The Witling (14 page)

In the lengthening, north-pointing shadows, the villages seemed grotesquely squalid. The snow piled up high around the water like some mineral deposit; many warehouses were built of dirty gray ice rather than stone. Still further north, thick ice shelves stuck out into the water. Snowmen work crews hacked industriously at the ice, trying to keep the road open. The water in the lakes was a peculiar green now; even when it splashed up on the window slats and froze, it had a greenish cast. Pelio told Leg-Wot that the Snowpeople had potions they added to the water to keep it liquid even at these temperatures. Antifreeze, huh? It was hard to believe that only a few hours before they had been traveling through semitropical forests.

Except for a thirty-degree wide band straddling the equator, Giri was a frigid world, its ice caps reaching down in places to the forty-fifth latitude. The colonists from Homeworld had been wise to settle on Novamerika, fifty million kilometers closer to the sun. The Novamerikan tropics were insufferable, but swimmable beaches extended to the poles. In the three years since the colony’s establishment, she had come to love walking alone on those long, empty beaches.
But will we ever get back?

She slumped in her chair and for a while sat as silent and withdrawn as Bjault. When she looked up again, the sun had set in the south. The twilight faded to night inside of four jumps—yet it was scarcely past midafternoon! The shifting landscapes were now lit by the stars and the fainter of the two moons. The buildings seemed more graceful, more delicately formed than they had in the failing sunlight. Yellow lamps glowed cheerily in their windows. The air was like crystal, yet the wind coming through the window slats blew steadily, strongly.

Pelio became more talkative, as if he sensed the downturn in Yoninne’s spirits. He had been this way two or three times before, both on state visits to the Snowkingdom and on tours of vassal states beyond the pole. He described the functions of the various buildings clustered about each transit lake, and proudly identified the freighter traffic bound to and from the far fiefs of Summer; the sun-over-fields seal of the Summerkingdom shone on hull after hull, clearly visible even by moonlight. As they progressed into the northern night, traffic became heavier. Soon the splashing water had frozen over the windows and obscured their view. Every third or fourth jump, their pilot-navigator sent crewmen out to chip away the ice. The stoves were restoked and the tiny red sparkles leaking through their sides lit the deck.

Pelio was so animated, so cheerful that Yoninne almost smiled. No doubt he thought they would most likely die at the end of their journey, yet he was doing his best to cheer
her
up. She wondered again if he would have gone along with this scheme, if the alternative had not been execution. Nine days ago—it seemed so much longer now—when Bjault and Thengets del Prou had first put Ajão’s plan to her, she had insisted that they go directly to Pelio with it.

Prou had been skeptical. “Pelio would be taking a terrible risk in cooperating with you. The Keep is rotten with guards now; if he tried to use his authority to take what remains of your equipment, the chances are Shozheru would discover he’s been consorting with witlings. That would mean almost certain death for the prince—I just don’t think he’s willing to take that chance. We’ve got to create a situation where Pelio—and his father—will be
forced
to cooperate.”

Yoninne had looked angrily across the tiny room at the Guildsman. Someone had murdered to get their maser; someone had come within centimeters of snatching Bjault. They were at the center of a deadly intrigue that neither she nor Ajão understood. And now this fast-talking Guildsman wanted them to betray the only dependable friend they had here. In the guttering torchlight, she couldn’t read Bjault’s face: did he really buy Prou’s argument? How could they be sure that Thengets del Prou and his Guild were not the people behind all their problems?

The arachaeologist seemed to be reading her mind. “I think we can trust him, Yoninne,” he said in Homespeech. “If he wished us ill, we’d be dead or kidnapped by now. And the help he’s giving us will only serve to put us beyond his power.”

“Then your pet Guildsman is doing this out of the goodness of his heart? Or did you promise him the keys to the magic kingdom?” Leg-Wot replied in the same language, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “If he’s not the guy who stole our weapons and the maser, then there’s nothing we could do or tell him that would be of any value.”

Ajão answered quietly. “That’s not so. I told Prou about Novamerika. He’s almost as eager as we are to establish contact; he seems to be equal parts political realism and pathological curiosity. Do you know that for all his power, he’s not allowed to travel more than a few jumps from Dhendgaru? If we get rescued, he wants passage to Novamerika.”

Leg-Wot grimaced. Bjault made Prou sound like some bright college student “thirsting for knowledge.”

But Ajão’s plan was their only hope for survival now that the maser was gone. And that plan depended upon Guild cooperation. They had no choice but to trust Prou. She tapped her stubby fingers irritably against her chair’s armrest, then turned to the Guildsman and spoke in Azhiri: “Just how do you plan to force Pelio and the king to go along with our scheme?” The word “our” came easily to her lips. From the moment Ajão had described his plan she had been sure she could make it work.

Prou leaned forward, seemed to listen for a moment to the night sounds outside the bungalow. “That’s simple, though a bit risky. You’ll publicly reveal yourself to be witlings, witlings intimately associated with Pelio. Shozheru will have to accept your plan, as a means of removing Pelio from the line of succession. His only alternative would be to have Pelio executed, and the king is really too good-hearted to do that. In giving Pelio this last chance, Shozheru will have to provide you with the equipment you need.”

And so Leg-Wot had grudgingly accepted the Azhiri’s suggestions. On the day of the festival, Prou had arranged to have Yoninne and Ajão appear right into the middle of the royal court (even though it was not apparent that he was responsible for their arrival). The guards at the transit pool had immediately recognized them as witling intruders and the confrontation they had counted on took place—with just the results Prou had predicted.

The thought brought Yoninne back to the present—to the chill night beyond the ice-splattered windows, to Pelio’s young face lit by the reddish gleamings of the deck stoves. It just wasn’t right: She was sure he would have accepted the plan, risks and all, if they had laid it out honestly before him. Instead they had betrayed Pelio, and put all their faith in a man who—despite Ajão’s logic—might still turn out to be the rat in this affair.

Thirteen

G
rechper 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.