Toroca shook his head. “It’s not enough. It’s off by—by orders of magnitude.”
“What are ‘orders of magnitude’?” asked Jodor.
“Powers of ten. Seven thousand kilodays wouldn’t be enough. Tubers, seventy thousand kilodays wouldn’t be enough, either.”
Jodor still seemed to be unconcerned. “If this wasn’t stormy Fra’toolar, I’d say you’d been out in the sun too long, Toroca. We know the world is seven thousand kilodays old; therefore, whatever process you’re concerned about could not have taken longer than seven thousand kilodays to occur.”
Toroca dipped his head. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. But then he swung around, looking out over the panorama visible from the top of the cliff, before Jodor could see his muzzle turn blue with the liar’s tint.
Chapter 8
Capital City: The Avenue of Traders
It was well-known that Emperor Dy-Dybo didn’t care much for parades, but this was Jostark’s Day, in honor of craftspeople. The parade was important to Capital City’s economy, launching the ten-day festival that brought skilled workers from all over the province to trade their wares in the central marketplace.
The day was sunny, the sky a pristine, cloudless mauve. Four pale moons were visible despite the daylight, two of them on either side of the brilliant sun, crescents bowing away from the tiny white disk. The constant east-west breeze blew harbor air over the city, but the usual background sound of ships’ bells and drums coming up from the docks was gone. All work had suspended so that everyone could attend the parade.
In addition to all the city folk and the many tourists, there were two unexpected spectators. One was Rodlox, the governor of Edz’toolar province, about the same height as Dybo, but trim and well-muscled. Yes, strictly speaking, his name was now “Dy-Rodlox,” he having recently ascended to the governorship upon the death of his predecessor, Len-Ganloor, but he suffered the use of the praenomen that honored Dybo only on the most formal of occasions. At all other times, he was merely “Rodlox.” He stood, arms folded in front of his chest, leaning back on his tail, waiting. Next to him was his aide, Pod-Oro, about twice Rodlox’s age.
Governor Rodlox and Pod-Oro would be missed today in Edz’toolar, for a corresponding but much less elaborate parade was being held in that province’s capital to mark Jostark’s Day there. But they had come here, to the Capital, precisely to see the Emperor, chubby Dybo himself, march down the public streets.
Rodlox and Oro watched from the side of the Avenue of Traders, one of Capital City’s widest thoroughfares, as the procession approached. At the front of the marching group was Lub-Galpook, daughter to Afsan and Novato, who, since the death of Jal-Tetex, had become the new imperial hunt leader. She moved with stealth, as if stalking prey. Behind her, fanned out in a traditional pattern, were nine of the town’s best hunters. As Galpook continued forward, she would periodically hold up her hands in the hunter’s sign language, redeploying her pack. The nine would silently take on new configurations.
The governor of Edz’toolar paid little attention. His mind was on other matters, weightier matters. He couldn’t stand the name “Dy-Rodlox,” but thought that “Rod-Rodlox” had quite an attractive ring to it…
And then, at last, Dybo was visible, there, in the distance, at the very end of the parade.
The Emperor. The mad Emperor who wanted to take them to the stars.
Dybo was almost exactly the same height as Rodlox, but the Emperor’s girth…Rodlox thought it was like seeing himself stretched wide, reflected in some distorted mirror. Still, that he saw any of Dybo in himself was disturbing. It robbed him of some of his individuality. Did Dybo have the same fears as he did? The same weaknesses? One’s innermost self should be private. But here, waddling toward him, was another iteration, a caricature, a mockery of himself.
The crowd lining the road was sparse. Even to see the Emperor, Quintaglios would not pack themselves tightly together. The parade would continue for a distance of many kilopaces so that everyone would have a chance to see it.
Crafters—in whose honor this march was held, after all—were passing by now, each holding a sample of his or her wares: a tall, thin Quintaglio with tanned leathers draped over his snake-like arms; a stouter fellow with brown and yellow freckles on his muzzle holding two complex metal instruments; a slim female, apparently one of Novato’s students, carrying a brass far-seer, sunlight glinting off its metal tube and glass lenses; a vastly old giant, skin so dark green as to be almost black, bearing books bound in hornface hide; many tens more.
Rodlox kept his eye on the approaching Dybo. Soon, he thought. Soon.
The imperial staff was now abreast of Rodlox and Oro. Leading the way were two burly imperial guards, the kind that warded off animals that might wander into the city. They held ceremonial staffs high, each with a red banner showing Dybo’s cartouche.
Next came Det-Bogkash, the Master of the Faith, followed by several other holy people. Rodlox remembered the days when priests wore flowing, banded robes, imitating the Face of God’s roiling cloud patterns. The new robes, pristine white, seemed bland in comparison. Perhaps that could be changed…
After the priests came senior palace advisors: Nom-Lirpan, in charge of provincial relations; Wab-Novato, leader of this crazed exodus; Afsan, the blind sage, with a large, ugly reptile on a leash leading him in the correct path.
And then, Dy-Dybo himself, the Emperor of the Fifty Packs, ruler of the eight provinces, sovereign of all of Land, the great-great-great-great-grandson of Larsk.
Dybo’s hand was raised in a traditional hunter’s sign, a calling together of the pack, simultaneously a gesture reinforcing his leadership and the assembled group’s sense of community.
Suddenly Rodlox stepped away from the curb, moved into the center of the roadway, and stood directly in Dybo’s path. There were five paces between them. Spectators gasped.
Dybo looked up, startled.
“Get out of the way!” shouted someone from the roadside.
Rodlox spoke firmly. “No.”
“You’re blocking the path of the Emperor,” said another spectator. The procession came to a complete halt.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” said Rodlox, glancing once at Oro, standing at the roadside, the aide’s muzzle scrunched in a satisfied expression.
Dybo himself spoke now, his smooth voice the most remarkable of all his musical instruments. “Please step aside, friend.” His words were fluid, warm, a spoken song.
Friend, thought Rodlox. He doesn’t even recognize me!
“No,” Rodlox said again.
Dybo’s face twisted in concern. “You’re not injured, are you?” His muzzle tipped up and down as he appraised Rodlox. “Are you unable to move?”
“I can move,” said Rodlox, his tone steady, controlled, “but I will not.”
“Why not?” said a calm voice from behind him. Rodlox turned to see the blind one, Afsan, facing in his direction. It was disconcerting to have those empty sockets, covered by caved-in, wrinkled lids, staring at him. At his side, Afsan’s reptile hissed softly at Rodlox.
“That is no concern of yours.”
“You interfere with a procession of which I am part,” said Afsan, spreading his hands. “You block the path of my friend and ruler, Dy-Dybo. Yes, Rodlox, it is a concern of mine.”
Rodlox felt his heart flutter. How did the blind one know who he was? “You called me by name.”
“I recognize your voice. We met once shortly before your ascension, when Len-Ganloor brought you to the Capital. What, I wonder, is the new governor of Edz’toolar doing here so soon after his last visit to this province?”
This Afsan…a most disconcerting individual. Rodlox had heard tales of his facility with arguments. Best not to engage him further. He turned instead to look defiantly at Dybo.
For his part, Dybo seemed unperturbed, as if such a thing as a recalcitrant pedestrian was a matter of no import next to the issues of state. “
I ask you again,” said the Emperor politely, each word flowing into the next like water into a goblet, “please step aside.”
“And I say again: I refuse.”
“Very well,” said Dybo, with a tilt of the head which reaffirmed that the whole matter was of little consequence to him. “Then I shall go around you.” Dybo moved diagonally toward the curb, but Rodlox again stepped in his path. The crowd was silent.
“A real leader would not concede territory to another so easily.”
“A real leader,” said Dybo in a congenial tone, “knows what is worth arguing over and what is not.” Again, the Emperor stepped aside, but once more Rodlox blocked his path. Dybo then moved to the left, and Rodlox did likewise. The imperial guards had stepped back to stand on either side of Dybo, their banners snapping in the breeze. Their eyes were locked on the Emperor, looking for any sign from him that they should intervene. The whole procession was breaking up now. Everyone had turned around to see what the delay was, and some, including several crafters and members of Galpook’s hunting pack, had moved near.
Dybo let out a sigh, a long affected hiss indicating that he’d grown tired of this game. He took a bold step forward. Rodlox reached out a stiff arm and pushed it into the Emperor’s shoulder.
A murmur went through the crowd. To touch another—especially the Emperor!
“Do not do that again,” said Dybo quietly.
But Rodlox tipped from the waist, his tail lifting from the ground, and in a slow, deliberate gesture, too choreographed and extended to be instinct, he bobbed his torso up and down, up and down. A display of territorial challenge.
Silence, save for some whispering behind him. Rodlox realized that Novato had stepped over to Afsan and was giving him a running description.
“I challenge you,” Rodlox said, his voice loud and firm.
Dybo spread his arms. “Challenge me for what? This is a street of the people; all streets in Capital City are so designated. I don’t claim it as my territory; you, Rodlox, and all others are free to use it.”
Rodlox bobbed again. “It’s not the street I challenge you for,” he said. “I challenge your right to rule. I challenge your right to be Emperor.”
“I am of The Family,” said Dybo. “I am the son of the daughter of the daughter of the son of the daughter of the son of Larsk, the prophet.”
“And,” said Rodlox, “I, Rodlox, governor of Edz’toolar, am also”—he had rehearsed the litany—“the son of the daughter of the daughter of the son of the daughter of the son of Larsk, the prophet.”
“The fellow’s mad,” said a voice from the curbside. “Thinks he’s the Emperor.”
Rodlox wheeled to face the speaker. “No, I do not think I am the Emperor, citizen, and I assure you I am not mad.” He turned again to Dybo. “Am I, brother?”
“Brother?” said Dybo, his mouth remaining agape after speaking the word.
Rodlox heard what sounded like a sharp inhalation of breath from behind him. Was it Afsan? “Yes, brother: male child of the same parents.” He pointed to the one who’d called him mad. “You! Come here!” The citizen—a maker of pottery, judging by the symbols on her blue sash—seemed afraid. “Come here, I said. I’ll not hurt you.”
Rodlox’s muzzle didn’t flush blue, but then if the citizen really did think him insane, she might not give that much credence. A couple of those standing near the citizen urged her on, and she took a hesitant step forward.
“Come closer,” snapped Rodlox.
“I—I do not wish to invade your territory,” said the citizen.
“Hahat dan, for God’s sake!” said Rodlox. “I grant you permission. Come stand right next to me, right here.” He pointed at the ground beside him. The citizen looked back at the crowd.
“Go ahead!” shouted an onlooker. Others made encouraging gestures. The potmaker slowly stepped up to Rodlox. “Now, look at my earholes.” Rodlox swiveled his neck so that the citizen could see first one, then the other.
The citizen’s expression was blank. “Yes?”
“Look at them. What do you notice about them?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say—”
“The shape, fool. The shape! What shape are they?”
“Oval, I guess.”
“Oval. Unusual, isn’t that?”
“Well, I suppose. But, umm, I mean no offense by that.”
“None taken. Go look at the Emperor’s earholes.”
The citizen stood there. “Your Luminance?”
“Hahat dan,” said Dybo, with a slight concessional nod. “Feel free.”
The citizen peered at the sides of Dybo’s head.
“Well?” snapped Rodlox.
“His are oval, too.”
“Louder. Shout it. I want everyone to hear.”
The citizen’s voice cracked slightly, but she did manage a more robust volume. “I said, his are oval, too.”
Rodlox bowed full concession at the citizen. “Thank you. You may return to the side of the road.” The citizen hastened to do just that. Rodlox shouted so all could hear. “My associates and I have cataloged fourteen distinctive physical features that Dybo and I have in common. Fourteen!” He turned through a slow circle, facing members of the public, the procession, spectators on the far curb, and then Dybo again. “The earholes are an obvious example.” He tipped forward, lifting his tail from the paving stones. “The mottling on the undersides of our tails is the same.” He pointed at his own feet, then at Dybo’s. “Instead of our middle toeclaw being longer than the other two, it’s the same length as our inner toeclaw.” He looked up. “We both have exceptional vision. Our muzzles are shorter than average. And on and on.”
Dybo spoke softly. “I fail to see the significance—”
“We’re brothers,” said Rodlox flatly. “Brothers.”
“How can the two of you be brothers?” shouted another voice from the far curb. “No one has brothers.” A pause. “Well, no one except Afsan and Novato’s children.”
Rodlox spun to face the speaker. “No one should have brothers, or sisters for that matter,” said Rodlox. “But I do, and he does. In fact, there are eight of us, siblings all. Every one of Lends’s eight egglings has lived to adulthood. And of the eight, I’m sure that I, Rodlox, am the strongest, for if I were not, I would not have been sent to Edz’toolar, the most barren and isolated part of Land. I am the rightful leader of the Fifty Packs.”
“But that’s impossible!” said a voice, an old fellow standing near Oro. “The bloodpriest—”
Rodlox nodded, as if pleased by the question. “Ah, yes. The imperial bloodpriest. He did not devour seven of the eight hatchlings. Rather, I’m convinced that seven of the eight were sent out to be apprentice governors in the outlying provinces, and the eighth remained in the Capital, to be groomed for Emperorship.”
Dy-Dybo looked as though he’d had quite enough. “Ridiculous!” he said, his voice for the first time sharp. He turned his muzzle toward his blind sage. “Afsan, you’re a clear thinker. Explain the folly of his logic to this fellow.”
Rodlox spun around, looked at Afsan. And he saw in Afsan’s face something—
Rodlox narrowed his eyes. “You—you know of this!”
Afsan said nothing.
“Speak, blind one. You do know of this, don’t you?”
“I—” began Afsan, but he did not continue. His pet reptile hissed quietly at his side.
“Speak! If what I say isn’t true, tell me now.”
“You’ve presented no irrefutable proof of your extraordinary claim,” said Afsan slowly.
“I can prove it,” said Rodlox. “But you—I see it in your expression. You have known of this!”
“Everything you’ve said is just circumstantial evidence, or could be explained as mere coincidence,” said Afsan.
“Then deny it directly, sightless one. Say it out loud for all to hear! Declare publicly that what I’ve said is not true.”
There was a long silence, ev
ery set of eyes locked on Afsan. “What you say,” said Afsan at last, spacing the words out, “is not true.”
“By the fangs of God—” said Dybo wanly, as he watched Afsan’s face.
“See!” shouted Rodlox, spinning again to look at everyone in turn. “See! The blind one’s muzzle turns blue. His words are a lie!”
Afsan dipped his head.
“Afsan?” said Dybo, a note of desperation in his voice.
Even though they were sightless, Afsan apparently could not lift his eyes to meet the Emperor’s. “I’m sorry,” he said, very softly.
Dybo’s inner eyelids were snapping up and down spasmodically, no doubt turning his vision into a strobing display. “Are you sure?” he said.
“He’s sure!” shouted Rodlox. “He knows I am right.”
Afsan rallied some strength. “No,” he said. “I don’t know that what you say is true, Rodlox. I can’t see the evidence of physical similarity you are apparently presenting.”
“No, you can’t,” said Rodlox. “But you believe me. I see that in your face. Admit it. Admit the truth.”
Afsan was silent. Dybo spoke at last, “Afsan, is it true?”
“I am not positive,” Afsan said quietly, “but…yes. I’ve long suspected that what Rodlox has suggested is true.” Afsan looked slightly defensive. “I did mention the possibility to you once, long ago.”
Dybo leaned back on his tail for support.
“The bloodpriests have lied!” shouted Rodlox. “Not only have they betrayed the people, they’ve betrayed the very Emperorship itself.” He faced the spectators lining the near curb now. “Surely the imperial bloodpriest should have chosen the best and fastest of the egglings to become Emperor. Look at him!” He jabbed a finger at Dybo. “Look at him! Fat, dull-witted, lazy.” The crowd hissed at the insults, but Rodlox pressed on. “And look at me: lean and muscular, and sharp of mind. The bloodpriests wanted someone on the ruling slab that they could easily manipulate, so they sent the rightful heir away. I’m the one who should be Emperor.” He turned directly toward Dybo. “With me in the palace, our people will get on with the business of living, not be mired in your mad dream of leaving our home.”
Fossil Hunter Page 6
