Leg-Wot stared and stared down into the pool. “Teleports. They’re goddamned teleports,” she said finally.
Three
The Bodgaru terminus of the Royal Road had been carefully prepared for the prince-imperial’s arrival. Except for an army escort boat, which had arrived minutes before, the lake was free of traffic. All along the water’s edge, the season’s first ice had been chipped away and the stonework polished. Many ninedays before, the prefect had imported an ornamental jade garden and “planted” it along the wharf side of the lake. The life-sized stone trees and shrubs were adorned with hundreds of flowers carved from yellow and blue topaz. That morning the townsmen had dusted every trace of snow from the jade garden, so that now it sparkled with sterile grace.
The townspeople stood all along the wharf. Every man, woman, and child held tiny replicas of the imperial tricolor, issued them by the prefect’s men. Their talk was cheerful and unrestrained. Though their attendance was required, most waited eagerly: The visit of a member of the royal-imperial family was a rare event. No one realized this more clearly, more agonizingly, than the prefect himself. Parapfu Moragha stood at stiff attention, between the garrison band and his jade garden.
Though the sun hung at noon in the deep blue sky, the wind blowing across the lake was chilling, and the snow-covered, pine-covered hills that rose above the lake made it seem a frigid blue puddle caught at the edge of winter.
Suddenly the quiet surface of the lake was no longer empty. The royal yacht popped into existence, slamming down and eastward through the water. The white hull almost disappeared beneath the surface, then bobbed back up, its timbers creaking. Two-foot waves rippled back and forth across the lake, splashed icy water along the wharf. Even before the yacht had stopped rocking, its crew ran out the imperial tricolor: the yellow sun in a sky of blue over a field of green. The band on the shore struck up a cheery welcome as the road boat edged toward shore.
On the yacht’s private deck, Pelio-nge-Shozheru, prince-imperial of All Summer, undid his safety harness and got up to walk to the railing. Though taller than the average Azhiri, Pelio wasn’t much more than a boy. He wore a green-and-blue kilt with his rank woven across the waist, but even without the costume, his wide nose and green eyes would have at least identified him as one of the nobility. One would never guess that the prince was a witling, so devoid of Talent that his kenging could scarcely kill a sandmite.
A warm summer breeze, renged from the southern hemisphere—as far south of the equator as Bodgaru was north—blew softly across the deck to warm Pelio’s back and insulate him from the local chill. The servants who cast those breezes sat below decks, as did the lords and ladies accompanying him. The prince stood alone, or as alone as he could ever be: only his bodyguards and his watchbear were with him on the deck. That was more protection than the average noble felt obliged to keep—but Pelio was a witling, and without his guards’ constant attention, the lowliest peasant could scramble his innards.
Pelio looked across the water at the cheering crowds and the garrison band. I wonder if they are laughing inside, he thought, while they cheer with their mouths. That a witling should one day be king-imperial was indeed a great joke. No doubt several of the rustics in that crowd owned unfortunates possessing more Talent than he. That was the normal fate of witlings. They were defenseless against every teleportive jape of normal people. A witling was treated as a chattel—unless, of course, he was born into the royal family, unless he was heir apparent to an empire. Pelio’s eyes stung with the old shame as he looked past the hundreds of townspeople waving their little tricolors: how wonderful his birth must have seemed to the Summerkingdom! For years his father had been childless, the dynasty imperiled—and then at last, at the very end of his father’s middle age, a fertile consort had been found. Pelio often imagined how his father must have suffered as it became apparant that his son was not superior, not normal, not even retarded—that his son would never display more than the smallest bit of Talent. And to top tragedy with insult, just one year later, Pelio’s mother, Consort Queen Virizhiana, gave birth to Aleru. But for a matter of dates, Prince Aleru would be first in line—and Aleru was perfectly normal, with more than average Talent.
Naturally, Pelio’s position in the royal court was an embarrassment. King Shozheru lacked the harshness of will to execute his firstborn—and such execution was the only accepted method of clearing the line of succession for the secondborn. It was not surprising that the closest things Pelio had to friends at court were the obsequious intriguers who lied to and flattered him; the closest thing to respect, the honest hatred of his brother and his mother.
Every few seasons, protocol dictated that Pelio take his yacht and visit some corner of the kingdom. Often such tours exposed him to less skillfully disguised derision than he faced at the Summerpalace, but at least the faces were different. Besides, the Summerkingdom was such a vast and beautiful place, it almost made him forget himself and his weaknesses. And sometimes the trips were not as tame as the royal advisers would like. Perhaps this would be one of those times. The strange message he had received that morning was anonymous, yet explicit: there had been a skirmish at Bodgaru with monsters or Snowfolk…
The troopers ashore gathered in the tow ropes and pulled the barge toward the timbers that cushioned the wharf. The prefect and the garrison band were almost directly below him now. He smiled slightly as he saw Moragha start. The prefect must have felt the warm wind blowing off the yacht.
The boat bounced gently against the timbers and the soldiers made her fast. Pelio saluted the crowd and turned away from the railing. “Here, Samadhom,” he called softly to his watchbear. The sand-colored beast padded over to him and began licking his hand. The prince trusted his watchbear more than any of his guards—and as a passive defense against keng attack, the shaggy animal was probably as effective as any Azhiri, Guildsmen excepted. Pelio patted Samadhom’s head, and then, together with his silent guards, he descended the stairway to the first deck. The lords and ladies who joined them at the second deck were not so quiet, but Pelio did not respond to their eternal, artificial good cheer. With his entourage close behind, he crossed the filigreed iron drop-bridge to the wharf, and walked to where Parapfu Moragha stood at backbreaking attention.
“You may rest, good Parapfu.”
Moragha relaxed with visible relief and signaled the garrison band to sound Rest. Across the wharf, the townsfolk broke the silence they had kept since the Prince set foot on land.
“Your Highness, the people of my prefecture—myself included—welcome your visit with the greatest love and respect.” Moragha’s head bobbed with enthusiasm. The prefect turned and waved Pelio up the inlaid steps that led to the prefectural manse. “There are so many things we have to show Your Royal-Imperial Highness.” Moragha dropped into step just behind Pelio, cutting between the prince and his retinue. “Bodgaru is the northernmost reach of Summer, yet we maintain the spirit of green growing things in our hearts and works.” He waved at the jade garden that stood on both sides of their path. Pelio followed his gesture but did not comment. He saw that the green and yellow stones were cleverly carved, and he could dimly seng that the density patterns of the stonework resembled those of real plants. But there was a touch of gaucherie in imitating life with stone or snow. It was the sort of thing he had seen taken to an abstracted extreme in the Snowking’s crystal palace at the ends of the world. “And,” Moragha rushed on when he got no response, “the mining caves of Bodgaru are the largest in the world. Summerfolk have mined the copper hereabouts for more than a century…