Vernor Vinge - The Witling

From behind him came footsteps. Bjault whirled to see—his rescuer. The fellow leaned over the couch, offered Ajão something dark and very cold. Iced drinks yet; all the comforts of a tech society. Ajão numbly accepted the glass. “Where am I?” he asked, as the other settled himself into a nearby chair. The stranger looked a bit older than Pelio, and was probably of a different Azhiri race: his skin was a very dark gray and he stood nearly 160 centimeters tall, rather big and lean compared to the other natives. His green kilt had a stylized pair of silver moons stitched across the side.

“Near the center of the business district of Dhendgaru, right here,” he said, pointing to a gray splotch on one of the maps. He moved his finger about a centimeter. “And here is the Summerpalace, less than two leagues away. You haven’t been moved far … and you are free to return.” He looked up abruptly at Ajão. “But I must speak with you first. My name is Thengets del Prou, second Guildsman resident in Dhendgaru.”

Ajão’s ears pricked up at the word “Guild.” “Thengets del Prou,” he pronounced the words carefully. “I’m Ajão Bjault.” Prou smiled. “Even if you didn’t look like an outlander, I’d have known you weren’t from the Summerkingdom. Summerfolk have considerable trouble with the hanging consonants in my name.”

“Then you aren’t native to this kingdom yourself?”

“Oh, no. I was born in the Great Desert, the second son of a chiefling among the Sandfolk.”

Bjault remembered what Leg-Wot had said about that race. “Aren’t your people, uh, great enemies of the Summerkingdom?”

Prou’s grin broadened. “They certainly are. And I’d probably be a combat leader crawling through the sand to raid some Summerkingdom oasis, if I hadn’t been destined for the Guild. But I don’t remember my family. I was less than a year old when the Guild took me. It was a lucky thing, too: occasionally the Guild will miss a child, which can be horrible for the village he’s born into. There are cases of super-Talented kids just taking over isolated villages, killing anyone who opposes their whims. Children like that should be raised by equally Talented adults—Guildsmen—who can plant consciences in them.”

Prou slouched down in his chair and hooked one bare foot over the edge of the map table. He had none of the severe formality Ajão had seen in other Azhiri. Prou seemed to be one of those people who does his particular job very well, and has a lot of fun with that job and the rest of the universe. In fact, his casual nonchalance reminded Bjault of some of his wackier grad students, years ago on Homeworld.

Ajão tried to suppress the natural liking he felt for the man. Was there any objective reason to trust him? The archaeologist sipped at the sour alcoholic drink and tried to disguise his indecision. What could explain Prou’s appearing just in time to rescue him from the kidnappers?

“You must have been watching me for some time,” Ajão said finally.

The Guildsman hesitated a second, then nodded. “I was at Bodgaru when you were captured. I tried to get to you before the Summerking’s troops, but it was just too risky. The local prefect was watching me pretty closely.”

Ajão raised his eyebrows. “I was told the Guild was beyond laws and governments.”

Prou laughed. “It may seem that way to some people. Certainly we have physical power. We can seng everything on Giri and even on the moons, so we can teleport objects anywhere in the world without first making a pilgrimage to both the departure and destination points as a normal person must do. We dug the transit lakes simply by renging down rock from the moons. And if it ever comes to a fight, a single Guildsman can destroy whole cities the same way.”

There was no boasting in Prou’s tone—and Ajão realized he was telling the literal truth. If a hundred-ton moon rock were exchanged for an equivalent volume of—say—air at Giri’s surface, the net potential energy released would be equivalent to a small fission bomb. Perhaps that explained the glassy plain Draere had photographed in the southern hemisphere.

“But,” continued Thengets del Prou, “do you know how many Guildsmen there are—in the whole world?”

Ajão shook his head.

“Less than six hundred—and a quarter of those are children. Six hundred out of four hundred million normal Azhiri. Yes, we do have power, but at the same time we abide by the Covenant. If ever the commoners and the kings’ armies united against us, they could destroy the Guild, though the price would be millions of lives.”

A three-way balance , thought Ajão; the Guildsmen with their terrible powers, the national aristocracies with their well-trained armies, and the commoners with their numbers. Any two could successfully gang up on the third. So every kingdom—no matter how feudal its structure—must treat its subjects with some justice. And between kingdoms, open war was to be avoided, since it would weaken the aristocracies relative to the Guild and the commoners.

“And that’s really why you and your lady are so important, Adgao. You are witlings, yet the powers you were playing with up in Bodgaru were as great as any Guildsman’s—I saw the flying monster Ngatheru’s troops shot down. One way or the other, your existence will change all the world. I want that change to be for the better … or perhaps it would be more objective to say that I want to have some control over how things change. In any case, I couldn’t let the Summerkingdom’s intelligence arm have you to themselves: I sent Prince Pelio an anonymous letter describing your capture. The prince is fairly powerful, and certainly the greatest eccentric in the court. I was counting on him to keep you out of Ngatheru’s hands. Then I could contact you, try to persuade you to put yourselves under Guild protection. Pelio couldn’t complain about the arrangement to his father without revealing his own misdeeds, and I was sure you would go along once you saw how much safer you’d be with us.”

Ajão disagreed but remained silent. No matter how uncertain a patron, Pelio had the maser, and that was their only salvation.

“But I never realized,” the dark-skinned Azhiri continued, “that someone else was playing the same game. You probably guessed those were not Summerpalace guards who attacked you. They were expert soldiers, though: all three could teleport themselves without a transit pool. Whoever was behind them wants both you and your equipment. I’d give a lot to know just who it is: Prince Aleru? Someone in the intelligence arm?”

But Ajão scarcely heard Prou’s speculation. “Our equipment? What about it?”

“Pelio stored it in his private room in the palace Keep. I was in the Keep yesterday, attending a very dull reception King Shozheru held for the Snowfolk ambassador. I snooped around—something Guildsmen are peculiarly equipped to do—and found die prince’s private room. But I was too late. I found two dead servants diere—they weren’t too late; they must have surprised whoever was going through Pelio’s room. As far as I could tell, the thieves took everything of yours they could carry.” The revelation was a ragged knife stuck through Ajão’s middle. “What?”

Prou nodded. “I looked everywhere.” He described what he had seen, and Bjault realized he was talking about the ablation skiff and the wreck of their powered sledge; someone had taken all their loose gear—the maser included.

The Guildsman saw the look on Ajão’s face. “I’m sorry too, Adgao. But my offer still holds. If you and your friend wish, I will take you away from Pelio and the court. Otherwise, the royal family will eventually discover that Pelio is consorting with witlings, and when they do, you two, and even the prince, will be in mortal danger.”