“Toroca, I never thought I’d have to say this to you, of all people: don’t be silly. Even if what you say is true, our own people must be our first priority.”
“Even if, as in this case, we were the original aggressors? Remember, Var-Keenir, it was you who made the first kill.”
Keenir spread his arms. “I couldn’t help myself, Toroca. I was moved to madness.”
Toroca’s tail swished slowly back and forth. “Exactly.”
“Quickly, now,” said Mokleb. “Name the five original hunters.”
Afsan looked startled, then: “Lubal, Hoog, Katoon, Belbar, and, uh. Mekt.”
“Thank you. Now, on with our session…”
It was a typically overcast day in Fra’toolar, the sky gray rather than purple, the sun a vague smudge behind the clouds. Karshirl was sitting on a log on the beach, looking out at the waves lapping against the base of the blue pyramid.
Novato regarded her daughter from a distance. She was almost exactly one-half Novato’s age and soon would be coming into receptivity for the first time. Karshirl was a lot smaller than Novato, and she was proportioned differently, too. The difference proportions wasn’t a sign that they were unrelated, but rather had to do with the ways in which a Quintaglio body changes in order to support its ever-increasing bulk. Novato had much thicker legs than Karshirl, and whereas the younger female’s tail was a narrow isosceles triangle in cross section, Novato’s was stocky and equilateral. Novato remembered wistfully when her own appearance had been like that.
She closed the distance between them. “Hello, Karshirl.”
Karshirl rose to her feet. “Hello, Novato. Hahat dan.”
Novato was quiet for several beats, then asked, “How much do you know about me?”
Karshirl looked surprised by the question. “What everyone knows, I suppose. You invented the far-seer.”
“Yes, I did. But that’s not the only, ah, creation I’m responsible for.”
Karshirl kept her muzzle faced toward Novato, attentive.
“I’m Toroca’s mother, did you know that?”
“Yes,” said Karshirl. “I’m not much for gossip, but I suppose everybody’s heard the story of your eight children by Afsan.”
“Indeed. But, actually, I have nine children.”
“Oh? Was that clutch of unusual size?”
“No. The clutch with Afsan was normal. But I had a second clutch by someone else later on. I, ah, had two clutches in my youth.”
“Oh.” Karshirl clearly didn’t know what to say.
“And one individual lives from that second clutch.”
“So one would presume,” said Karshirl.
“How old are you, Karshirl?”
“Eighteen kilodays.”
“Do you know how old I am?”
“No.”
“Go ahead, guess. I’m not particularly vain.”
“Thirty-four?”
“Actually I’m thirty-six.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Thank you. You don’t see what I’m getting at, do you?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
Novato drew a deep breath, then let it hiss out slowly. “You, Karshirl, are my ninth child.”
Karshirl’s inner eyelids blinked. “I am?”
“Yes.”
“Fancy that,” she said.
Novato waited for something more. Finally, when she couldn’t take it any longer, she said, “Is that all you’ve got to say?”
Karshirl was clearly trying to be polite. “Um, well, I guess if I take after you, I’ll age well.”
There was frustration in Novato’s tone: “I’m your mother,” she said.
“Yes, I guess that’s the term, isn’t it?” Karshirl was quiet for a time, then added again, “Fancy that.”
“Don’t you want to ask me questions?” said Novato.
“Well, as an engineer, I’ve long wondered where you got the inspiration for the far-seer.”
“Not that kind of question. Questions about myself. About you. About us.”
“Questions, ma’am? Nothing comes to mind.”
“I’m your mother,” Novato said again as if that said it all.
Karshirl’s tail swished expansively. “I guess it’s interesting to know. I’m sure some people idly wonder about who their parents were, but I never have myself.”
“Never?”
“Not really, no.”
Novato sighed, air whistling out between her pointed teeth. “I suppose I should have expected this. Before I left Pack Gelbo, I never knew who my mother was, either. Now that I’ve been gone for twenty kilodays, I wonder about it a lot. I try to recall the females who were eighteen, thirty-six, or fifty-four kilodays older than me, to see if any of them resemble me. But the memories are dim; I keep hoping for an excuse for a trip back to Gelbo. I’d like to see her, whoever she is.” She paused. “As I thought you might like to see me.”
“I see you often already, Novato. Forgive me—I’m not normally this dense, but I don’t seem to be getting the point of all this.”
“We’re a family,” said Novato.
“‘Family,’” repeated Karshirl. “And ‘mother.’ I’m sure you’re using these words correctly, although I’ve never heard them applied thus. Oh. I’ve heard of ‘The Family,’ of course—Dy-Dybo and his ancestors. And the term ‘creche mother’ is sometimes used. But the way you’re using them…”
Novato leaned on her tail. “Don’t you see? I know my other children.”
“Yes?”
“Know them in special ways.”
“That’s very strange.”
“I want to know you.”
“You do know me.”
“I mean, I want to know you as my daughter.”
“Now, that’s a word I don’t know at all.”
“Daughter: female child.”
Karshirl spread her hands. “We can’t know each other any better than we already do. You have your territory and I have mine.”
“But there’s so much I could tell you. About what it’s like at ages you haven’t yet reached.”
“I’ve always thought that discovering those things for oneself to part of the joy of growing up.”
“Yes, but you’ll be calling for a mate soon.”
Karshirl nodded. “Probably, although I haven’t felt the stir yet.”
“I can tell you about that.”
Karshirl’s eyelids blinked. “I don’t want to be told about it.”
“I’m your mother,” said Novato again.
Karshirl spread her hands. “I accept that.”
Novato sighed once more. “But that’s all, isn’t it?”
“What else could there be?”
“Nothing,” said Novato, growing angry. “Nothing at all.”
Karshirl said, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you somehow.”
“Just go,” said Novato. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
Karshirl turned around and walked down the beach, her tail swishing in open bewilderment.
Chapter 16
Wingfinger fanciers had long been thrilled by the ability of certain of the flying reptiles to find their way home no matter how far away one took them. Over time, using such wingfingers to carry messages had become common.
The Dasheter originally had two large homing wingfingers in its cargo holds, swooping over the wooden crates. One of them had been used earlier to send a list of needed provisions. The supply ship had been carrying a replacement wingfinger for the Dasheter, but it had died en route.
Still, there was one wingfinger left. It had been raised at the maritime rookery north of Capital City and would return there if set free. A fish-eater, it would have no trouble feeding itself on the long journey home.
Toroca wrote the following on a small strip of leather, which Keenir affixed to the animal’s left leg:
From Kee-Toroca to Dy-Dybo, urgent. Found chain of islands at 25 percent north latitude, 75 percent back-side longitude.
Inhabited by beings similar to Quintaglios but smaller in stature. Mere sight of them triggers dagamant in all of us except me; by contrast, they seem to have no overt sense of territoriality at all. We killed many of them and now 40 of their ships are pursuing Dasheter back to Land. We are traveling under only two sails, luring them toward Capital City. Will arrive around 7131/03/81. The Others use tools to kill and can lie. Prepare defense.
Keenir strapped a padded rest onto his arm. The wingfinger perched on it, its claws tearing tufts out of the padding. Toroca and Keenir headed up on deck. The wingfinger’s inner and outer eyelids snapped up and down; it wasn’t used to the daylight. The captain lifted his arm and the flyer took to the air. It rose above the Dasheter’s masts, circled the ship as if getting its bearings, then headed west at precisely the right angle.
“Let’s hope it gets there,” said Keenir.
Toroca watched the animal fly away with leisurely flaps of its wing membranes. He made no reply.
Although worship of the original five hunters no longer had to be practiced secretly, it still wasn’t something one paraded in public. After all, anyone associating with it now had likely been a secret practitioner earlier, and to have been involved with cabals and deceit would not do one credit. Still, some were open in their current or past worship of the original five. Among them was Afsan’s aide, Pal-Cadool. Perhaps he could answer Mokleb’s questions.
Cadool was easy to spot. Tall, thin, ungainly, he stood head and shoulders above Quintaglios tens of kilodays older than himself. Mokleb found him making his way down the Avenue of Traders, one of Capital City’s main streets. She had met Cadool a few times but had only previously seen him walking with Afsan, taking small steps beside the blind sage. But here, out on his own, Cadool’s spider-like legs and brisk pace carried him down the paving stones at an amazing rate. Mokleb risked jogging up behind him. She came within five paces, knowing that by the time he reacted, he’d have put another few between them. “Pal-Cadool!”
Cadool came to a halt, his long body swaying like a ship’s mast as if eager to get back into motion. He turned. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Nav-Mokleb. I need to talk to you.”
Cadool nodded, but there was no warmth in his voice. “Hahat dan.”
“Your tone is harsh,” said Mokleb. “Have I done something to offend you?”
Cadool’s muzzle was angled away from Mokleb, making clear that his black eyes were not looking at her. “You’ve been spending much time with Afsan.”
“Yes.”
“His work is backing up. His students are not getting enough time with him.”
“I’m trying to cure him of his bad dreams.”
“He’s been seeing you for hundreds of days now and his dreams are no better. Indeed, they might even be worse. He looks haggard. His lack of sleep is obvious.”
“A cure takes time.”
Cadool did swing his muzzle to face her now. “And to cure someone as famous as Afsan would be a boon to your career.”
“Doubtless so,” said Mokleb. “But I’m not deliberately protracting the therapy.”
“I’ve looked into your work,” said Cadool. “I can’t read myself, but Pettit—Afsan’s apprentice—was kind enough to read a book about your techniques to me. You believe we do not always consciously know what we are doing.”
“Just so.”
“So you could be stretching out your dealings with Afsan; that you consciously claim not to be is irrelevant. After all, the more difficult you make it appear to cure Afsan, the greater the glory you get.”
Mokleb’s nictitating membranes beat up and down. She clicked her teeth. “Why, Cadool, that observation is positively worthy of me! But I’m afraid it does take a long time to find the underlying causes of problems. Nothing would make me happier than to have Afsan cured. I remain detached during our sessions—it’s important that he reveal himself directly, rather than simply react to a tone I set—but I do care about him, and it pains me to see him continuing to hurt.”
Cadool seemed unmollified. “You ask him a lot of questions.”
“Yes.”
“And he tells you many things.”
“Ah,” said Mokleb. “That’s it, isn’t it? Prior to my arrival, you were Afsan’s confidant. It bothers you that he now shares the intimate details of his life with me.”
Cadool lifted a hand so that Mokleb could see the pointed tips of his claws peeking out of their sheaths. “Not everyone,” he said slowly, “wishes to be analyzed by you.”
Mokleb took a step back, conceding territory. “Of course. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“If that’s all you wish to say, then please excuse me. I have business to attend to.”
“No, wait. I did seek you out for a purpose. I need your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes. I need some information.”
Cadool’s voice was firm. “I will not betray Afsan’s confidences. Not to you or anyone.”
“I’m not looking for that kind of information. I want to know about the five original hunters. You are a Lubalite.”
“Yes.”
“I need to know about Mekt.”
Cadool sounded intrigued despite himself. “Why?”
“To help me with my work with Afsan.”
“Afsan has mentioned Mekt to you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
Mokleb decided there’d be little harm in telling Cadool. “Whenever Afsan discusses the Original Five, he mentions Mekt last.”
“Afsan has an orderly mind,” said Cadool. “It doesn’t surprise me that he recites lists in the same sequence each time.”
“Ah, but that’s just it. He recites the other four names in no particular order at all, but Mekt is always last. Indeed, sometimes he hesitates before mentioning her name.”
“And this is significant?”
“Yes, indeed. It’s through such things that we can catch glimpses of the forces that move us.”
Cadool looked unconvinced. “Whatever you say, Mokleb.” He paused for a moment, then: “Like the other original hunters, Mekt was formed from one of the five fingers of God’s severed left arm. Some scholars—ones like you, who emphasize the order in which things are said—suggest that she was the second hunter formed, after Lubal, since her name is mentioned second in the first sacred scroll. Mekt was a great hunter and is probably best remembered for killing an armorback, as told in the fourth scroll. When the original five hunters and original five mates began laying claims to specific territories, legend has it that Mekt took much of what is now Capital province’s northern coast and part of eastern Chu’toolar.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really, except the famous part, but surely you already know that.”
“Know what?”
“Why, that Mekt was the first bloodpriest.”
“She was?”
“Goodness, Mokleb, surely you know at least the first sacred scroll? ‘The ten who had been the fingers of God came together and produced five clutches of eight eggs. But God said soon all of Land would be overrun with Quintaglios if all those egglings were allowed to live. Therefore, She charged Mekt with devouring seven out of every eight hatchlings, and Mekt was thus the first bloodpriest.’”
“I thought bloodpriests were all male.”
“They are now. The seventeenth scroll is all about that.” Cadool shook his head. “I’m surprised, Mokleb: I can’t read, and even I know these things.”
“What does the seventeenth scroll say?”
“That Mekt refused to continue being the bloodpriest. She said it was inappropriate for one who lays eggs to be involved in the devouring of hatchlings. By that time, there were many more Quintaglios than just the original ten, and Detoon the Righteous—you do know who he was, I hope—established a secondary priestly order, exclusively male, to look after culling the infants.”
“Fascinating,” said Mokleb.
Cadool shoo
k his head again. “You know, Mokleb, given that you can read, you really should do it more often.”
Mokleb, her mind racing, bowed concession. “That I should.”
Novato and Garios finished loading the lifeboat with supplies: dried meat and fish, amphoras full of water, books in case the journey up the tower proved boring, paper for making notes and sketches in case it did not, leather blankets in case it got cold, and, of course, one of Novato’s best far-seers.
Although from the outside the lifeboat’s hull was rounded, the interior was all a simple rectangular hollow. As she loaded her last carton of meat, Novato shuddered. The lifeboat had seemed roomy when empty, and now, filled with provisions, it perhaps could be described as cozy, but twenty days within might make her mad with claustrophobia. Still, that was the round-trip value: after ten days, the lifeboat should reach the summit of the tower. Perhaps she’d be able to get out then and walk around.
Finally, it was time to go. Garios and Karshirl stood just outside the lifeboat’s open doorway, ready to say goodbye. Novato bowed to them, then said simply, “See you later.”
But Garios was not one to let such a moment pass without something more. He handed a small object to Novato. It was a traveler’s crystal, six-sided and ruby red. “Good luck,” he said, then, bowing deeply, he quoted the Song of Belbar: “‘If beasts confront you, slay them. If the elements conspire against you, overcome. And if God should call you to heaven before you return, then heaven will be the richer for it, and those you leave behind will honor you and mourn your passing.’” He paused. “Travel well, my friend.”
Novato bowed once more, then leaned back on her tail and touched the part of the wall that controlled the door. From the inside, the lifeboat’s walls grew momentarily foggy, and she knew that from the outside they would have appeared to liquefy. When the walls cleared again a moment later, not even a faint etching on the transparent hull material marked where the door had been.
Foreigner Page 15
