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 announced, “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.”
The elderly Guildsman smiled. “More than that, dear My Lord. I intend to cooperate with them.”
“What!”
“That’s right,” Mileru said. On the map between them he pointed at Draere’s island, three-quarters of the way around the equator from County Tsarang. “At their convenience, I will teleport them here.”
“Why, blood and bile, Lan. You’re as crazy as they are! That’s more than one hundred and twenty-five leagues. A four-league jump is enough to shatter the hull of the toughest road boat. We can’t even reng message balls more than twenty leagues without risking their contents.” He all but bounced off the bench in his agitation.
Lan Mileru seemed to be enjoying the other’s consternation. “Nevertheless, Dzeru, I have been convinced they should be allowed to try.” He held out Prou’s letter.
But Dzeda waved it aside. “If you three are so eager to smear yourselves across that speck of mud out in the ocean,” he said to Ajão, “why did you bother coming to County Tsarang? Why not have some Guildsman reng you there direct from the Summerpalace? The palace is closer to the island than Tsarang. And there are places in the Snowkingdom that are still closer: I’ll bet if you made the jump from Ga’arvi, you’d crash into your destination ‘gently’ enough to leave recognizable corpses.”
Ajão smiled at the other’s sarcasm. “There is a reason for coming to your county, My Lord. If we make the jump from here, we will be thrown upward from the ground at our destination.” The problem was not especially difficult to visualize. Imagine the planet spinning on its axis, a vast, spherical merry-go-round in space. The Summerpalace was just ninety degrees east of Draere’s island; if they jumped from the palace they’d be smashed into the ground when they emerged at the telemetry station. Ga’arvi was a better prospect (except that it was a Snowfolk town). Renging to the telemetry station from there would be like hopping from the center of a merry-go-round straight out to the edge: they would arrive moving due west—at nearly the speed of sound. Yoninne had dismissed Ga’arvi with the comment, “Who wants to make a belly landing at mach one?”
But as you followed the continent from Ga’arvi to the isthmus of Tsarang, the situation improved. If they jumped to Draere’s island from Tsarangalang, they would arrive moving better than a kilometer per second—but that velocity would be directed upward at almost 23 degrees. The only better jumping-off point in either hemisphere was the east coast of the isthmus, but that was under Desertfolk control, and besides, there was no Guildsman there.
“I realize,” Bjault continued, “that our boat might still crash into something—a steep hillside or cliff face, for instance—but this is about the best we can do, given the arrangement of Giri’s continents.”
Dzeda shook his head despairingly. “No. You’ll die in any case. Don’t you realize that when air moves fast enough, it might as well be solid rock? I’ve seen men and war boats struck by air renged from sixty leagues: the men spattered, and the boats were turned to kindling. Your boat may be strong, but nothing can resist forces like that.”
Ajão started to disagree, but the count raised his hand. “Let me finish. I know Shozheru has put you under what amounts to a suspended death sentence. Either you go through with this plan or he executes the three of you. But you’re in County Tsarang now. We were an independent state long before there even was a Summerkingdom. Back at the palace they may call me count and vassal—but out here that’s not quite the way things are: I am willing to grant you a secret asylum, to report to the Summerkingdom that you went through with your plan. Frankly, I think this is what your father was aiming at when he agreed to this scheme, Pelio. His advisers may he cold men, but he is not.