The Witling (7 page)

Pelio looked back into the clear brown eyes. Was she a prisoner? He had thought of stories to satisfy the court and Ngatheru, but had never considered just what he would tell her. “You are my guests, both you and Adgao,” he said, trying to imitate her pronunciation. “For now you must stay at the palace, but eventually, I hope”—
you will want to stay—
“I hope you will be free to leave. In any case, you will not be harmed. Whatever rough treatment you have received followed simply from your secretive entry into our kingdom.”

“But we never meant you harm. We’re not knowing what is right and wrong with your people.”

“Frankly, Ionina, I believe you.” He tried once again to identify the girl’s accent. He had been to most places this side of the Great Ocean, but he had never met anyone whose pronunciation was so correct—if northernish—and whose syntax was so poor. “But we’re a bit curious about travelers who come from so far away that they don’t know our customs. And considering the practically supernatural circumstances of your capture, we become even more curious. So I—as prince-imperial of Summer, that is—want to know as much about you as I can … . Isn’t that natural?”

“Yes.”

“Will you answer some questions then?”

Pause. “I will do my best.”

“Good.” Suddenly Pelio saw that he had taken the right tack. It
was
important to know more about Ionina and Adgao. Even if she had been as ugly as the man, it would have been important. He had inspected the strange devices Ngatheru’s men recovered, and he had heard about the flying monster. These two were associated with powers that might make the Guild itself look puny. For a moment his conscience twinged painfully: Adgao and Ionina could be a threat to All Summer. Pelio tried to ignore the feeling. After all, he was in a position to question them. “First, Ionina, we wish to know just where you come from.”

This time the girl paused even longer. She sat stiffly on the carven bench, the water dripping slowly from her black suit. Her eyes followed Samadhom as the watchbear snuffled curiously around the bench. Pelio was almost jealous for a moment. The animal rarely showed interest in other people. Samadhom must sense the peculiar similarities between the girl and himself. Finally the watchbear put his massive head on her lap and looked up through his furry face at her.
Meep?

The girl patted the animal’s head, then looked back at Pelio. “Up there.” She raised her slim arm and pointed vaguely through the window at the sky.

Pelio felt an angry flush start up his neck. From one of the moons? She couldn’t be. It wasn’t that the moons were unattainable; the Guild could reng objects to and from them. But the moons moved at marvelously great speeds. To jump to either of them was as suicidal as teleporting to the antipodes. But he had to ask.

“From the moons?”

“No. Much further.”

Further? The sun? The planets? The Guild itself could not seng so far. “Where exactly?” he asked.

Her back straightened slightly. “I … cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not, Ionina?” He almost forgot her beauty then, so intense was the mystery she had created. He half-rose, leaned toward her across his desk. “This is something I will know, Ionina. Where are you from?”

She spoke sharply in an unknown language. She no longer seemed shy. The soft brown contours of her face were suddenly smoothed hardwood, and her eyes said, “Bring on your torture. I will say nothing more.” He felt like the character in the children’s tale, who captures a woods-elf and then is driven mad by her obstinacy and beauty.

As Pelio sank back into his chair another idea occurred to him. He watched her closely as he said, “I’ll wager you’re afraid the Summerkingdom would invade your lands if we ever figured out where they
really
are.” Did she tense slightly at the suggestion? “In fact, I would wager you are of a race of witlings, hidden away in some obscure corner of the world.”

“Witlings?”

Pelio almost laughed. “What you are: a person who can’t teleport, who can’t even keng a sandmite from ten feet.”

The girl just smiled, and now her eyes told him nothing. Pelio was uncertain. For an instant there, he had been so sure. But then, he had always dreamed that there might be such a race: a people who were crippled every one, living on some island on the far side of Giri. And Ionina would make an ideal citizen in such a dream kingdom: she was a witling yet she behaved like a freeborn.

Pelio sighed. “Very well, Ionina, I won’t bother you with that question”—
at least for a while.
“I’ll even save my other questions. And I do have many more: we haven’t even begun to talk about the flying and crawling monsters that accompanied you. But as I said, you are a guest here. I am willing to trade you information. You have already told me something about yourself; now would you like to see the rest of the palace?”

She nodded. “You are sure to show me this won’t hurt the safety of your kingdom?” Somehow she managed to sound both sardonic and shy at the same time.

“Oh no.” He laughed. “We are so strong that we do not need any deep secrets.” He rose and motioned her to follow him to the wide marble sill of the north window. The girl walked with her usual strange grace, visible even through the bulky, dripping costume. Pelio touched the dark green garment spread out in the sunlight upon the windowsill. He had appropriated the dress from the wardrobe of his statutory harem. The fabric was so finely woven that it had a sheen whether wet or dry. And in either state it would be comfortable and light. The styling was simple, with only a single beading of rubies along the upper hem, but all in all it was the finest dress Pelio could give the girl without exciting comment among the servants. He raised the green softness from the windowsill and handed it to her. “This is for you.”

“Why, thank you.” She held it upside down as she inspected it. “But … what is it?”

The question surprised him. He could never really think of her as a savage. “It’s a dress, of course.” He turned it around in her hands, until it was correctly positioned before her body. “See, the upper hem goes here, and the rest just drapes down.” His hands moved close to her, but didn’t quite touch. “You can put it on in the alcove.”

Ionina said something unintelligible. She seemed to be fighting with herself, and her large brown eyes avoided his. Then: “May I still own the clothing I wear now?”

Pelio tried not to show his anger. “Certainly.”

The girl nodded and disappeared into the alcove. How could someone so graceful wish to dress like a sod?

A minute passed and Ionina stepped from the alcove: the dress revealed that she was even more beautiful than her coveralls had hinted. She stood with her long, slim legs tensed and her arms akimbo, and looked defiantly back into his gaze.

Pelio restrained the words he felt rising with him. “The dress does you well, Ionina. You look a proper guest of the prince-imperial.” He pointed to the silver brooch on the curve of her thigh. “This fastener should be turned about, though. There. Are you ready to see the palace?”

She nodded uncertainly and raised her damp coveralls. “Just leave them on the windowsill,” Pelio said as he pulled the servants’ bell. “I promise they won’t be disturbed.” Before he had finished the sentence, his two bodyguards were out of the water, and standing at attention before him. Without their renging he couldn’t travel the palace any more than Ionina could. “To the South Wing,” Pelio addressed the men, “the Gallery.”

The Gallery was as far south of the equator as Pelio’s study was north, a total distance of more than sixteen hundred miles. When Pelio and the others bobbed to the surface at their destination, the floor and the surface of the pool seemed canted—which wasn’t surprising since they were now almost twenty degrees of latitude away from the North Wing. Ionina pulled herself from the water, and stood for a moment on the balls of her feet, uncertain about the sudden change in the direction of down. Pelio and the others scrambled out, leaving Samadhom alone in the water, his two front paws up over the ledge of the pool. The animal kicked vigorously, and uttered furious but faint
meep meep
sounds as he tried to get out.
You overfed dummy,
thought Pelio, as he grabbed the watchbear by the scruff of his neck and slid his 150-pound body onto the floor.

The Gallery sat in the lower foothills of Thedherom mountain. The view wasn’t as spectacular as many around the palace, but that was one reason Pelio chose to visit the place: with the reception for the new Snowfolk ambassador taking place up in the Highroom and the Keep, the Gallery should be uncrowded today. He was right. In fact, the only other group he could see was a collection of young nobles picnicking some five hundred feet away across the living balcony that was the Gallery.

The prince led Ionina off the stone platform and onto the grass. The green was deep and soft beneath their bare feet, and spring rain had left a sheen of water over the grass and hedgework. Behind them, the bodyguards stayed within sight but just out of earshot. Pelio pointed to the hillsides of red-flowers stretching northward up Thedherom’s skirts. Those bloomed only through the spring and summer, but when the colder seasons came here, one could still find them—along with spring and summer—back in the North Wing. To the south, away from Thedherom’s snow- and cloud-capped peak, green plains lay out almost to the horizon. There they merged into a faint band of dusty brown—the Great Desert, where lived the Summerkingdom’s most persistent enemy. Pelio did not dwell on the thought. In his opinion, the people of the sands were low and primitive. They constituted a threat to his kingdom only to the extent that they harassed the far fiefs. Still, it was painful to recall that up until two generations before, the Great Desert had been a loyal—if nearly vacant—county of Summer.

Ionina didn’t pay much attention to the band of desert. She pointed at a group of tiny figures perhaps a mile away, just where the foothills of Thedherom finally leveled off into the plain.

“Pilgrims,” said Pelio. “They’re walking here along the Dgeredgerai Road.”

“They are witlings, then.”

“No. Probably they are soldier- or servant-trainees.” Most normal Azhiri spent a good many ninedays of their lives in pilgrimage, for—unless you were a Guildsman—it was simply impossible to teleport to a destination more than a few yards away, unless you had actually traveled to that destination previously. Back when his father could still hope Pelio had a usable measure of Talent, the prince had himself walked the north-south length of the palace, a full sixteen hundred miles. He had learned the palace’s true immensity, but little else. Oh, afterward he could occasionally seng the pools along the line of march—which would have been impossible without the pilgrimage—but he still could not teleport to them. It was humiliating, though Pelio had plenty of servants who could teleport him wherever he wanted to go—and really, most people depended on professional rengers for long-distance jumps, anyway.

They spent an hour exploring the Gallery’s fountains and garden rooms before they finally returned to the transit pool and jumped eight hundred miles northward—all the way to the triple-canopy rain forest that covered the equatorial portion of the Summerkingdom. Here he showed Ionina rooms built in the branches of the hardwood trees that rose from the steamy depths. They walked a wide avenue planed from the surface of one of those branches and listened to the buzzing and screaming of life below them in the greenish dark. Unidentified smells, both enticing and faintly repulsive, floated up past the gray-green pillars.

Pelio let his mouth babble on, but all the time another part of him was watching the girl’s reaction, and admiring her dark slenderness. She listened closely to everything he said, and when she asked a question it was always intelligent—though often naive. Every so often he noticed her quietly appraising look, and wondered what judgment she was forming of him. She didn’t gawk at what he showed her, as he had often seen minor nobles from the outer baronies do, the first time they saw the palace. Somewhere, he guessed, she had seen things more impressive. But where? Samadhom at his heels and the guards further behind were completely forgotten.

For midday meal, they stopped at the hunting lodge overlooking the Dhendgaru plains. The dining hall was virtually empty: with the nobility attending the ambassadorial reception in the Keep, he and Ionina had an unprecedented opportunity to roam unremarked through the palace. Pelio did not like to think of the dark side of this: the fact that his father had not required him to attend the reception was just another indication of how far Pelio was removed from the centers of power. When someday he
did
succeed to the crown, he would be the first figurehead monarch in centuries.

Ordinarily the thought would have turned him silent, but today it didn’t really seem to matter. Their sauced bvepa was delicious, though the girl didn’t finish her serving. She seemed more interested in the silvery sweep of the grain fields far below. Pelio found himself telling her how all those thousands of square miles were harvested and the grain teleported to the forests where it fed the animals that ultimately provided the food they were eating. From her questions Pelio gathered that where she came from, the farmers kept their livestock in artificial containments and fed them from closed fields. It all fitted his theory: only mental cripples would have to concentrate their food production so.