The Witling

Thirteen

Grechper was the largest city she’d seen since leaving the Summerkingdom. It stretched around three sides of the transit lake: first the warehouses, many three and four stories tall, and beyond them the residential and business sections, angular buildings of stone and ice separated by narrow, crooked streets. A far cry from the open cities of the South. East of the transit lake lay a jagged, tumbled wilderness, glinting here and there in the moonlight. Yoninne had little experience with arctic environments, but she recognized this: the frozen surface of an ocean, crisscrossed by faults and pressure ridges. And that was the way they would go tomorrow.

Their men marched protectively about them as they walked down the pier from the yacht. Above, the stars and moon gleamed in the crystal dark. The wind had died, but Yoninne could feel her warmth being radiated through her parka and face mask into that clear arctic night. Each breath froze into a million tiny diamonds, while beads of ice condensed around the eyeholes of her mask. Except for Ajão, their group looked like so many moon-lit teddy bears. And the featureless lump on the litter ahead of her was Samadhom, hunkered down under a pile of blankets.

Their party proceeded up the narrow street that led from the pier. The snow and crushed ice beneath Yoninne’s feet felt like sand and gravel. What a place: how could anyone bear to live here? Yet it was clear that many people did. The wharves and streets were crowded, both with locals and travelers. The Snowfolk didn’t even bother with face masks.

The Summerkingdom’s consulate in Grechper was a lone stone building that looked like a rebuilt warehouse. Inside, the halls were lined with hardwood paneling and murals depicting Summer landscapes. Firewood was imported all the way from Pfodgaru, Pelio said, to stoke the many furnaces that had been installed in the building. After the cold outside, the warmth and the sound of crackling wood were almost as welcome as a sunny day in the South. Now off his quilted litter, Samadhom padded down the hallways, sniffing enthusiastically into every room.

The place seemed queerly familiar to Yoninne; despite the climate, Grechper and the consulate reminded her of home. Here, people walked from building to building, and the rooms were connected by hallways and doorways rather than by transit pools. She supposed that they must use transit pools for some jobs, but in most cases—if one end of a trip were out-of-doors—it just didn’t make sense to teleport.

The consulate’s chief officer led the witlings up a steep stair to the second floor, where the rest of the consular staff stood nervously at attention. No one had been warned of the prince-imperial’s visit to Grechper. Pelio put the staff “at ease,” and said mildly, “We’ll be laying over just one night—twelve hours or so. I’d like my men given hot meals and billeted according to their various ranks. My own party”—he waved his hand to include Yoninne and Ajão—“will also eat now.”

The consul bobbed his head. “At once, Your Highness.” The fellow was a bit past middle age, and he and his subordinates had a kind of beaten look. Their clothing was not actually frayed, but it did look old and worn. Perhaps she was wrong to think of this place as a consulate—these people looked more like overworked shipping clerks than diplomats.

And the meal they were served fit the same picture: the consul kept apologizing for not having anything fresh from the South, and his staff—doubling as waiters—hovered curiously about the dining table. For the first time the food tasted metallic, tasted as poisonous as it actually was. The only thing good about the meal was the wine, and in the end that almost made up for everything else: a pleasant warmth spread outward from her middle, and everything seemed more congenial.

All through the meal, Bjault played unhappily with his food. By the time they cleared away the dishes, he had eaten barely a quarter of his share. A sheen of sweat lay across his forehead and his hands shook faintly as he pushed his plate away. For the first time she had a gut feeling for how terribly old he was—longevity treatments or no.

Pelio followed her gaze and spoke to the guards who had stood inconspicuously in the background all through the meal. “Help Adgao to his room.” Two of them raised Ajão to his feet and supported him as they sidled down the hall, with Yoninne, Pelio, and the consul close behind. They passed through a curtained doorway—even here in the arctic doors didn’t seem to be very popular—and laid the archaeologist on a deep pile of pillows. All the while, Ajão protested that he wasn’t that sick. For once his talk didn’t annoy her; Yoninne knelt to loosen his collar. “I know, I know,” she said. “You may still be functioning now, but we’ve got another two days of this to go through.”

Pelio looked anxiously down at Bjault. “Yes, things are going to get a good deal more strenuous before they get easier. Do … do you think you’ll be able to make it?” He was deliberately obscure; the consul and the guards were listening. There were good reasons for keeping their ultimate plan secret. Whoever grabbed the maser and tried to grab Bjault was still at large.

Ajão nodded painfully. “I’ll go through with it even if I have to crawl. You’re right… today was bad. But I’ll get better. I just need a little rest… I think.”

“All right. Try to sleep. If you need anything there’ll be a couple of guards just outside this room.” They stepped back through the curtain, and as they returned to the dining room, Pelio continued in a softer voice, “How sick is he?”

Yoninne considered. Bjault was more than 150 Homeworld years old—not counting the years he spent in deepfreeze during the trip to Novamerika. That made him one of the oldest humans in known history, so there wasn’t any way of estimating how durable he was. For now, she might as well try to feel optimistic. “Don’t worry. He’ll recover.”

Pelio brightened. “Good.” He waved the others away and they entered the dining room, sat down at a corner table. Samadhom curled up under the table, his head resting on his master’s booted foot. “You know, I’m almost beginning to think that we’ll make it, that this whole crazy thing is going to work out. Let me show you what I suggested to the chief navigator.” And he described his scheme for rotating the men from sleep, to guarding the consulate, to guarding the equipment aboard the yacht. The witlings would be safe from sabotage even if their mysterious enemy had planted several agents in the crew. It was a good plan; Pelio had taken care of just those things she and Bjault could not. The boy seemed a lot brighter, a lot more flexible away from the court of Summer. Perhaps in the end, she thought, he will benefit from our scheming as much as we will.

Their talk slowly petered out, without either of them really being aware of the fact, till they were just sitting there, looking at each other with silly smiles on their faces. It’s that damn wine, she thought to herself, and wished she’d had some a long time before. She realized now she had liked Pelio almost from the beginning, and she realized why: he looked at her as though it were a pleasure to do so. He made her feel light and tall—as she hadn’t felt since she was six years old, when her figure still fell somewhere in the range people termed “cute.” It was strange: here she was, stuck in a backward corner of a backward world, with only even chances of getting home alive—and suddenly she felt less alone than ever before.

Pelio’s thick hand reached across the table and closed gently over hers. “Perhaps my father’s learning about you and Adgao was the best thing that could have happened to me. Oh, at the time I was scared out of my wits, and when you described your plan—then I was even more scared, in a way. But now I see how carefully you and Adgao have thought everything out, and I’m so grateful I was included in all this. If it works we’ll find your witling kingdom, where I … where we can have normal lives. And if it doesn’t—well, at least it will have been a spectacular try.”

Later, Yoninne blamed the wine for what she said next, but at the time it was the most natural thing she could think of. “I’m glad. When we decided to have Thengets del Prou bring us to the festival, I was afraid we were just ruining your life to save our own necks.”

“Thengets del Prou renged you to the festival—not some incompetent chamberlain?” Pelio spoke softly but his tone was flat.

The change in his voice barely registered in Yoninne’s mind. “Prou was responsible. We—Ajão and Prou really—weren’t sure you would help us unless you had no other choice. I’m so happy now that it’s turning out best for you, too—”

Pelio’s hand was snatched from hers as the prince crashed to his feet, half-stumbling over the drowsing Samadhom. The watch-bear gave a pained yelp and pushed himself further under the table. For a moment, Pelio just stood staring at her, his face as pale as a Snowman’s. “You mean you three set me up for all this?”

Yoninne felt her skin go chill; her dreamy mood was turning into a nightmare. “But—but you just said this is better than going on with your old life!”

Pelio leaned across the table, his smooth, round face coming within centimeters of hers. He said something she didn’t understand, but it must have been a curse. “Yes, I said that—and perhaps it’s true. But I didn’t know you had intrigued, manipulated me into this—like some child or dumb animal.” His words came fast and slurred, and for a moment Yoninne thought he might strike her. “I have no choice now. We go to County Tsarang, just as you planned. Only now I know how I stand with you, and if we come out of this alive, I’ll… I’ll …” His voice choked off in anger and confusion, and he stomped out of the room.

For a long while after he left, Yoninne stared at the scarred wooden surface of the table. As if to blot out what had just happened, the details of her surroundings crowded into her consciousness: the fire crackling in the room’s stove, the muted singing from downstairs, the dry, smoky smell of the place. She felt the tears building in her eyes, and tried to hold them back. She hadn’t cried in fifteen years, and she’d be damned if she did now. But finally she couldn’t help herself … perhaps she really was damned.