Vernor Vinge - The Witling

Pelio drifted from conversation to conversation, ever standing on the outskirts, and never knowing quite what to do. It had been different before he met Ionina. Then, he had been content to sulk. But now that he knew how much fun the give and take of conversation could be, he couldn’t do that either. Perhaps it was just as well: he looked across the terrace at Aleru and Queen Virizhiana. Whoever burgled his storeroom was playing a deadly yet mysterious game. Until he knew more about that game, it was wise to remain quiet and inconspicuous.

He moved away from the crowd, and walked to a tree-enclosed bower near the edge of the terrace. Here the smell of flowers and green leaves was stronger, and the sounds of the fest fainter. Just a few inches from his feet, the grass ended abruptly and the ground fell steeply away, exposing the polished pink bedrock. From where he stood, Pelio could see every one of the fifteen tiers, all the way down to the baronial level. But there was so much greenery that he could see only a fraction of the crowds.

Somewhere under the trees on the ninth terrace, the fest’s musicians struck up “Invitation to a Joust.” On all the terraces the crowds moved forward to watch the action on the jousting plain to the west. Pelio’s little bower was invaded by a trio of young nobles, full of chatter and wagers. By the blue in their kilts, Pelio knew they were from some country court and rightly belonged down on the sixth terrace. But the fest’s formality was not strict, and with the proper friends a nobleman could go practically anywhere in the amphitheater. For the first time in years Pelio found himself unrecognized, and before he knew it, he was betting his largest ring that one Tseram Cherapfu would carry the day on the field below. In fact, he knew nothing of Tseram Cherapfu; it was a name he had heard discussed earlier by some other jousting experts.

The four settled down in the soft grass to watch the event. Seconds later the two contenders appeared—one at the north end of the plain, and one at the south. At this distance they were tiny specks, distinguished only by their colorful jousting costumes. Pelio gathered from the others that the red-suited fellow, the one on the north, was Cherapfu.

A crack of thunder broke across the plain, and dust billowed up from the turf near the jouster dressed in blue; Tseram Cherapfu had taken the first shot. One of the young nobles snorted that such a premature attack was a foolish waste of effort, and another responded that you could never be sure, that Cherapfu was sometimes uncannily accurate. The two figures walked slowly toward each other, till they were barely four hundred yards apart. Now the thunder began again, but this time it continued in a ragged staccato of sharp snaps, the sound of super-velocity air slamming into existence above the plain.

The contest was a friendly one, but these men fought as trained and talented soldiers would in a real battle. For in actual warfare, it was usually impossible to scramble your enemy’s insides by a direct application of the Talent: unless he were dazed or a witling his natural defenses would protect him against a keng attack. So it was necessary to assault the enemy indirectly, by teleporting air and rocks from many leagues away, air and rocks that would emerge traveling hundreds of feet per second in the direction of your target.

The battle in the plain below could not be quite so realistic: the contestants were not allowed to reng solid projectiles and their air blasts emerged high above the ground. Still, it was spectacular: the sledgehammer winds drove grass and dust up into dirty clouds over the field as the two troopers flickered back and forth, trying to avoid each other’s blasts.

Pelio found himself yelling just as loudly as the others. They were good, those soldiers—even he could tell that. Both had made the Grand Pilgrimage through the arctic to be able to reng in the thunder like that. And only a few highly trained people could jump without a transit pool, yet these men were doing so every few seconds.

It couldn’t go on for long; the soldier in red staggered beneath a multiple series of blasts that flattened the grass around him. He swayed dazedly, defenselessly, as the thunder converged upon him. The four boys sucked in their breath at once, as a final blast knocked Cherapfu backward. He did a complete flip before falling to earth.

A cheer swept the length of the amphitheater, and the three boys jumped to their feet, arguing excitedly about the match. Pelio found himself talking, too, parroting back arguments he had heard earlier in the afternoon. And strangely enough, it was fun, even though he didn’t understand half of what he said. As Pelio slid the ring his wager had cost him off his finger, a second wave of cheering sounded behind them. They turned to look through the trees. The winner of the match had just emerged from the main transit pool, to be greeted by Aleru and Virizhiana, and receive the wreath of victory across his blue jacket. The crowd closed in about them and—

Ionina! She stood about twenty yards from the pool, and right next to her towered the gangling, brown-faced Adgao. How could they possibly be here? Who had brought them? His amazement was drowned in the chill fear that this time he could not possibly carry off his deception. Pelio numbly turned back to the others and handed his ring to the nearest of them, then walked out of the bower, with Samadhom close on his heels.

Behind him he heard one of the boys exclaim, “Jiru, look! The prince-imperial’s seal is carved into this thing.”

I’ve got to get them out of here, got to get them out of here. It was all Pelio could think as he walked across the grassy terrace toward the girl and her grotesque companion. There were first-rate troopers all around, people who could seng for a certainty that these two strangers were widings. He couldn’t be seen talking to Ionina.

Then he realized it didn’t matter anymore: the terrace was strangely silent. Even the talk around the transit pool had died. He and Ionina and Adgao had become the center of attention. He saw now that the two aliens were actually in the custody of guards. There was no more hope. Pelio straightened his back and slowly walked the distance that separated him from the girl. It was so quiet he could hear his feet parting the grass, hear voices from the terraces below. How ironic that things should come to an end now, on such a sunny, blue-skied day.

Finally he stood facing Ionina. She seemed to catch the fear he felt, though she couldn’t know the cause. Behind the guards stood three of Pelio’s household servants. They must be responsible for bringing Ionina and Adgao to the fest. Were they bungling fools—or had someone put them up to this? The question rippled the top of his mind, but deep down he knew it didn’t matter.

There were sounds behind him, and when he turned he was not surprised at the tableau confronting him. There was his father, the king. Shozheru’s mouth opened and closed, like a sea-bat out of water, as he vacillated between mortification and rage. On either side of him were ranged his advisers—those grim-faced, loyal men who all these years had urged their king to remove Pelio so that Aleru could succeed to the throne. To one side stood Aleru himself, his gray-green face blanched almost white by—what? Rage? Triumph? In the crowd behind them, only two or three faces caught Pelio’s eye: his mother, her gaze fixed on some point above his head; Thredegar Bre’en, his face as bland as ever; and Thengets del Prou. The dark-skinned Guildsman had always been strange, one of the few persons who talked to Pelio as if he were no different from everyone else—perhaps because, from Prou’s superior vantage point, Pelio wasn’t that much less Talented than the normals. But now even that dubious ally seemed far away and indifferent. It was the whole world set against himself and the two other witlings.