It lacked goodness. She was convinced of that.
It had been dead and buried for thousands of kilodays, sealed in a tomb of solid rock. It was only by sheer accident that Toroca had released it.
Time, now, to correct that.
She walked over to the porthole, felt the chill wind on her muzzle, heard the slapping of waves against the hull, the snapping of sails, the calls of distant wingfingers.
Toroca would hate her for this.
But she was only thinking of him, of his safety, of his soul.
She tossed the object out the porthole. It hit the gray waves with a splash and sank immediately from sight, gone forevermore.
Chapter 17
Arj’toolar
Arj’toolar, in northwestern Land, is a province known for its sheltered ports and hospitable inns, its metalworkers who turn copper and brass into complex instruments, its weavers who make fishing nets used throughout the world, its large holy sector, and its vast herds of orange-and-blue-striped shovelmouths, a peculiar breed with meat considered the tastiest of all.
Its governor was Len-Haktood, a hoary fellow who had survived to old age despite his quick temper only because his office shielded him from the kinds of attacks such a temper would normally engender. He was a meaner, pettier version of his sister, the late empress Len-Lends. Apprenticed to Haktood was Kroy, sister of the current Emperor, Dybo.
Haktood looked out the window. An ugly mob had gathered outside—fully ten people, standing far too close to each other. They were chanting slogans: “Truth in government!” “No special deals!” “A rightful leader for the people!” Five burly imperial guards, sent by Dybo, stood mutely along the far wall of Haktood’s office.
Haktood summoned Kroy, who did indeed look a lot like Dybo, although she lacked his plumpness, and handed her the scroll that the imperial guards had brought with them.
Kroy saw that the seal on the scroll was that of the Emperor. It had already been broken. She unfurled the leather sheet. At the top was Dybo’s cartouche, tooled in exquisite detail. Beneath it in bold, black glyphs, was a memorandum:
From:
Dy-Dybo, Emperor of Land, Leader of the Fifty Packs, Head of The Family, Descendant of Larsk
To:
Governors of the provinces of Jam’toolar, Fra’toolar, Arj’toolar, Chu’toolar, Mar’toolar, and Kev’toolar
It has come to be commonly believed that the governors of the seven outlying provinces are also members of The Family, being the siblings of the late Empress Len-Lends, and that their apprentices are the siblings of myself, the current Emperor.
Dy-Rodlox, who, since the untimely death of Len-Ganloor, has been governor of Edz’toolar, claims that he, not I, is rightful heir to the ruling slab. The accompanying documents give more details about his assertions.
The culling of the bloodpriest must be replayed, this time in full public view. You are ordered to send your apprentice governor, as well as at least three official observers, to Capital City by the 666th day of kiloday 7128, wherein each of the apprentices will have a fair chance of becoming Emperor. My imperial guards will escort your delegation here.
Kroy looked up. “Who does Dybo think he is, summoning me this way?”
Haktood was terse. “He thinks he is the Emperor. And he is correct—at least for the time being.”
“Surely you will decline.”
Haktood looked out the window. “I haven’t the power to do that.”
“But you’re a provincial governor!”
“There are forces at work greater than any authority I might have. The people are demanding this.”
“Someday, I will be governor of this province,” said Kroy.
Haktood’s tone was sly. “But why be content with governing a single province when you could be Emperor of all of Land?”
“No. I won’t go. Let the other apprentice governors play this foolish game. I’ll stay here.”
“I am your master, Kroy. I am governor of Arj’toolar; you are simply my apprentice. You will do as I say.”
“But to replay the culling. What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. But you are strong; whatever the test, I’m sure you will be the victor.”
“I am strong,” said Kroy, “but you, Haktood, you are weak. You urge me to go to the Capital solely so that Arj’toolar will be seen to have dealt with the scandal of the imperial children. You divert attention from yourself, for you, as much as me, are the product of the bloodpriests’ deception. Your right to be alive is as questionable as my own.”
“I have earned the respect of the people, Kroy. You are still an apprentice; you have earned nothing.”
Kroy bared her fangs at Haktood. “Pray that I do not win. Under normal circumstances, an apprentice, such as myself, would have had no power until you passed on. But if I become Emperor, I shall be your superior, Haktood. Our positions will be reversed; I will be the master—not just of you, but of all of Land. You will regret not supporting me now, that I promise you.”
From outside came the cries of the mob.
“You’ll have a one-in-eight chance, Kroy. Do you fancy your odds are better against that mob?”
The lead imperial guard stepped forward. “I will guarantee your safe passage to the Capital.”
Kroy looked the burly fellow up and down. “And what about my safety once I’m there?”
The guard was silent.
Chapter 18
The Dasheter
Special cold-weather clothing had been made for the sailors. Toroca wasn’t used to wearing any clothing, except his sash, and the concept of garments that would cover him almost completely was not appealing.
The clothing was well-designed. Most of it was made out of an inner and outer layer of thick leather, stuffed in between with wingfinger hair. The jacket had a long hood that tied down around the muzzle, leaving only a slit for the eyes and a small opening at the tip for breathing.
The lower part consisted of three tubes, two open-ended ones for the legs and a third, tapered one, closed at the end for the tail. Getting the lower part on was awkward: Toroca seemed to always end up with one extremity left over that hadn’t made it into its appropriate tube, or else with it on backward so that the tail’s part faced off the front.
Once the two parts—bottom and jacket—were on, the wearer then tied on a thick, padded waistband, lined right around with pockets. The waistband protected the parts that would otherwise become exposed when tipping over caused the jacket to separate from the bottom. There were also thick boots of thunderbeast leather, lined inside with wingfinger hair, and silly things that weren’t quite gloves, since all the fingers save the thumb went into the same amorphous, hair-lined pocket.
The problem, of course, was that these costumes were almost too efficient to test. During the early part of the voyage, Toroca could stand wearing his complete snowsuit for only a few centidays before he began to overheat, his dewlap waggling. But soon he would be glad to have such warm clothing.
Very soon.
Toroca watched Babnol constantly, his eyes following the way she moved, the way she gestured, the way she leaned back on her tail, the way her muzzle crinkled when she was amused, the way her eyes narrowed to slits when she was concentrating.
The way she breathed.
The way she existed.
He longed to reach out, to touch her, to feel the tough texture of her skin, the tiny bumps of her tattoos, the warmth of her flesh. Every time she stepped back from him, opening a territorial buffer between them, it hurt.
It hurt.
The sun sat low on the horizon. It never rose far here in the southern latitudes. A day was brief enough as it was; that the sun never reached the zenith, so that long shadows were cast even at noon, was downright depressing.
It really wasn’t that cold, Toroca realized. Var-Osfik, the Arbiter of the Sequence, had recently approved a new scale of temperature, devised by one of the contemplatives of the holy land of Arj’toolar.
On it, the freezing and boiling points of water were separated by one hundred degrees, and the freezing point was designated as zero. Keenir had an elaborate blown-glass tube, filled with colored liquid, that was supposed to indicate the temperature on this scale. No one knew how accurate it was, since it had obviously never been tested at temperatures much below ten degrees—the coldest it normally got even at night on Land. Here it was indicating about twelve degrees below zero at noon, and temperatures of perhaps twenty below at night. (It was hard to get a good reading at night, since the device couldn’t be read in the dark, and the colored liquid began to rise as soon as one brought a lamp flame close to it.) Cold, yes, but not so cold as Toroca had feared. In fact, he was getting quite used to the bracing nature of the air here, and even found it invigorating at times.
Still, the darkness was dispiriting. Toroca understood why the sun never seemed to rise very high in the sky, but that didn’t make it any less dreary. More and more people had taken to being up on deck at noon, to enjoy what little brightness and warmth there was. Conditions were crowded, but everyone strove to keep the mood light. Toward that end, the noontime swapping of jokes on the Dasheter’s foredeck had quickly become a tradition. Since people’s teeth were often chattering from the cold anyway, every joke, even the lamest, got a good reception.
“That’s awful,” groaned Toroca in good humor to Biltog, a ship’s mate who had known his father. Biltog had just told the old groaner about the traveling doctor and the shovelmouth, which somehow Toroca had avoided hearing—mercifully, many would say—until now.
Surveyor Bar-Delplas was making a face. “Now, listen to a real joke, Biltog,” she said. She saw Babnol coming toward them. “Hey, Babnol!” she called. “What do you call a hornface that’s had too much to eat?”
Babnol looked in her direction briefly, but continued on without a word.
“What’s with her?” Delplas asked Toroca.
“You swished your tail right into it, I’m afraid,” said Toroca. “Babnol doesn’t like the word ‘hornface.’”
“Why not?”
Toroca tilted his head in the direction of the departing Babnol. “They called her that when she was a child.”
Delplas shrugged, then went on with her joke. But Toroca paid no attention to the punch line, and instead stared after Babnol, all glee gone from him.
“Land ho!”
The shout went up from Biltog, once again up in the lookout bucket.
Except it wasn’t land that was ho. Toroca, Keenir, Babnol, and many others hurried up onto the Dasheter’s foredeck. Biltog’s greater elevation gave him a substantial advantage; it took some time for what he’d spotted to come into view.
For dekadays, the horizon had been nothing but gray water touching mauve sky. But at last there was a line, a bright white line, scintillating in the blazing sun.
As the Dasheter sailed closer, the line expanded into cliffs of bluish-white ice and hard-packed snow. Fissures cut through the ice at places, showing a cool blue interior.
Toroca watched in amazement as a great wall of ice fell away into the water, splashing up giant waves. As they came closer, he could see cracked sheets of ice jostling together along the rim of the solid snow-packed ice cap. He’d had no ideas what he might find here that could be useful for the exodus project, but, at first assessment, it looked like nothing at all was here except ice and snow.
Keenir wouldn’t bring the Dasheter any closer, lest one of the floating pieces of ice pierce its hull. Unfortunately the water here was too deep for the anchor. They sailed along, parallel to the ice edge, searching.
But then Keenir, who had been scanning the ice with his far-seer, motioned for Toroca to come close. He handed him the instrument. The brass tube was bitterly cold; Toroca was indeed thankful now for the strange handgear he’d been given to wear. He rotated the tube to bring the image into focus, then staggered back on his tail.
Something was moving around on the ice.
Chapter 19
Musings of The Watcher
During the 460 million Crucible years it took for the Jijaki to evolve sentience on their world, a lot happened on the Crucible itself. Of those body plans that had originally appeared in that great, explosive diversification, one became predominant—the tube with a head at one end, a spinal cord, and, eventually, paired limbs. Soon the spinal cord was encased in a backbone—an interesting solution, so unlike that of my own ancestors. An age of fishes gave way to an age of amphibians, then one of reptiles.
Brain-body ratios increased as time went by. It seemed clear that eventually, joyously, intelligence would arise on the Crucible as well.
Before it did, though, a new form appeared, living in the shadows of the reptiles: tiny furred creatures that nursed their young.
It was wonderfully, terribly clear what was happening. Both the reptiles and the mammals were on their way to intelligence, and at about the same rate, too—the ratio of brain size to body size was increasing on a simple curve through time, and the scale-clad and fur-bearing creatures were both at the same point on that curve. The brightest of the reptiles and the brightest of the mammals soon had brains of equal, if as yet insignificant, power.
It would still take a long time for real intelligence to develop on this world—some 60 or 70 million Crucible years, I judged. But the mammals had already come up against a dead end. Intelligence, at least in the way these beings were trying to express it, required physical bulk—large, centralized, convoluted brains. The reptiles had long dominated every ecological niche for big animals; the rise of mammalian intelligence had ground to a halt.
Not one, but two potential paths to sentience. Yet only one of them, it seemed, could make it on this world.
I summoned the Jijaki.
The south pole
Toroca, Babnol, and Keenir headed toward the ice in a shore boat. It took Keenir a while to find a suitable place to land. Even so, he wasn’t able to anchor the boat properly, so he had to stay with it to keep it from drifting away and stranding them. Toroca and Babnol, clad from muzzle to tail in their strange, bulky garments, headed out onto the ice pack. The surface was covered with hard snow that cracked or squeaked when they stepped on it. Toroca was amazed at its texture, like frozen waves.
And the brightness! Glaring white, everywhere he looked. He found himself shielding his face with his arm. Even with his eyes narrowed to slits, it was still difficult to see.
As his eyes adjusted to the glare, Toroca was surprised to see that there were insects here: little black things that hopped across the snow. But it wasn’t those that had caught his attention from the deck of the Dasheter, but, rather, the strange creatures visible just ahead.
“Why don’t they run?” Babnol’s words were all but stolen away on the shrieking wind.
“What?” called Toroca.
“Why don’t they run from us?” she said again. “Aren’t they afraid?”
There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of the creatures covering the ice, each one like a drop of quicksilver in the low Antarctic sun.
“They don’t seem to be.”
“How can they not be afraid of animals bigger than they are? Certainly, they have no way to defend themselves.”
Toroca and Babnol stepped closer, the snow so hard that they left no footprints in it. “And look at the way they crowd together!” said Babnol. “They could touch each other without moving, if they wanted to. Have they no notion of territoriality?”
“Lots of herbivores herd.”
“Excuse me, Toroca, you are the scholar, but, umm, there are no plants around, in case you hadn’t noticed. These creatures must be fish-eaters.”
The creatures had little round bodies and strange heads that were drawn out into long points both off the front of the face and at the back of the head. There was no doubt that they had seen the approaching Quintaglios. Many had swiveled these heads toward Toroca and Babnol. But they seemed not in the least alarmed by the intruders. Toro
ca saw one slide lazily off the ice into the water. Others were preening themselves with their long prows.
For want of a better name, Toroca thought of these creatures as divers. They seemed to have no qualms about slipping into the freezing water, and when they went beneath the surface, Toroca lost all track of them. They were presumably diving deep.
There were only about twenty paces between Toroca and the closest of the divers now. Most of the divers were flopped on their bellies, but some stood fully erect, with thick flippers hanging at their sides. There was something red about halfway down the leading edge of each flipper, but Toroca couldn’t yet make out what it was.
As if the complacency of the divers wasn’t baffling enough, one of the larger divers began waddling toward Toroca and Babnol. The thing’s gait was awkward, its short legs not allowing very fast movement. As it approached, Toroca saw that its prow—more of a beak, really—had interlocking pointed sides, but whether these were protruding teeth or simply a saw-toothed edge to the horny sheath, he couldn’t say. Still, although the sharp edges were doubtless effective against fish, they didn’t look like they could do much to a Quintaglio. Pointing in exactly the opposite direction of the beak was a similarly tapered crest off the back of the head.
Low on the far horizon, almost lost in the glare from the ice, Toroca could see two crescent moons. Given the position of the sun, Toroca and Babnol should have been casting long shadows in front of themselves, but the ice and snow were so reflective that ambient light bounced in to banish them.
The big diver continued to come closer, it seeming to take five or six left-right waddles to cover the distance Toroca traveled in a single step. Toroca could see the animal’s flippers better now. The red growths in the middle of the flippers’ front edges were claws—three small, curved claws. Toroca couldn’t imagine what use they were to the animal there, although perhaps they could act as brakes should the diver’s waddling gait fail and it found itself facedown sliding across the ice.
Fossil Hunter Page 12
