Vernor Vinge: The Witling

That was a neat touch. Without quite saying so, he had managed to imply that his father was behind his actions. The only danger was that the baron-general might have already reported the capture. But that was unlikely. Cousin Ngatheru had a reputation for independence—some might say treasonous arrogance. He did his job well, but he liked to do it all by himself. Chances were he had planned to keep his discovery secret until he had the whole affair wrapped up in a pretty package.

Pelio wondered again who had sent him the anonymous message describing what Ngatheru’s men had found in the hills north of Bodgaru. Obviously, someone was trying to manipulate him, just as he was trying to manipulate Ngatheru. But who? If Ionina and Adgao had not been so patently alien, he would have suspected the whole affair was an intricate trap, set perhaps by his brother and mother. Pelio shook his head and returned to the letter:

As you know, Good Cousin, the circumstances of this incident are mysterious and ominous.

We feel

How wonderfully ambiguous the royal “we”!

that this matter must be handled with complete secrecy and at the highest levels. Any spread of information concerning this capture would endanger All Summer.

Threatening Ngatheru with high-treason charges should help keep his mouth shut.

Pelio finished with “Abiding affection and highest regard,” and signed his name. Actually, now that he looked at it, this draft didn’t seem too bad. He folded and refolded the triangular vellum until it was a ball less than two inches across. Then he dipped it in a reservoir of blood-warm sap at the corner of his desk and impressed the royal seal upon the bluish resin.

Samadhom slept near his feet, a golden hulk on the sun-warmed floor. The watchbear didn’t stir a hair as the prince crossed the room and pulled on the cord that emerged from a hole in the wall. Through the warm morning air came the clear sound of the bell set in the servants’ room down the hill. The ringer was something Pelio had invented himself, though he felt no pride for having done so: few people ever had use for such an invention. But without that bell and cord, he would needs be surrounded by his servants every minute.

Samadhom raised his head abruptly to look at the transit pool set in the floor at the middle of the room. Meep, he said questioningly. A second passed and a servant splashed lithely out of the water to stand at attention at the pool’s edge.

“Two tilings,” Pelio began with the casual abruptness of one who is rarely disobeved. “First, have this message sent to Baron-General Ngatheru at Atsobi.” He handed the man the ball, its resinous covering now completely dry. “Second, I wish to question th e ” —carefully! he thought to himself. Be properly casual—“the female prisoner brought here yesterday.”

“As you say, Your Highness.” The man disappeared into thin air, not bothering to use the transit pool. Show-off.

In a matter of minutes, his letter would be packed into the softwood hull of a message torpedo, and in a single jump teleported six leagues north, all the way to Ngatheru’s command bunker deep within the Atsobi Garrison. There, the shattered remains of the torpedo would be hacked apart and his message retrieved.

So much for the baron-general. If that message didn’t keep him quiet, nothing would. A much greater danger to Pelio’s plans lay in servants’ gossip. Fortunately, he could always rotate his household servants. The ones who served him now were from the royal lodge at Pferadgaru, way south of the Great Desert. Of course they knew he was a witling, but they didn’t know what little say he had at court. It should be many ninedays before they realized he was involved with a commoner witling, and even longer before they started gossiping outside their own group. Before that happened he would rotate them back to the marches of the Summerkingdom.

But Pelio saw that no matter how he worked it, he was running a terrible risk. It was always an embarrassment to the royal family when a prince dallied with a commoner. But if the commoner were a witling, embarrassment became scandal. And if the prince himself were a witling, then scandal became an eternal blot upon the dynasty. Should his deception be discovered, he would never be king.

And there was just one way his father could remove him from the line of succession…

There was splashing from the pool and three guards dragged Ionina from the water. Pelio grimaced. He had not even senged the imminence of the arrival. Usually he had that much Talent.

The four stood at attention now. “Leave me to question the prisoner,” he said to the guards. One man started to protest, but Pelio interrupted, “I said, leave us. This is a matter of state. In any case, I have my watchbear.”

The guards withdrew and Pelio found himself staring at the girl. She wore the same black coveralls as before, only now they were soaked. The water dripped slowly down them to pool about her boots. What should he say? The silence stretched on for a long moment, broken only by the buzzing and crooning of gliders in the trees around the study. He knew how to order his servants, how to cajole his father, even how to manipulate lesser nobles like Ngatheru—but how do you speak to a prospective friend?

Finally: “Please sit. You have been treated well?”

“Yes.” Her tone was quiet and respectful, though she did not acknowledge die difference in their rank.

“I mean really?”

“Well, we would like more to live in a house with doors. You see, we can’t, we can’t—what is your word for it?” “Reng?”

“Yes. We can’t reng. To us, a room without doors is a cage. But then Ajão and I are prisoners, are not we?”

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 die 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?