stood unmoving, but Ajão’s captors went pale with fear. “Guildsman,” one of them shouted, and when he looked down at Bjault there was murder in his eyes.
There was a second snap of thunder, and his would-be assassin was literally blown away. The ground slammed up against Ajão and he felt nothing more.
Beyond the railing, the city stretched as far as he could see. Individually, the buildings were beautiful, their stone and timber construction blended subtly together. Even the largest of them, three and four stories tall, were part of an immense garden. Vines and tree limbs had been guided through the latticed balconies and rooftop porches, to set off with tones of green and brown the blue paint of the outer woodwork.
It had to be a city, but no building stood closer than one hundred meters from another. Only the pathless gardens and their trees and flowers and tiny ponds lay between them. It reminded Ajão of the planned cities they were just beginning to build on Homeworld when the Novamerika Expedition was launched forty years before. Those cities had been made possible by the advanced Homeworld technology with its computer-directed helicopter transportation—whereas the Azhiri achieved the same effect without mechanical tricks. Ajão felt a little envious. Their city might be thirty kilometers from east to west, yet the Azhiri could jump from one end of it to the other with scarcely more than a two-meter-per-second jolt.
Ajão was lying on a soft couch set on one of the roof porches. Except for the soaked condition of his flight suit, and the soreness in his legs, he was quite comfortable. This was hardly a prison cell. The furniture and art work excelled what Pelio had provided them. A wide, low table sat alongside the couch. Its surface bore two circular paintings, each more than a meter across. They looked almost like maps: the blue representing ocean, the green and brown and white the land. Notations in the Azhiri syllabaric script marked various points. There were even little sea monsters painted on the blue … . Why, these were maps, polar orthographic projections! One disk represented the northern hemisphere, and the other the southern. What a strange projection to use; the equatorial continents were distorted almost to unrecognizability.
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
There was a second snap of thunder, and his would-be assassin was literally blown away. The ground slammed up against Ajão and he felt nothing more.
Beyond the railing, the city stretched as far as he could see. Individually, the buildings were beautiful, their stone and timber construction blended subtly together. Even the largest of them, three and four stories tall, were part of an immense garden. Vines and tree limbs had been guided through the latticed balconies and rooftop porches, to set off with tones of green and brown the blue paint of the outer woodwork.
It had to be a city, but no building stood closer than one hundred meters from another. Only the pathless gardens and their trees and flowers and tiny ponds lay between them. It reminded Ajão of the planned cities they were just beginning to build on Homeworld when the Novamerika Expedition was launched forty years before. Those cities had been made possible by the advanced Homeworld technology with its computer-directed helicopter transportation—whereas the Azhiri achieved the same effect without mechanical tricks. Ajão felt a little envious. Their city might be thirty kilometers from east to west, yet the Azhiri could jump from one end of it to the other with scarcely more than a two-meter-per-second jolt.
Ajão was lying on a soft couch set on one of the roof porches. Except for the soaked condition of his flight suit, and the soreness in his legs, he was quite comfortable. This was hardly a prison cell. The furniture and art work excelled what Pelio had provided them. A wide, low table sat alongside the couch. Its surface bore two circular paintings, each more than a meter across. They looked almost like maps: the blue representing ocean, the green and brown and white the land. Notations in the Azhiri syllabaric script marked various points. There were even little sea monsters painted on the blue … . Why, these were maps, polar orthographic projections! One disk represented the northern hemisphere, and the other the southern. What a strange projection to use; the equatorial continents were distorted almost to unrecognizability.
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
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