Free The Witling by Vernor Vinge

advisers realized that Thredegar Bre’en was anything but the congenial fool he seemed. The wily Snowman was the one sure link the Summerkingdom had in its communications with the arctic lands. No matter which clique was in power at the poles, Bre’en always seemed to rank high in its councils.
    Aleru was talking to the other even before they were out of the water. “And I tell you Bre‘en, this is serious. We’re tired of you people supporting this illegal immigration to the Great Desert. The Sandfolk attack on Marecharu Oasis cost us lives.” After them, four men—all dressed in heavy Snowfolk leggings—climbed awkwardly from the pool; these were Bre’en’s personal servants.
    It took only those few sentences for Pelio to realize that Aleru was speaking directly for their father, the king. But by tradition, the office of direct spokesman should go to the king’s firstborn son, as soon as that son could be considered responsible. Pelio swallowed hard, and stepped deeper into the shadows, and wished he were invisible.
    The motion must have caught Aleru’s eye, for the other’s head snapped around to look directly at them. “Who—Pelio!” The younger prince straightened his shoulders and hailed the elder: “Brother.” Beside him, Bre’en bowed slightly.
    Pelio returned the greeting, and tried to look self-composed. Their father had often remarked how similar in appearance and voice he and his brother were. It was true: except for Pelio’s one “tiny” deficiency, they might have been the same person. But that deficiency and the accident of his being born before Aleru meant that they had always been separated by a wall of mutual envy—and hate.
    Aleru was one of the few people who knew Pelio well enough to see through his deception.
    His brother glanced briefly around the room, and seemed to guess that Pelio was stuck here waiting for the chief attendant. He looked back at Pelio and shrugged as if to say, You pitiful, embarrassed fool . Then his jaw sagged a fraction as he finally noticed Ionina’s slim, dark form in the shadows. He looked at her for a long moment, and Pelio could almost imagine his futile effort to decide where in the world the girl could be from. Even the Snowman, Thredegar Bre’en, seemed interested now—though his gaze was a bit more affable and relaxed than Aleru’s. Pelio tried to outstare them. After all, to explain anything at all about Ionina would imply that there was something special about her. But finally he felt forced to speak. “Do you like her?” he said, trying to smile. “A new concubine. The gift of some baron south of County Tsarang.” The more obscure her origin the better. Tsarang was on the other side of the world, so far from the Summerkingdom proper that its loyalty was scarcely more than lip service. And the lands around it were wild enough to produce a creature as strange as Ionina.
    “Very nice, brother. Someday I would have one.”
    “Certainly.” Pelio nodded, and the two brothers stared at each other. With Samadhom’s defensive screens hanging invisibly around them, Aleru had no way of senging that Ionina was a witling. But that didn’t help matters much. Aleru knew that Pelio rarely used his statutory harem, that he despised the girls and they despised him. So Aleru might reasonably conclude there was something special about this particular girl. Would his brother guess the one terrible peculiarity that might interest Pelio?
    Finally Aleru snapped to attention—an exaggerated gesture of respect—and said, “By your leave, brother.” He turned and walked to the edge of the pool, then noticed that Bre’en had made no move to follow.
    “Ah, yes, Your Highness,” Bre’en said to Aleru. “Could we finish our discussion later? Certainly the ambassador should hear what you say firsthand. And I don’t often get the chance to speak with the prince-imperial. If he is someday to rule All Summer, then we of the Poles must know him.”
    Aleru