"What happened?" said Owen.

"His wife and children froze into icicles and he ran away to live with the trolls."

"Oh," said Owen, crestfallen. "I guess not then."

"Owen, come look at the wall!"

It was Kel. Owen crunched over to her, the snow squeaking a little under his boots.

The wall was made of snow sculpted into bricks and it was twice as tall as Owen. It formed a big rectangle that separated the ice gardens from the rest of Hamrkeng: the hulking wooden Royal Palace was behind them, and the city was ahead. You could just see the triangular snow-covered roofs beyond the wall, and the boldly-painted wooden sidings peeking out underneath. The Scanrans liked bright colours for their buildings and clothes: yellow, blue and red. It made man-made things stand out cheerfully against the white, grey and brown landscape.

"Look at this," Kel said.

People had carved their names into the hard-packed snow, all over the wall. Owen read Björn was here and Askel loves Halldora and Ranulf liks troll-spittle.

"Is that supposed to be 'likes' or 'licks'?" said Owen, puzzled.

"I'm not sure." Kel smiled. "It looks like bad spelling is the same on both sides of the border."

Kel's nose and cheeks were frozen pink-red. She looked good; more relaxed than Owen could remember since the war had started, and she'd turned into the leader of a refugee camp and a war hero.

Owen took off his right mitten and used his belt knife to scratch O. J. into the wall. He handed the knife to Kel and stuck his frozen fingers back into the mitten to warm them up while she carved K. M. underneath his initials.

Kel handed him back his knife and they looked at their handiwork for a moment before exchanging a quick grin of delight. They turned and headed back to the others.

"Why are none of your buildings except the Royal Palace taller than two or three stories?" Buri was saying to Thorvald. She stood near a giant swan, its curved neck gleaming and transparent. "Hamrkeng is the shortest city I've ever seen; pretty odd, having a short city, considering that you Scanrans are such a tall lot," Buri fired off, daring Thorvald to comment.

Thorvald looked guiltily pleased. It was funny to see such a big, rough man acting like a small boy called out on his mischief.

"This is true," he said. "But tall buildings trap the wind and block the sun. Also, there is not so much wood to build with in Scanra."

"Oh! I know this one!" said Owen. "Because of scarce natural resources, and a short growing season due to the cold northern climate."

Lord Wyldon looked a little surprised.

Buri grinned sardonically. "The boy can be taught."

"It was one of Sir Myles' lectures, Ma'am," said Owen, Kel nodding in remembrance. Owen recalled much of what he'd learned in Sir Myles' class because he'd had to study so hard. History was a difficult subject for him. Sir Myles always told him that there were no right answers to the questions in his class, which made no sense. There were definitely wrong answers, so there must have been right answers as well. It was very confusing. Kel had always done well, Owen remembered.

"He is right," Thorvald said. "The jarls who own the forests in the south are very rich from selling wood to make houses and ships. Too rich. Sometimes it is cheaper to buy wood from Galla or the Copper Isles, even though it comes from far."

Or to steal it from your neighbours, Owen thought, a little uneasily. He'd almost forgotten why they were here.

There were a few other people wandering around the ice gardens, alone and in families, but sparsely; it was the middle of a workday. A young couple and their child were looking at an amazingly realistic tree, with hundreds of glittering leaves.

"Master Harvaldsson, what is it that you do when you're not being our guide?" Kel said curiously.

"I am a scholar."

A scholar? Thorvald didn't look like any of the Mithrans or the University men and women that Owen had seen in Corus. He looked like a soldier or a blacksmith, with his size and hardiness, and all that muscle.

"What do you study?" said Kel.

The small girl by the tree-sculpture was wearing bright red mittens. She turned and stared at Owen. Her braids were white-blond and she had big blue eyes.

"Hello, Young Miss!" said Owen cheerfully.

The little girl said nothing in return, but her eyes widened like saucers.

"The dissertation for my Mastery at the Høgskolen was on the symbolism of trees in the war epics of the skalds, during the time of the lineage of Oddr Straw-legs."

Kel and Buri exchanged a wondering look.

"Is poetry really that popular here?" Buri said.

"Some kinds, very popular," said Thorvald. "But not this kind, so much. It is written in Old Scanran."

"Isn't that… difficult? Studying something that most people don't know anything about?" said Buri.

"No," said Thorvald, his craggy face imperturbable. "I have much time to guide foreigners. They are very funny, you know."

"Oh, we're just hilarious!" Buri said. "Sometimes we're even short!"

"Not often," said Thorvald. "It is very sad."

"I see what you mean about foreigners, Master Harvaldsson," said Kel.

"Hey!" Buri protested.

The girl with the red mittens was still staring. Her parents noticed and looked over at their group. The woman wore a cheerful blue woolen shawl with yellow and white embroidery. She had golden hair, her daughter's bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. The man's colouring was paler. He was dressed in plain but good working clothes: a dark blue jacket and brown leggings. They looked like a young merchant couple from the city.

"Fair day to you," the man called politely. It was the most common Scanran greeting.

"Oh, --ah. Fair day to you," Owen called back.

The little girl tugged on her mother's shawl. "Nisse!" she said, looking at the Tortallans.

"Come along, Thora," the woman said, taking her hand. They strolled off, the little girl still staring over her shoulder at Owen.

"Looks like you made a friend, Jesslaw," said Buri.

"I hope I didn't scare her," said Owen, worried. "They looked nice."

"She will recover, probably," said Thorvald. "Your Lord has gone ahead."

It was true. Lord Wyldon was halfway across the park, immersed in the sculptures.

"Let's go," said Buri. "I can't feel my face. Gods-drattted Scanran winters! And I thought that winters on the plains of Sarain were bad."

They started walking over to Lord Wyldon. Owen had a sudden thought. "Master Harvaldsson! What will happen to all the sculptures in the spring?"

"What happens to all snow when winter is done?" said Thorvald.

"But… that's awful! The wall? The palace? Everything?" Owen said.

"It seems like such a shame," said Kel. "They're so beautiful."

"No, no," said Thorvald. "It is good, you see. When people lick the ice creatures, they have only to wait until the spring thaw for their tongues to come unstuck. Otherwise, they would get very hungry."

Buri laughed. "That sounds like another Scanran joke to me."

"Every year there is someone," Thorvald insisted.

They caught up with Lord Wyldon in front of a magnificent rearing snow stallion that was twice as large as life. Lord Wyldon was eyeing it with an expert's disfavour.

"Short pasterns," he said.

The Nisse are creatures from Scanran folktales that are similar to the Tortallan Brownie. They act as household guardians; doing chores, but also playing practical jokes. They are known to steal random articles of clothing from the household laundry to wear, because they don't have any of their own.