Vernor Vinge - The Witling

Pelio leaned across the table, his smooth, round face coming within centimeters of hers. He said something she didn’t understand, but it must have been a curse. “Yes, I said that—and perhaps it’s true. But I didn’t know you had intrigued, manipulated me into this—like some child or dumb animal.” His words came fast and slurred, and for a moment Yoninne thought he might strike her. “I have no choice now. We go to County Tsarang, just as you planned. Only now I know how I stand with you, and if we come out of this alive, I’ll… I’ll …” His voice choked off in anger and confusion, and he stomped out of the room.

For a long while after he left, Yoninne stared at the scarred wooden surface of the table. As if to blot out what had just happened, the details of her surroundings crowded into her consciousness: the fire crackling in the room’s stove, the muted singing from downstairs, the dry, smoky smell of the place. She felt the tears building in her eyes, and tried to hold them back. She hadn’t cried in fifteen years, and she’d be damned if she did now. But finally she couldn’t help herself … perhaps she really was damned.

Bjault stared at the ceiling for several minutes before he realized he was awake, and that the pain in his guts was not cramps, but intense hunger. He slipped the quilt off his body and sat up. The wind howled from beyond the room’s tiny chimney, and the torchlight from the hall flickered this way and that. He felt none of the dizziness and nausea of … the previous night? He glanced at his suit watch and saw that he had slept more than ten hours. The pain was gone now, and he felt as though he could go another century—if he didn’t starve in the next ten minutes.

Bjault stood and pulled aside the door curtain. In the silverplate mirror above the washbasin, his brown face appeared gaunt and disheveled. He leaned close to the metal and pulled his lips away from his gums. For a long moment he stared at the bright blue line he saw running between teeth and gums. Lead poisoning: that blue stain was one of the few symptoms he remembered for it. Then the heavy metal concentration in Azhiri foodstuffs must be hundreds of times higher than he had thought. And his recovery was at best a temporary thing. How long do we really have? Weeks? Or only days?

And if only days, should we stop eating? Or will starvation only speed the effects of the poisons already ingested?

But by the time he was dressed and walking down the hall to the dining room, Bjault had regained some of his good spirits. With luck, they might be back on Novamerika before he had another “attack.” After all, Yoninne hadn’t shown the faintest signs of discomfort yet. In many ways this world seemed to be doing her good: last night she had been positively solicitous.

He stepped through the curtains into the dining room, and saw the grim-faced group standing around the table. Two locals faced the Summerfolk. The Snowmen had slipped their parkas off, and stood naked from the waist up, their skin gleaming in the torchlight. One of them drew a triangular sheet of paper from his quilted leggings and said, “We’ve had another report from the Island Road, M’lords, since we first warned you of the storm. The way is still clear for about seven leagues, but the storm is moving toward us, and the transit lakes within it are freezing over too fast for our workers to keep them open. It may be a nineday before traffic can resume.”

Pelio’s voice was angry. “But we’ve got to move on. And our right of passage is guaranteed by treaty.”

The Snowman’s broad face clouded for a moment before he decided to laugh. “The treaty you made was with us, not with our weather. Feel free to travel the Island Road: six or seven jumps down the line you’ll come out shattered across a three-foot thick layer of ice.” His smile became a bit malevolent. “Are you really so anxious to escape from your own incredible bragging?” Apparently the story of Pelio’s confrontation with his father at the Summer Festival had spread all the way to the Snowkingdom. There was a moment of dead silence as the prince’s guards and officers tried to pretend they hadn’t heard the Snowman’s last remark. The wind sounded faintly through the stone walls.

Pelio did not respond to the gibe. “That’s not what I meant. The treaty says Summerfolk have right of northern passage—even if you have to let us use another of your roads.”

“Hmmph, I suppose if you insisted we’d have to let you take the North Road, though the rest of your kind seem content to stay here in Grechper and sit out the storm.”

“We do insist,” said Pelio.

“Very well.” The other shrugged. “I’ll get you a clearance.” The Snowmen hiked their parkas back onto their torsos, and buttoned up. They turned and went down the stairs without any show of courtesy.

For a moment, no one spoke. Ajão sidled around the table to where breaded meats were piled high on a wooden plate. He was so hungry that this crisis took second place. He ate two of the meat-filled rolls and still the silence was unbroken. Ajão looked back and forth across the room, trying to figure out whether he was missing something: Pelio and Leg-Wot stood on opposite sides of the table, grimly avoiding each other’s eyes.

Finally Pelio turned to their pilot-navigator. “Well?”

The army man came briefly to attention before answering. “They are as arrogant as usual, Your Highness, but I am afraid they are telling the truth. I seng surface ice on the transit lakes down the road. If we wait out the storm, we might be here three or four days.”

“Captain, you know that we can’t delay eighteen hours, much less three days.” Shozheru’s advisers had been adamant: the witlings were given just nine days to carry out their scheme. Of those nine, little more than one remained. “What about the North Road? The Snowmen said we could get clearance to travel that.”

The soldier nodded and beckoned to a subordinate. The aide opened a leather case and rolled a world map onto the table. “Here we are at Grechper.” The navigator pointed at a spot about halfway out from the pole. “Now if we could continue on our way down the Island Road”—he sketched a straight line across the disk to the far margin—“we would wind up in County Tsarang in about another eighty leagues—less than ten hours, if we pushed it. But if that way is closed to us we could use the North Road.” He indicated a fine row of red dots that marched inward across the map to the pole. “We’ll have to take on a local pilot, though, since I can’t seng that route; they don’t allow Summerfolk pilgrims much north of Grechper. It’s about forty jumps to the North Pole. That’s more than you might expect, but we can’t afford quite as great a jolt on each jump as on Summer roads. The Snowmen’s northern lakes are small and there’s often ice in ’em—which could hull the yacht if we slammed in too hard.

“At the pole we switch to this road”—he pointed—“and start south for County Tsarang. That’s another seventy-five hops.”

The prince grimaced. “Altogether, that’s thirty-five jumps further than the Island Road. How long will it take?”

“By the treaty, they need supply us with only one pilot, so I doubt if we’ll do better than six jumps an hour … say twenty hours in all.”

“Very well. We’ll return to the yacht and prepare to leave.

At the same time, I want you”—Pelio was speaking to the consul now—“to do everything in your power to encourage prompt Snowman cooperation: we need that clearance for the North Road and we need a pilot who knows the way.”

The elderly official bobbed his head. “As you will, Your Highness.”