The Witling

Sixteen

League after league, Bre’en teleported the witlings and King Tru’ud northward, yet only the service buildings around the transit lakes seemed to change. Beyond their tiny boat’s windows, the sky remained a deep, cloudless blue. From thirty degrees off the glare-white horizon, the sun cast long, bluish shadows across the jumbled madness of the antarctic ice. It was way too bright to look at, though Yoninne’s wrist chron said it was early morning, Summerkingdom time. Here the night was more than one hundred days away.

For the moment, the Snowking’s forces were letting them proceed toward County Tsarang. If they could make it to that vassal state of Summer, they might yet have a chance to carry out the scheme that had once seemed the most dangerous part of Ajão’s plan, the scheme that would take them to Draere’s Island.

The boat they had stolen was small and its hull was strong, strong enough so they could safely skip every other transit lake along the road. They were making good progress even though they rested five or ten minutes between each jump: time for Bre’en to prepare for the next hop, time for Pelio to check the harnesses that bound the two hostages.

“I’m not taking any chances with our friends,” said Pelio. “No matter how highly trained, they can’t reng away from us as long as they’re tied down.”

Ajão said something about molecular bonding energies, but Leg-Wot already understood what Pelio meant: when Azhiri teleported, they took at least part of their surroundings with them; only Guildsmen had perfect control of the volume renged. In order to teleport themselves from the boat, Tru’ud and Bre’en would have to cut through the straps that held them—an act that was far beyond the power of the Talent. Yoninne looked at Pelio with new respect. The trick was one that she—and perhaps Ajão—would not have thought of. For that matter, they wouldn’t be heading north right now if it weren’t for Pelio’s guts and initiative. Was it simply desperation that drove him, or had he been a man all along—all the time she treated him like a weak-willed adolescent?

“I think we’re being paced,” Ajão said abruptly, two jumps later.

“What?” said Pelio.

“Look around the lake. Several of those boats are awfully familiar.”

“Yes,” the prince said slowly. “And every lake is a bit more crowded than the last. I’ll wager the Snowmen messaged ahead, calling up every available army boat. In effect, we’re as tightly surrounded as we were back in their palace.” He grinned at Bre’en and Tru’ud. “But it won’t do you any good.

If they blast our boat, you’ll go down with it.” When the Snowmen did not respond he went on. “In a way I should be grateful to you two. You’ve given me a chance to prove I’m not completely helpless.”

“You needed the watchbear,” Bre’en pointed out glumly. “That’s true. But you practically died of shock when I jumped Tru’ud. Witlings just don’t attack normal people; we’re less than animals to you. You couldn’t conceive that I’d be a threat, so you didn’t put even a single guard on me. And for once, I was able to take advantage of that arrogance.” Bre’en didn’t reply, but Tru’ud shouted wildly in his native language. Pelio just smiled.

In two hours they made seventeen jumps and covered about four thousand kilometers, moving all the way to the Antarctic Circle. The sun edged down toward the southeast, and its light turned the snows into sparkling gold. More and more they saw bedrock jut up through the yellow-white, and quick-flowing streams pouring from the ice and slush into over-full transit lakes. Another four hops, and the snow was mostly gone. A tundra extended off to the horizon—and she saw green out there! But the next jump brought even greater change: the squalid stone buildings around the lake were themselves surrounded by a maze of tents and hundreds of busy Snowfolk. Beyond the strangely checkered tents she glimpsed herds of hairy, four-footed animals grazing off the summer vegetation. So that was how the Snowfolk supported themselves. They were nomads on the grandest scale; they must reng their herds from pole to pole, as the seasons brought a little vegetation first to the North and then to the South. No wonder their cities at the other end of the world had seemed so drab and empty.

Her view of the surrounding countryside was cut off as one of the pursuing army boats splashed into the lake. Their unwelcome companions numbered more than twenty now; God only knew what other forces were pacing them in the lakes ahead and behind. Yet it was still a stalemate: the Snowmen had their army, and the witlings had the Snowking.

Somewhere in the next two jumps, the sun slid behind the horizon. As twilight deepened, the air became steadily warmer. The witlings doused the boat’s tiny stove, and—several leagues further north—shed their heavy clothing. While she covered Bre’en and Tru’ud with the supposedly lethal maser, Pelio loosened the Snowmen’s restraints so they could remove their parkas and over-leggings. Leg-Wot almost felt sorry for their two prisoners. They had been strapped down for hours now. Tru’ud squirmed uncomfortably after each jump, and Bre’en seemed to be tiring—at least, Pelio allowed him a longer rest between jumps.

For more than an hour they drove on through darkness, with only the stars above, and the campfires ashore, to see by—just enough light to make out their ominous entourage. And then, fantastically, twilight returned to the east: their path had taken them from the antarctic day through a narrow sliver of lower-latitude night, and now the sun was about to pop back up again. The land revealed by the new twilight was far different from what they had seen before. The tents and the grazing animals were gone. Dry and rocky desolation had replaced them. The buildings surrounding the lake were smooth, almost streamlined—adobe? Scrub brush scraggled around the water’s edge, where dark-skinned men stood silently watching.

“Those are Desertfolk ashore,” said Pelio. “We’re in their domain now—but it will make little difference to us. Wherever Summer lands adjoin desert, these people harass us. Their lords are all allied with the Snowking, so we are in as much danger here as before. The most we can hope is that Tru’ud’s army will be slowed a bit trying to coordinate with the local warlords. I think—”

Yoninne wasn’t looking at Tru’ud when he made his move, and for an instant everything was a confused jumble. The Snowman lunged across the boat’s narrow deck, the straps of his harness flying loose around him. He slammed into the half-open hatch, and for a moment hung partway in, partway out, his enormous belly stuck in the opening. But before Pelio could get to him, Tru’ud heaved himself through and splashed heavily into the water below.

She whirled on Bre’en, brought her maser to bear. “Get your hands in the air!” The Snowman diplomat had twisted in his seat, his hands straining to within centimeters of an inconspicuous silver rivet on his harness. Damnation, some kind of quick release latch. So all Tru’ud’s squirming had had a purpose. “You’ll burn if you don’t raise your hands,” Yoninne said, and Bre’en’s hands slowly retreated from the latch. Behind them, Samadhom meeped anxiously.

Pelio leaned out to look into the dark waters, then slammed the hatch shut and scrambled back into his harness. “Get us out of here, Bre’en, now!”

Apparently the Snowman saw sudden death in the other’s eyes, for he obeyed immediately.

But Pelio hardly seemed to notice. “Tru’ud must have jumped to a different part of the transit lake the moment he hit the water. There was no way we could have picked him up. Now we’re really in for it. It won’t take the army more than a few minutes to discover their king has escaped us—and then having Bre’en hostage isn’t going to do us any good. Do you hear that, Bre’en? You’ll die with us unless you can keep away from the other boats.”

For a moment Bre’en did not respond. In the transit lake the army boats were arriving. Finally he said, “You’re probably right, Prince Pelio. Your crimes are so great that my king will no doubt pay any price to punish you.” His gaze turned to Ajão and Yoninne. “But you two are still mere accomplices. And we need you as much as before—don’t you see that guarantees your safety? You have the weapons; put the Summerboy in his place. Surrender.”

Pelio turned to look at Yoninne, but he said nothing. Most likely, Bre’en’s promises are lies, thought Leg-Wot, but what choice do we have…? “No!” she said abruptly, without looking to see if Bjault agreed. She wasn’t going to sell Pelio out again. “You just keep renging this boat north, Snowman.” Bre’en glared at her, but obeyed. The next lake was much the same as the one they had left—an oasis set in twilit desert. Seconds later, the army boats splashed in around them. Pelio looked at her the way she had missed so much since Grechper. “What are we going to do, Ionina? The only places Bre’en can take us are under Tru’ud’s control. No matter where we go, they’ll sink us.”

Before she could answer, the early-morning silence was broken by a splintering crash from the east side of the hull. Thunder ripped back into the sky from the point of impact. Shards of hardwood fell into the boat’s interior and Samadhom keened in pain. Yoninne twisted in her seat: it looked as if some blunt object had smashed against the upper hull, punching an irregular hole. Through the maze of shattered quartz and tangled wood she saw the Snowman boats resting in the water just thirty meters away. The Snowmen were renging air from half a world away, air moving hundreds of meters per second relative to their boat. In the space of just two seconds, the attackers struck three more times, breaching the hull all the way to the waterline. Then Bre’en jumped the tiny speedboat and suddenly the morning was still again.

Samadhom! Leg-Wot strained in her harness to get a closer look at the watchbear. A ten-centimeter sliver of wood protruded from the animal’s furry shoulder, and that fur was slowly turning red. His deep green eyes showed wide borders of white as he tried to lick the wound. Yet he couldn’t be too badly hurt—otherwise Bre’en would have killed them all by now. She started to pry open the buckles on her harness—Sam should be moved away from the crumbling bulkhead—but just then five army boats splashed into the oasis’ dark waters.

Two gouts of water—accompanied by characteristic thunder—fountained from the lake’s surface. Then the enemy got their range and the hypervelocity bolts of wind slammed into the speedboat’s hull, shredding it still further. “They’re being gentle,” Bre’en shouted over the sounds of destruction. He looked haggard and scared now, his oily manner gone. “They could reng water at us, or even rocks.”

“Jump, damn you, jump!” Leg-Wot screamed in Homespeech, but the other got her meaning. They jumped and Leg-Wot felt herself lurch upward against the restraining straps: they had hopped east rather than north. They were no longer moving to get somewhere, but only to avoid the enemy. It was a futile effort: the new lake was already occupied. Blow after blow broke across the boat. The deck tilted toward the gaping vents at the waterline.

“We’re boxed in,” Pelio said to no one in particular. “They must have boats on every transit lake for leagues. Wherever we go, they’ll keep hitting us.” Crunch. Slivers of wood flew up from the deck and the boat slid sideways into the water. The enemy boats were moving in now, as if this were a delicate operation they must do piece by piece; so they meant to save Bre’en after all. She saw the Snowman’s hands edging toward the quick release on his harness, and waved her maser at him. If he escaped, the enemy could dispense with delicacy.

But even as their speedboat was being hacked from under them, old Bjault piped up with an inane question. “You said you learned to seng this part of the world because you were a soldier?” he said to Bre’en. Leg-Wot didn’t know whether to laugh or swear: was Bjault so far out of touch, he didn’t see the end was seconds away?

Bre’en just grunted in response. “Well, then,” continued Ajão, “you must have learned to seng spots much smaller than transit lakes. You must know all sorts of hidden—”

“Of course!” shouted Pelio over the crashing wind. “Ambush points, food caches! You can take us to hundreds of places these people won’t find for hours.”

In the brightening twilight, the hate in Bre’en’s face was plain to see. “No!” he shrilled. He came so close, thought Yoninne, to saving his own neck and recapturing us, too. She turned the maser’s blunt muzzle on him, and tried to ignore the water rising about her ankles. “One more jump, Bre’en. Take us somewhere no one has been in a long time.”