The Witling

Nineteen

The Guildsman looked nothing like Thengets del Prou. Lan Mileru was a small man—even by Azhiri standards—and very old. The veins stood like a lace net across his round face, and his every motion was cautious, slow. Now he sat hunched over the map table, his rheumy eyes straining to follow the text of the letter before him.

From across the table, Pelio watched with a kind of desolate indifference. There hadn’t been much life in the boy since Yoninne was—Ajão turned to look out the window, force -ably supressing his line of thought.

Mileru’s house was near the center of Tsarangalang. To the right Bjault could see the city’s transit lake, and beyond it stood a room of the count’s manse. There were only three or four other buildings in sight. Most were constructed of wood, the timbers worn and dry. Compared to the Summerkingdom, County Tsarang was arid and underpopulated. Only intense irrigation kept its orchards green. And apparently that irrigation system was one of the chief points of contention between the county and its Sandfolk neighbors.

Guildsman Mileru’s veined and trembling hand slid Prou’s letter back across the table to Ajão. “The letter is authentic, sir.” He spoke with a thin, fragile voice. “Thengets del Prou’s self-confident swagger is unmistakable. The boy is clever—and I don’t mean simply Talented: I am inclined to believe what he says of you, fantastic though that be. And therefore, I must do the favor that he, and you, asked of me. When Count Dzeda is informed of the situation, I am sure that he will cooperate, too: the count is an honorable and imaginative man.” And a wild man, too, thought Bjault. When they were pulled from the drowned skiff, it had been Count Dzeda who stood hip-deep in the water, shouting directions at his men. He acted more like a shop foreman than a nobleman—and his people didn’t hesitate to talk back to him. Nevertheless, the rescue had been accomplished with dispatch.

“But,” continued Lan Mileru, “is it really safe to take the injured woman? From what Thengets del Prou says, I do believe your people could pick her up later.”

At this, Pelio gave Ajão a questioning look.

The Guildsman might have a point. Yoninne, thought Bjault, will my scheme kill you? Or are you already dead?

Just an hour earlier, they had left her in the count’s manse, on the far side of the transit lake. There had been nothing they could do for the girl. She lay unmoving, her eyes closed, her breath barely detectable. The count’s physician (perhaps “barber” or “faith healer” was a better title) had leaned over the space pilot to push back her eyelids.

“As you say, she is alive,” the Azhiri doctor said. “But that is about all. Someone kenged her; it’s a miracle she wasn’t lulled instantly. Perhaps she has some defenses against the Talent, even though you say she is a witling.”

“No, it was Samadhom,” Pelio said darkly, and reached under the couch to pet the animal’s furry hulk. The prince-imperial had been kneeling beside Yoninne’s body ever since she was brought in, but these were the first words he had added to the conversation.

Bjault looked down at the girl. Without her action there in the final seconds of the skiff’s descent, Thredegar Bre’en could most likely have kenged them all—since the watchbear had been barely conscious after Bre’en kicked him in the face. But Yoninne had paid a high price in saving their lives: the tissues of her brain were torn and jumbled by Bre’en’s teleportive butchery. It was indeed a miracle, though perhaps an unhappy one, that her body continued to live.

Pelio broke the long silence that had followed his own remark. “Will… will she ever be herself again?” His tone was pleading.

“Your Highness, you know how rarely anyone is injured yet not killed by a keng attack. In fifteen years of Desertfolk raids, I’ve seen it happen only four times. In three of those cases the victim died within hours. In the fourth—well, the fourth fellow slowly wasted away, died without ever regaining his senses.”

The physician had no theoretical expertise, but Ajão saw that he was right: either Yoninne’s body would quickly die—like an engine without a governor—or else it would continue to function till it starved to death. If the first, then the jump to Draere’s island could do her no harm. And if the second, then she had everything to gain by going. Most likely, Draere had left a first-aid cache at the telemetry station; that was the usual procedure at stations that might be revisited in the future. There would be drugs there, perhaps even intravenous feeding equipment. He could keep Yoninne’s body alive till rescue came, till competent medics had a chance to resurrect her mind.

The thought brought him back to the present, and Lan Mileru’s questioning gaze. “She’ll make the jump along with Prince Pelio and myself.”

They were interrupted by the sounds of splashing water. Two men wearing kilts of county blue climbed from the room’s transit pool. “Gentlemen,” the taller of the two announced, “the Count of—”

Before he reached the word “Tsarang,” Dzeru Dzeda bounced out of the water.

“Hello, Lan,” the count said, and waved dismissal at the servants. Dzeda was a tall Azhiri, his skin almost as dark a gray as Thengets del Prou’s. Bjault guessed the fellow had more than a few ancestors in common with the Desertfolk that were his land’s traditional enemies. The nobleman had been quite a surprise. County Tsarang was a backwater of the Summerkingdom, and Ajão had expected its ruler to be either haughtily officious, like the prefect of Bodgaru, or else cautious and mousy, like the consul at Grechper. But Dzeda was neither. Apparently his position here did not amount to exile from the court of Summer: his family had been running this part of the world long before the Summerkingdom extended its influence here.

The count walked across the room to greet Pelio and Bjault with a certain courteous flippancy. “I would have been here with you, but I was called to the East Line. Do you know, I think the Snowking has half his army sitting in transit lakes out there? I’ve never seen the like of it; I’ll bet they even have their Desertfolk friends scared. The Snowmen accuse you and the kenged girl of trying to assassinate King Tru’ud, and they demand we give you up. I offered to return Bre’en instead, but that just seemed to make them angrier. They’re blockading the Island Road until we give in to them.”

“If they make open war on you,” said Lan Mileru, “you’ll have the Guild on your side.” There was steel in his quavering voice. “The last group that fought the Guild no longer exists.”

“I know,” said Dzeda. “And that’s what I told their envoys. They must be terribly desperate.” He turned to eye Ajão speculatively. “And I think I know why. It’s not simply that old Tru’ud got his kilt mussed…

“That was a remarkable device you flew here this morning, Adgao. From what we’ve been able to get out of Bre’en, I see that it’s a trick we can duplicate. Just think: with such fliers, pilgrims need never again risk boating across even the shortest stretch of open sea. And soldiers can penetrate enemy territory without ever setting foot on it. What other secrets do you and the girl have, Adgao? I do believe the Snowmen think you could make them stronger than the Guild itself.” He cocked his head to one side. “Could you really?”

Ajão ignored the tiny cramp that was gnawing at his middle. “Not by ourselves,” he said. “But perhaps, if my people and yours were to meet, they could teach each other a thing or two.” “Hmm.” Dzeda plunked himself down on the upholstered bench that ran around the map table. “I suppose you’ve told Lan of your adventures,” he said to Pelio, “and this suicidal plan you have for renging across the ocean.”

The elderly Guildsman smiled. “More than that, dear My Lord. I intend to cooperate with them.”

“What!”

“That’s right,” Mileru said. On the map between them he pointed at Draere’s island, three-quarters of the way around the equator from County Tsarang. “At their convenience, I will teleport them here.”

“Why, blood and bile, Lan. You’re as crazy as they are! That’s more than one hundred and twenty-five leagues. A four-league jump is enough to shatter the hull of the toughest road boat. We can’t even reng message balls more than twenty leagues without risking their contents.” He all but bounced off the bench in his agitation.

Lan Mileru seemed to be enjoying the other’s consternation. “Nevertheless, Dzeru, I have been convinced they should be allowed to try.” He held out Prou’s letter.

But Dzeda waved it aside. “If you three are so eager to smear yourselves across that speck of mud out in the ocean,” he said to Ajão, “why did you bother coming to County Tsarang? Why not have some Guildsman reng you there direct from the Summerpalace? The palace is closer to the island than Tsarang. And there are places in the Snowkingdom that are still closer: I’ll bet if you made the jump from Ga’arvi, you’d crash into your destination ‘gently’ enough to leave recognizable corpses.”

Ajão smiled at the other’s sarcasm. “There is a reason for coming to your county, My Lord. If we make the jump from here, we will be thrown upward from the ground at our destination.” The problem was not especially difficult to visualize. Imagine the planet spinning on its axis, a vast, spherical merry-go-round in space. The Summerpalace was just ninety degrees east of Draere’s island; if they jumped from the palace they’d be smashed into the ground when they emerged at the telemetry station. Ga’arvi was a better prospect (except that it was a Snowfolk town). Renging to the telemetry station from there would be like hopping from the center of a merry-go-round straight out to the edge: they would arrive moving due west—at nearly the speed of sound. Yoninne had dismissed Ga’arvi with the comment, “Who wants to make a belly landing at mach one?”

But as you followed the continent from Ga’arvi to the isthmus of Tsarang, the situation improved. If they jumped to Draere’s island from Tsarangalang, they would arrive moving better than a kilometer per second—but that velocity would be directed upward at almost 23 degrees. The only better jumping-off point in either hemisphere was the east coast of the isthmus, but that was under Desertfolk control, and besides, there was no Guildsman there.

“I realize,” Bjault continued, “that our boat might still crash into something—a steep hillside or cliff face, for instance—but this is about the best we can do, given the arrangement of Giri’s continents.”

Dzeda shook his head despairingly. “No. You’ll die in any case. Don’t you realize that when air moves fast enough, it might as well be solid rock? I’ve seen men and war boats struck by air renged from sixty leagues: the men spattered, and the boats were turned to kindling. Your boat may be strong, but nothing can resist forces like that.”

Ajão started to disagree, but the count raised his hand. “Let me finish. I know Shozheru has put you under what amounts to a suspended death sentence. Either you go through with this plan or he executes the three of you. But you’re in County Tsarang now. We were an independent state long before there even was a Summerkingdom. Back at the palace they may call me count and vassal—but out here that’s not quite the way things are: I am willing to grant you a secret asylum, to report to the Summerkingdom that you went through with your plan. Frankly, I think this is what your father was aiming at when he agreed to this scheme, Pelio. His advisers may he cold men, but he is not.

“How about it? Will you stay?”

Ajão was silent. For Yoninne and himself there was no choice. Unless they could get to the telemetry station and call in a rescue ship from Novamerika, they would die—and soon. Already he was beginning to feel the same pain and weakness he had on the trip to Grechper.

Pelio did have a choice. Dzeru Dzeda’s offer finally took him off the deadly hook that Ajão and Prou and Yoninne had forced him onto. Perhaps their machinations wouldn’t ruin the bov’s life, after all.

But the young prince looked from Bjault to Dzeda, and then slowly shook his head. “I want to be with … I mean, I want to go with Adgao and Ionina.”

The count saw the refusal in Ajão’s face, too. He pursed his lips, and for a moment seemed lost in minute inspection of the floor between his feet. There was a wan smile on his face as he looked back at Ajão. “Well, I tried, good witling. You may never know how scared I am: scared of what might happen if you fall into unfriendly hands; scared of what your people may do to us if you bring them back here. My race has always depended on its natural Talent—while yours apparently has none: you’ve had to substitute ingenuity and invention for Talent. Somehow, I suspect that’s taken your people much, much further than mine have come.”

Something turned to ice in Bjault’s spine: this petty nobleman could destroy their last hope for rescue if he chose.

But Dzeda bounced to his feet, and some of his cheerful nature returned. “But at the same time, I’m overburdened with soft-heartedness. And curiosity. If your insane scheme works, the future could be an interesting place, indeed.

“Give them whatever they need, Lan,” he said over his shoulder, as he walked to the transit pool. “I’ll be out on the East Line the next few hours, keeping watch on our unfriendly neighbors.”

Through the wide windows of the count’s manse, Ajão could see bands of orange and green the setting sun had spread above the ocean to the west, while the mountains in the east were barely darker than the sky there. The warm bluish twilight that filled the gardens about the manse was infinitely cheerful compared to the stark light and dark they had traveled through at the poles.

Bjault shook his head, trying to concentrate on the fiberene chute that was spread around him. The temptation to quit, to get some sleep, was overpowering. But he knew that part of his fatigue was not natural. Every time he smiled into a mirror he saw the line of blue along his gums. The pain in his gut was getting steadily worse, much as it had on the trip to Grechper. Only this time he might not recover from the attack. If they didn’t make the jump soon, there was a good chance he would be too sick to guide the skiff to a landing once they reached Draere’s island.

Dzeda’s men had moved the skiff into the manse’s meeting hall. It sat on the marble floor, and all around it lay the parachute’s olive fabric. Across the room, Pelio and the others worked to remove every fleck of dirt from the slick material.

But folding the parachute was something which only he, Ajão Bjault, could do. The packing pattern was intricate, and each of the canopy’s movable flaps had to be specially accounted for; a single mistake could be fatal. As the minutes passed, the ache in his tired arms became a pulsing fire. Soon he needed Pelio’s help to compact the mass he had folded.

Early in the afternoon, Ajão had briefly considered a plan that didn’t require the chute to be repacked: if they could get a Tsarangi volunteer, perhaps they could fly the skiff across the ocean, the same way Bre’en had flown them over the mountains. But Draere’s island was nearly twenty thousand kilometers away, and Lan Mileru pointed out that even a two- or three-man team of teleports couldn’t keep the skiff airborne for the hundreds of hours it would take to fly that distance.

So they must stick to the original scheme: Lan would teleport them across the ocean in a single jump; they’d slam up into the air over Draere’s island at better than a kilometer per second, fast enough to rip even a fiberene chute to shreds. Only when their speed fell well below mach one could they pop the chute and sink “gently” to a landing.

Suddenly Bjault stopped work, stared blankly at the pile before him. His mind had wandered; what was next? Back in the Summerpalace, he made Yoninne show him every step of the folding process. She had considered the demand a waste of time, but now the memory of what he had seen there was all he had to guide him.

Yoninne, girl, what I wouldn’t give to have you here swearing at me. Only now did he realize what an effective team they had made. Again and again he’d come up with a good idea, and Yoninne would somehow put together all the details to make it work.

The last colors of sunset had faded when Pelio and Dzeda’s men squeezed the chute into its retaining straps. The fabric no longer looked fragile and gauzy. Ajão’s careful work had transformed it into a thick, dark slab that massed nearly as much as an equivalent volume of rock.

While Ajão and Lan watched, the younger men lifted the pack and set it in the rectangular slot at the top of the skiff. Then Bjault closed the cowling over the chute and crawled through the passenger hatch into the vehicle. He moved slowly now, his body bent. The pain in his middle made it all but impossible to think. For a moment he lay quivering in the darkness—then Pelio called to him, and someone held a torch in front of the hatchway. Ajão gagged on the oily smoke, and forced himself upright. “I’m all right,” he said to the men outside. Back to work: he connected the chute release, then briefly checked the cords holding the lead ballast in place. Finished. He crawled out of the skiff, and stood swaying on the marble floor. “Lan, we’re ready. You can jump us in four hours.” That would be the middle of the night here—but morning at Draere’s island.

Even by the flickering torchlight, Ajão could see real concern on the old Guildsman’s face. “Perhaps you should wait. Just a day or two.”

“No!” Ajão opened his mouth, tried to put his reasons into words, but all he knew was the pain in his middle. The floor swung up toward his face, and everything turned black. He didn’t feel Pelio’s arms break his fall.

As it happened, Bjault’s wishes prevailed, even though he was not awake to argue for them: the Snowmen attacked shortly after midnight.