"Taksan," said Toroca.
"You’ve named it?" said Keenir, surprised.
"Of course. And he’s a him, not an it. There is no creche master around; who else would name him?"
"I suppose," said Keenir. Then: "What are you going to do with him?"
"What do you mean?"
Keenir exhaled noisily, as if he felt Toroca was being dense. "I mean, good Toroca, we are at war with his people. Surely the child should be disposed of."
"What?" said Toroca, shocked.
"You made a good start when you got rid of the other two," said Keenir. "After all, taking prisoners isn’t normal procedure."
"There are no ’normal procedures,’" said Toroca. "There has never been a war like this."
"No, no. But in the ancient territorial conflicts, before the time of Dasan, prisoners were never taken. I mean, you can’t put a bunch of Quintaglios into a cell together; they’d kill each other."
"Taksan is not a Quintaglio; his race is not territorial."
"I know that," said Keenir, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "Still, we have no facilities on this ship for holding a prisoner…"
"Stop calling him that," said Toroca. "He is not a prisoner."
"Well, use whatever term you want. But he is one of the enemy, and has no place aboard this ship."
"What would you have me do, Keenir?"
"I don’t know," said the captain, scratching the underside of his jaw. "Toss him overboard, I suppose."
"What? Keenir, you can’t be serious."
"Of course I’m serious. Look, you’ve had to keep him in your lab as is. No one else has even seen him. But you can’t keep him there indefinitely. And soon enough one of my crew is going to by eyes on him. Whether the sight of an infant Other will be enough to trigger dagamant I don’t know, but we can’t risk it in the close confines of a sailing ship. I won’t have the Dasheter become another Galadoreter."
"But Taksan — Taksan is my…"
"Your what?" said Keenir.
"Nothing. You can’t make me get rid of him."
"You may direct the Geological Survey, Toroca, but I am captain of the Dasheter, I can allow nothing to put my ship or crew at risk." Keenir turned his back and looked out over the waves.
Toroca’s tone was matter-of-fact. "I will not harm Taksan. If you try to do so, or allow anyone else to, I will kill you."
Keenir clicked his teeth. "Oh, come on, Toroca. Be serious."
Toroca raised his hands to show that his claws were unsheathed. "I am being serious, Keenir. I shall kill anyone who harms Taksan."
Var-Osfik was the Arbiter of the Sequence, the person responsible for keeping Quintaglio knowledge in order. Osfik was a fussy old thing, but lately she’d had to make a lot of changes. Astrology, for instance, had originally come right after prophecy in the Sequence, since both dealt with the revelation of hidden truths. But after Afsan’s discovery about the Face of God, Osfik moved astrology to in between physics, which dealt with the way things work, and geology, the study of the world, thus making astrology the study of the way the worlds work. That had been a major move, and librarians across Land probably cursed her for it. Mokleb thought about this as she scratched the signaling plate — gold, befitting Osfik’s station — next to the arbiter’s door.
"Who is it?" came a gruff voice, muffled by the wood.
"Nav-Mokleb, undertaking business requested by the Emperor."
"Hahat dan."
Fortunately, Osfik was female; Mokleb’s pheromones would have less effect on her. Mokleb was amazed by how crowded the room was. Objects of all types covered the floor, tabletops, and shelves. On one wall were cases containing insects on pins, arranged from right to left in ascending order of beauty. On Osfik’s desk, an assortment of smith’s tools. Mokleb couldn’t discern any order to their sequence, unless — perhaps in ascending order of strength needed to wield them. On the floor, planks of wood from various trees, with a few set aside, apparently not yet fitted into the progression. The Sequence for wood was old and well established. That Osfik was mulling it over was a sign of the times: all knowledge was subject to reinterpretation these days.
"I’m a busy person," said Osfik without preamble. "I’m sure you can appreciate that. Do me the courtesy, therefore, of dispensing with protocols. I accept that we have bowed at each other, that we’ve acknowledged how we cast shadows in each other’s presence, that you wouldn’t have bothered me if it wasn’t important, and so on. Now, quickly and precisely, Nav-Mokleb, what do you want?"
Mokleb felt off balance, as though someone had lifted her tail and she was tipping forward. Niceties were always observed; every encounter was an intricate social dance. She was not quite prepared for this, and, on the whole, she thought she didn’t like it. Nevertheless: "I’ve but one question, Osfik: is there such a thing as a purple wingfinger?"
Osfik looked up, nictitating membranes fluttering. "This is the Emperor’s business, you said?"
"Indirectly. His Luminance has asked me to treat a member of his staff. I’m a healer of sorts."
"Oh. I know who you are, Mokleb. You’ve taken more than daytenths of my time, what with these books and tracts you’ve published. The study of the mind always fit neatly under philosophy before, but I could not see putting your works on the same shelf as those of Dolgar or Spooltar — no offense; quality is not the issue. Content is. You treat the study of the mind in a more medical matter."
Mokleb was surprised that her work had attracted Osfik’s attention. "I don’t wish to add to the burden I’ve already created for you. I simply need to know whether there is any species of wingfinger with purple wings."
"You’re in luck," said Osfik. "I’ve got most of the books on wingfingers right here. Since Toroca discovered those unknown wingringer forms on the southern ice cap, I’ve been trying to fit them into the Sequence." She snorted briefly. "He’s another who has made my life difficult. His evolutionary model has required a complete reordering of the sequence of life."
Osfik rummaged around until she found a large, square book bound in leather. "Here it is. The Wingfingers of Land, a collection of paintings by Pal-Noltark." She handed the heavy volume to Mokleb. "Have a look. It’s not a great book; Noltark ordered it by geographic region when properly wingfingers are arranged by increasing maximal adult wingspan. Still, he boasts to have painted every species. If a purple one exists, it’ll be in there."
Mokleb began turning the stiff paper pages. There were more varieties of wingfinger than she’d ever imagined: some had pointy crests off the backs of their skulls, others did not, but all had wings supported on incredibly elongated fourth fingers, and all had fine hair covering most of their bodies. There were scarlet wingfingers, green wingfingers, copper wingfingers, white ones, black ones, ones with striped bodies and ones freckled with colored dots, but nowhere was there one that was purple. She closed the cover.
"Find what you were looking for?" asked Osfik.
"No — I mean, yes. I found that there is no such thing as a purple wingfinger."
Osfik nodded. "I never saw a purple wingfinger," she said, "and I never hope to see one, but I can tell you anyhow I’d rather see than be one." Then the old arbiter clicked her teeth. "Say, that’s good. I should write that down."
Mokleb thanked Osfik and left. The purple wingfinger was symbolic, obviously, of something that was troubling Afsan. But what? The sky was purple, of course, and some kinds of flowers were purple, too. Some shovelmouths and thunderbeasts had purple markings on their hides. The blue-black pigment used in hunting tattoos could look purple in certain light.
And what about wingfingers? Flying reptiles, they came in all sizes. They laid eggs. Some ate insects, some ate lizards, many kinds ate fish, and many more fed on carrion.
Purple.
Wingfinger.
Mokleb shook her head.
Novato had dreamed of flying before. Indeed, after a ride in one of her gliders, she often found herself feeling as though she
were still soaring. But that sensation of flight had always been accompanied by a feeling of forward motion, of slicing through the air. Now, well, it was simply as if she were hovering, floating, a cloud.
And then she awoke, with a start, as her head banged against the lifeboat’s ceiling.
Banged against the ceiling…
Novato’s heart skipped a beat, and she scrunched her eyes tightly closed. She felt her whole body go rigid as she prepared to crash back to the floor. But that did not happen. Instead, her back touched the ceiling again, gently this time, like a piece of wood bobbing in a calm lake. She opened her eyes. At first she’d thought perhaps she’d been slammed against the roof by rapid deceleration, but in the light of the countless stars and eight visible moons she had no trouble making out the rungs of the tower’s ladder-like sides as they passed. They were going by at steady rate.
She was neither accelerating nor decelerating.
And yet she floated.
Floated!
She wasn’t completely weightless. She was drifting slowly downward, and her equipment still sat stolidly on the floor. Still, she now weighed so little that her tossing as she slept had been enough to lift her off the floor and send her drifting toward the ceiling.
It was a giddy sensation. Her arms were spread like loosely folded wings, her legs were bent gently at the knees, and she could feel her tail swaying behind her.
She’d been aboard the lifeboat for almost nine days now. The world below looked like a giant ball, filling most of her field of vision. About two-thirds of it was illuminated; the other third was in the darkness of night. Breathtaking as that sight was, even more spectacular was what was slowly becoming visible behind the world. Orange and yellow light spilled past the edges of the illuminated disk, and already she could see a hint of the vast colored bands of cloud.
The Face of God. The planet around which the Quintaglio moon orbited.
The lifeboat continued upward. As the sight of the world with a single equatorial landmass diminished, more of the Face of God beyond became visible. Her world looked now like a vast blue-green pupil in the center of a yellow eye. As time went by, she could see the two superimposed spheres — the Face and the Quintaglio moon — waxing and waning through phases in unison. When they were both full, as they were at high noon, the glare from the ring-shaped Face behind was so intense that Novato had trouble looking at it without her inner eyelids involuntarily sliding shut.
It was spectacular. When seen from the deck of a pilgrimage ship, the sight of the Face, with its roiling bands of cloud, its infinitely complex array of swirls and vortices and colored whirlpools, its vast majestic grandeur, was enough to induce an almost hypnotic state in a Quintaglio. But to see her own world, with its cottony clouds, its shimmering blue waters, and the endlessly convoluted shoreline of Land, and at the same time to also see beyond it the glory of the Face of God — that was almost too much beauty, too much wonder, for the mind to grasp. Novato found herself transfixed, mesmerized. If she hadn’t already been floating on air, she would be now.
Emperor Dy-Dybo was lying on his dayslab in his ruling room, hearing the appeal of a young Quintaglio who had been accused of theft. He couldn’t deny the crime, of course: his muzzle would betray his lies. Still, he sought clemency on the basis that what he had taken — spikefrill horn cores from the palace butchery, items often used in Lubalite ceremonies — would simply have been thrown out anyway. Penalty for theft was to have one’s hands amputated. This fellow’s lawyer contended that such an act would be cruel punishment, for the youth apparently had a flaw that would prevent the hands from regenerating. As proof, he offered his client’s left foot, which had only two toes; the third had been lost kilodays ago and had never regrown.
The ruling room’s doors burst open and in ran an elderly female Dybo didn’t recognize. The imperial guards quickly stepped forward, interposing themselves between the emperor and the intruder; there was always the chance that someone mad with dagamant would get into the palace. The stranger was panting hard, but her torso was steady. She held up a hand, showing that her claws were sheathed, and caught her breath. Then: "Your Luminance, forgive me. I’m Pos-Doblan, keeper of the maritime rookery north of the city."
"Yes?" said Dybo.
"A homing wingfinger has just arrived. I wouldn’t have interrupted you, but the message is urgent." She held up a coil of leather. Dybo was recumbent on the slab, tail sticking up like a rubbery mast. He flicked it, and a guard moved forward, retrieved the leather strip, took it to Dybo, then backed off to a respectful distance. Dybo unwound the strip and read it quickly. "God protect us," he said softly.
One of Dybo’s advisors rose from a katadu bench. "Dybo?" she said, the lapse into informality within the throne chamber betraying her concern.
Dybo’s tone was decisive. "You, page" — he never could remember names — "summon Afsan right away. And send word to Fra’toolar that Novato should return as soon as possible. I’m going to need my best thinkers." He pushed off the dayslab and began to leave the chamber.
"Emperor," called the lawyer for the youth. "What about my client?"
"No punishment," snapped Dybo. "We’re going to need all the hands we can get."
"I have a feeling we have not gone back far enough," Mokleb said to Afsan. "What’s the earliest memory you have?"
Afsan scratched the loose folds of the dewlap hanging from his aeck. "I don’t know. I remember, well, let’s see … I remember my vocational exams."
"Those would have been when you were ten or eleven. Surely you remember older things."
"Oh, sure. There’s that time I got lost in the forest; I’ve mentioned that before. And, let’s see, I remember getting in trouble for biting off the finger of one of my creche mates when I was young."
"Did you do it in anger?"
"No, we were just playing around. It was an accident, and the finger grew back, of course."
"What else do you remember?"
"Learning to cut leather. Catching butterflies. Let’s see … I remember the first time during my life that Pack Carno picked up and moved itself along the shores of the Kreeb River. I remember — what else? — I remember all the commotion when some dignitary came to visit the Pack. I didn’t know who it was at the time, but I later learned that it was Dybo’s — ah, what would the term be? Dybo’s grandmother, the Empress Sar-Sardon."
"You remember an imperial visit to Carno?"
"Vaguely, yes. They took us youngsters down to the Kreeb and washed us off so we’d look clean for her. I remember it because it was the first time they’d actually let us near the river; they were always afraid the current would sweep us away."
"What else?"
"Learning to play lastoontal. God, what a boring process that was: walking up to the game board to make my move, then backing off so the other player could come up and make his or her move."
"Anything else?"
"Oh, many things, I suppose, but they all seem trivial. A great thunderstorm. The first time I experienced a landquake. Finding a dead wingfinger."
"A wingfinger? Was it purple?’’
"No, it was white with pale orange stripes. A banded swift, I think."
"What else?"
"Learning to read; memorizing endless series of glyphs and the words associated with them."
"And do you remember which of these things came first?"
"It’s hard to say. They’re jumbled together in my mind."
"What about anything that disturbed you, or frightened you, when you were a child?"
"Well, I mentioned the landquake: that scared me. Of course, one gets used to them. And I was quite frightened when I was lost in the forest. But no, nothing really shocking, if that’s what you’re looking for."
"Yes," said Mokleb. "That’s exactly what I’m looking for."
*21*
Finally, it was about to happen: the moment Novato had been waiting for and dreading. The four blue sides of the ladder were no longe
r simply fading into nothingness. Instead, she could see where they ended. Far, far above, she could see the actual summit of the tower. Novato’s claws hung half out of their sheaths, and her tail, floating in the air behind her, twitched left and right.
She thought of Rewdan and the Vine.
A giant blackdeath.
A wingfinger that laid eggs of gold.
Which would it be?
The four sides of the tower flared into a vast blue bulb at the top. Long panels were extended from the sides of the bulb, panels so dark as to be visible only because they blocked the stars behind them. The whole thing looked like some deathly daisy with black petals and a blue, impossibly long stem.
The lifeboat began to slow, preparing to stop at the summit. Novato drifted toward the roof.
Any moment now.
The lifeboat slid up, farther and farther, past the bottom of the bottom into the cavernous interior. It jerked slightly as it came to rest.
Novato was breathing rapidly. It took a while to absorb what she was seeing through the transparent walls: a vast chamber with a myriad of levels, all constructed of the blue material.
She steeled her courage as the lifeboat’s interior walls fogged over. Then the door appeared. The successful return of the test lizards notwithstanding, she’d been terrified that there’d be no air inside the chamber up here. But everything seemed fine. She gave a gentle kick off the lifeboat’s rear wall and floated out the door.
Ten days had elapsed since she’d first entered the lifeboat. If she was right about its speed — one hundred and thirty kilopaces per daytenth — then she was now some thirteen thousand kilopaces above the surface of her world. Here at last she felt no tendency to drift downward at all; she was completely weightless, the centrifugal and gravitational forces in perfect balance.
She floated along, kicking gently off walls to keep herself moving. At last she entered a massive cubic chamber.
Her heart pounded.
Eggs of gold.
There were nine windows on one wall arranged in three rows of three. Thick black lines connected the eight outlying windows to the one in the center.
Foreigner qa-3 Page 18
