The Witling (20 page)
Thredegar Bre’en nodded dumbly. She noticed that Ajão’s face was blank, an expression that Leg-Wot recognized as carefully concealed amusement.
They flew in silence for several minutes. Now the desert looked like tawny cement, littered with pebbles, splattered here and there with motor oil.
Gradually the land seemed to ripple. Long shadows stood the foothills up like great ridges. She leaned out past the hatch, into the wind: the mountains ahead rose a good thousand meters above them, the rounded summits speckled with trees, pepper on sand.
She had Bre’en give the craft another boost, and minutes later still another. Each time they drew swiftly closer to the mountains but each time they rose hundreds of meters. Yoninne swallowed again and again to ease the pressure in her ears.
They passed over the line of peaks, missing the nearest by less than five hundred meters. In the branches of the trees there, she saw tiny spots of color that must be flowers. But spectacular as it was, the land below them couldn’t compare to what she saw over the mountains. The sea! A dark blue line along the western horizon. And the land between the mountains and the coast was green—not brown or ocher like the deserts behind them. The beautiful green band stretched as far to the north as she could see. So this was County Tsarang.
It was all downhill now; Bre’en had a much easier time of it. Yoninne estimated they could make it all the way to the coast if necessary. “Do you recognize any of this, Pelio?” she asked.
Pelio started to lean across Bre’en to look out the hatch. There were small observation windows slotted into the hull near him, but the open hatch provided a much better view. Samadhom shifted heavily across his lap and rolled limply against the wall. Pelio turned to cradle Sam’s head in his arms. He looked back at Yoninne, and his voice quavered faintly. “Samadhom’s still alive, I’m sure of it—”
But he’s unconscious
, thought Leg-Wot. Bre’en’s attention flickered quickly from Yoninne to the watchbear and then back.
Thank God Bre’en thinks the skiff will fall without our help
.
Pelio reluctantly eased Sam onto the piled ballast, then returned to the hatch. He looked northward, then—gripping the edge of the hatch with both hands—leaned into the wind to look straight ahead. “We’ve done it, Ionina,” he said softly. “The center of Tsarangalang city is just to the right of our path. It can’t be more than a few miles away.”
They grinned foolishly at each other for a moment. Then Pelio turned back to Samadhom.
Yoninne tipped the canopy slightly and the skiff angled off in the direction Pelio had indicated. They weren’t more than two thousand meters up. The country below was wild by Homeworld standards, but Yoninne could see that it must be an Azhiri orchard. The greenery was speckled with red, and here and there she saw large stacks of the fruit waiting for transportation. An occasional building peeked through the foliage.
On the other side of the cabin, Pelio talked softly to Sam. Until the watchbear could be revived, the only thing that kept Bre’en from kenging them all was his fear of a crash. But that fear would diminish as the skiff sank nearer to earth.
Finally they were passing over the central districts of Tsarangalang: the buildings below were separated by scant hundreds of meters. Straight ahead lay the circular blue disk of the city’s transit lake. That’s where they’d have to touch down. With all the tons of ballast aboard, they were coming down so fast that Pelio and Ajão—unprotected by deceleration webbing—could get messed up if she landed on solid ground.
She arced wide around the lake trying to conserve every meter of altitude, trying to give Pelio and Samadhom more time. If necessary, she could force Bre’en to give the skiff still another boost. But what if Pelio couldn’t bring Sam to? What if Sam were dying? She tried not to think about that possibility; they were so terribly close to success now.
Then a faint
meep
came from the furry hulk, and Pelio looked up triumphantly. Leg-Wot felt like howling with joy. She opened the spill flaps a trifle and the skiff sank toward the lake below at almost fourteen meters per second. She pushed the hatch all the way back and morning sunlight streamed over her shoulder into the cabin. The breeze whistling up around them brought the smells of green, growing things.
In just a few more seconds we’ll be down there, safe.
Four hundred meters up. Somehow a little sense crept through her euphoria. “Pelio,” she said, “get between Samadhorn and Bre‘en, will you?” Before, threats had been sufficient to keep the Snowman in line; no doubt, Bre’en had been convinced of the hopelessness of the witlings’ cause. But now that they were actually on the point of winning, he might try something desperate.
Pelio shifted Sam’s weight onto Ajão, then turned to face Thredegar Bre’en. He steadied himself with one hand and held the machete in the other.
One hundred meters: Yoninne closed the spill flaps. She loosened her harness and leaned out the hatch, at the same time keeping her left hand on the trim stick. They were coming down near the edge of the lake—away from the piers—where she hoped the water was shallow; weighted down as it was, the skiff would float like a lead balloon.
Ashore, a crowd of locals stood gaping up at them; word travels fast in a society of teleports. If their wonder turned to fear they might shoot the skiff out of the sky.
The ground was so close now she could see single blades of grass growing between the stone blocks around the water’s edge. She trimmed the chute across a microscopic updraft and estimated their sink rate at only six or seven meters per second. They’d strike the water more “gently” then a road boat coming out of a one-league jump.
Crump
. The bolt of wind that slammed against the skiff was far too savage to be natural. Yoninne was pitched halfway out the hatch before the harness caught her. For an instant she thought some overanxious local had attacked them, but as she pulled herself back into the cabin, she saw that Pelio had fallen forward, that Bre’en had pinned his knife hand.
The Snowman kicked wildy at Sam and Ajão. Sam yelped twice and was silent. Bre‘en hesitated just a second as he realized the animal was again impotent. Then he turned on Pelio. “No!” screamed Yoninne as she lunged across the tiny space that separated them, her hands joined in a double fist. Bre’en twisted out of her way, and for what seemed an endless time his small eyes glared malevolently into hers.
Something exploded within her and she saw and felt and heard no more.
T
he 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, forceably 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 killed 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 annoticed, “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.”