Fossil Hunter

*29*

She had come to his quarters—come of her own volition, come without him having to seek her out.

Unlike other Quintaglios, Toroca was never startled by the sounds of claws on a signaling plate, and the little ticking noises from outside his cabin door this morning were no exception. Still, his heart did leap slightly. There were so few possibilities of who it might be. One of the other surveyors, perhaps, yes. Maybe Keenir. Maybe Biltog.

Maybe Babnol.

He called out, “Hahat dan”—a little too eagerly, a little too loudly.

But it was she.

The door swung open, the squeaking hinges a counterpoint for the creaking of the ship’s wooden hull. “Good morning, Toroca,” she said.

“And good morning to you, Babnol. Did you sleep well?”

“No. I was up half the night, thinking.”

“About?”

“About the creatures we’ve found here. The divers and shawls and stilts.”

Toroca was beaming. “We’re two of a kind, then, good Babnol. I have spent the last several nights—and days—thinking about the very same things.” He gestured at the sketches and notes that covered his desk.

She came a pace into the room, turned, closed the door behind her, and leaned back on her tail. “They’re all wingfingers,” she said.

Toroca nodded.

“And yet—I’m not a savant, Toroca. Explain it to me. Why should they all be wingfingers? Why are there no other kinds of animal here?” It was fairly cramped in this room that used to be Afsan’s quarters. Babnol had been standing as far away from Toroca as possible. Indeed, after a moment, she turned away, a common response to a feeling of crowding. She looked at the knotty planks making up the cabin wall.

“All right,” said Toroca, “I’ll try—but I’m not yet completely sure myself. Consider this: our world has one landmass, Land. It happens to be on the equator, which is the warmest part of the world. Most of the lifeforms that live there, regardless of whether they are warm-blooded or cold-blooded, have either scales or naked skin. In other words, next to no bodily insulation.”

“Insulation?”

“An external covering to keep heat in or the cold out. Like the thick snowsuits we wear here. But, of course, we don’t really need insulation back on Land. The climate there is always warm, and most of the warm-blooded animals are quite large.”

“I’m not following you, Toroca.”

“The larger you are, the less skin you have per unit volume. Since it’s through the skin that an animal can lose heat, large size is a good thing to have if you are an uninsulated warm-blooded animal. Body volume increases with the cube; skin surface area increases with the square.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Sorry.” Toroca clicked his teeth. “I forget not everyone had my father for a teacher. The physics is not important; simply accept that large animals—and even we Quintaglios are large, compared to lizards and snakes—have less of a need for insulation. The mere fact of our bulk helps us keep a constant body temperature.”

“All right.”

“But wingfingers tend to be small. Yes, they may have huge wingspans, but the actual wingfinger torso is quite tiny. And wings, because they are almost all surface area and have practically no bulk, radiate heat at a great rate. Although wingfingers are warm-blooded, like us, they’d lose all their heat if they didn’t have insulation.”

“Fur!”

“Exactly. A wingfinger’s fur helps it retain its body heat. Now, consider this. Here at the south pole, it is cold—”

“I’ll say.”

“Indeed, it’s so cold that no amphibians or lizards or snakes are found here at all. The only cold-blooded animals are insects and fish in the waters. On the ice cap itself, there is not one single cold-blooded vertebrate. There cannot be, for cold-blooded vertebrates require heat from the sun, of which, as we’ve observed, there is precious little here.”

“I get it!” said Babnol. “Wingfingers have both the means to get from Land to here—by flying—and they have their furry body coverings to keep them warm!”

“Exactly. Only wingfingers could survive here. No cold-blooded vertebrate has a chance. No walking vertebrate could get here, and, even if one could, without insulation, it would die from exposure. Of all the animals in the world, only wingfingers are suited for this place.”

“But the creatures we’ve found here aren’t simple wingfingers.”

“No, they’re not.” Toroca gestured at the notes on his desk. “This is the part that I’m having difficulty with. The wingfingers that did fly here, no doubt countless kilodays ago—countless years ago—found an environment in which no other large animals lived. They had no predators here. Some were able to give up flying altogether and take up life on the ice surface. Others went further and learned to dive into the waters. What must have started out as standard flying wingfingers ended up as the wide range of animals we see here. Roles that would have been played by runningbeasts or blackdeaths back on land were unfilled here on the southern ice. Wingfingers seized the opportunities and took over those vacant roles, becoming lords not only of the air but of the ground and the waters as well.”

Babnol turned her head away from the wall and faced Toroca. Her teeth were clicking. “Why are you amused?” asked Toroca.

“Well, it’s a good story, my friend,” she said. “But it can’t be true. An animal cannot change from one thing into something else. What nonsense!”

“I am coming to believe that an animal can change,” said Toroca.

“How? I’ve never seen an animal change. Well, yes, I’ve seen tadpoles change into frogs, and larvae into adult insects, but that’s not the kind of change you’re talking about.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You’re talking about changing completely, from one… one…”

“One species.”

“From one species into another.”

“That’s right.”

Babnol’s teeth clicked again. “But how could that happen? A wingfinger can no more decide that it will grow swimming paddles than I can decide that I’ll grow wings. A thing is what it is.”

Toroca’s voice was soft. “Forgive me, dear Babnol, but have you looked at yourself in a mirror?”

Babnol’s tone suddenly grew as frosty as the air. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you have a horn growing from your muzzle.”

Defensive: “Yes. So?”

“Have you wondered how it got there?”

Babnol sighed. “Many times.”

“It’s a change, a novelty, something that’s never before existed. You have a characteristic that your parents lacked.”

“It was God’s will,” said Babnol, her muzzle, as usual, tilted haughtily up. “I do my best to accept it.”

Toroca thought about telling her how fascinating, how appealing, how attractive the growth was, but was afraid of what her reaction might be. Instead: “Don’t be angry, Babnol, but I think perhaps it has nothing to do with God. I have begun to suspect that changes can occur spontaneously. Usually such a change would be of no value one way or another: your retention of the birthing horn is neither a hindrance nor a help to you. It just is. Sometimes, though, a change might be undesirable. For instance, your horn could have completely obscured your vision. That would have been a terrible disadvantage. On the other hand, rarely, a change might be advantageous. If your horn were longer and perhaps placed slightly differently, it might make a formidable hunting aid.”

“It is just what it is,” said Babnol, still defensive. “No more, no less. You are making me uncomfortable talking about my deformity.” She turned back to face the wall.

Toroca instantly regretted using her as an example. “I’m sorry,” he said, wanting to reach out, to touch her, to soothe her hurt. “Let’s—let’s talk only of wingfingers, then. Consider one that arrived here, but had a thicker coat of fur than its companions. It would have an advantage over them. Likewise, a wingfinger with thick stubby wings—perhaps of little use for flying—might find they made very serviceable swimming paddles.”

Still facing the wall: “I suppose.”

“So you can see that the creatures here might have arisen from normal wingfingers.”

“Or,” said Babnol, “perhaps God just made them this way from the start.”

“But why on the body plan of a wingfinger?” asked Toroca.

“Why not?”

“Well, because it’s not efficient.”

Babnol’s tone showed she was still upset. “Using a tried-and-true design seems efficient to me. Our shipwrights do that, for instance.”

“But the wingfinger design is not efficient for anything except flying. Look at the paddles of a diver; they’re not nearly as effective as, say, the fins of a fish.”

Babnol had brought a hand up to cover her horn. “The handiwork of God is perfection—by definition.”

“But the creatures here are not perfect,” said Toroca. “It’s in the imperfections, the making-do with what’s available, that we see evidence for a mechanism of creating new species other than God’s own hand.”

Babnol turned now to face him, the ship swaying back and forth beneath her. “Changing from one thing to something else?” she said. “Toroca, all my life I’ve tried to fit in, despite this deformity.” Her voice was edged like a hunter’s claw. “And now you’re saying it means I’m less of a Quintaglio than you are.”

Toroca immediately rose to his feet. “No, I’m not saying that at all—”

But it was too late.

Babnol stormed out the cabin door.

The new Hall of Worship was different from its predecessor. The old one had reflected Larsk’s worldview. It was bisected by a channel of water, representing what was once thought to be a vast river down which the rocky island of Land floated, and its roof was a high dome, painted in roiling bands, representing the Face of God.

That Hall had been damaged beyond repair in the last great landquake. This one, at the order of Dybo, had been built with no reference to the outdated view of creation. It was vital that everyone accept and understand that the world was a water-covered moon, companion to a giant, gas-shrouded planet. Henceforth, Halls of Worship would not contradict that truth.

Fortunately there was much more to Quintaglio religion than just the relatively recent prophecies of Larsk. This new Hall resurrected much of the ancient imagery. Central was a giant sculpture of God Herself, a pre-Larskian rendition, looking every bit like a regal and serene Quintaglio. God’s arms were gone, chewed off between the shoulder and the elbow.

The circular chamber had ten niches built into its perimeter, and each niche contained a sculpture of one of the ten original Quintaglios, hunters alternating with mates. No direct worship of the original five hunters was practiced here, but they, and the five males that came after them, were still revered as the first children of God, born from her very fingers. The niches were just out of touch, for a channel of water ran around the circumference of the room. Ceremonies involving marching through water still figured prominently in Quintaglio worship, but the water was no longer thought of as a representation of the great mythical river.

Afsan entered through the secondary doorway, an arch outlined with polished agate tiles, between the niches holding the statue of the hunter Katoon and that of the first-crafter, Jostark.

“Det-Bogkash?” Afsan called into the chamber. The name echoed off the stone walls.

A moment later, from the far side of the circular room, Priest Bogkash appeared. He entered through a hidden doorway, sculpted to look like part of the ornate bas-relief that covered the curving walls, a portal to his inner sanctum nestled between the statues of Mekt, hunter and original bloodpriest, and Detoon the Righteous, first member of the clergy.

“Permission to enter your territory?” called Afsan.

“Hahat dan.” said Bogkash, peering in Afsan’s direction. “Is that you, Sal-Afsan? I can barely see you in this light.”

“You still have me at an advantage,” said Afsan, teeth clicking in forced good humor as he stepped farther into the room. “Yes, it’s me.”

Bogkash closed the gap between them, but only slightly—a gesture of peace that did not arouse territoriality. “It’s rare to see the palace’s chief savant at the Hall of Worship.”

Afsan accepted the gibe stoically.

“You need perhaps some comforting?” offered Bogkash. “I heard, of course, about Haldan and Yabool. I didn’t know them well, but I understand they were friends of yours.”

“They were my children,” said Afsan simply.

“So it is said. Frankly, I don’t know what that means. I don’t understand these matters at all. But I do know what it is to lose a friend, and I take it, child or not, that Haldan and Yabool were indeed your friends.”

“Yes. Yes, they were.”

“Then accept my condolences. I’ve been to Prath for Haldan, and plan to make it out there again to say a prayer over Yabool’s body.”

“That would be most welcome,” said Afsan. “They had each taken both rites of passage, but, well, the circumstances of their deaths were not normal—”

“Oh, their acceptance into heaven is not in danger, Afsan, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. But, no, that’s not what’s worrying me, not exactly.”

“Well?” Bogkash said.

“I’ve come to ask you if you know anything about the disappearance of Mek-Maliden.”

“Afsan, I am a priest in the order of Detoon the Righteous. Maliden is a bloodpriest in the order of Mekt. These are entirely different categories of the ministry.”

“Maliden is imperial bloodpriest,” said Afsan, “and you are Master of the Faith, and, therefore, primary priest to the Emperor. Surely you and Maliden must have interacted often and known each other well.”

“Afsan, you were training to be an astrologer; that was a science. Do you therefore automatically know Pas-Harnal, a metallurgist who lives in this city? He is a scientist, too. All holy people no more make up a single community than do all savants.”

“In point of fact, I do know Harnal, although not well.” Afsan’s tail swished. “Surely you must know something of the bloodpriest?”

“Yes, of course, I know Maliden, but we rarely had contact, and no, I do not know where he’s gone, although I must say that if I had done what he is accused of—tampering with imperial succession—I’d have left town, too.”

“We have reason to suspect that Maliden has not left town.”

“What? Why?”

In the flickering light, Afsan couldn’t avoid a direct question. “We think he may have had something to do with the murders.”

Bogkash’s teeth clicked derisively. “Maliden? A murderer? Afsan, first, he’s very, very old. Second, he’s gentle to a fault.”

“Well,” said Afsan, “I’m open to other suggestions. Do you know anything that might help identify the killer or killers? Anything you might have learned in your professional capacity?”

There was a moment’s silence. Perhaps Bogkash was thinking. “Why, no, Afsan, not a thing.”

Pal-Cadool moved out of the shadows.

“He’s lying.”

Suddenly the priest wheeled, his white robe flowing around him, claws glinting in the wan torchlight. “What is this impudence?” said Bogkash.

“Forgive me,” said Afsan, “but my associate says you are not telling the truth.”

“I am. He’s the one who is lying.”

“Cadool would not lie to me.”

“Cadool, is it? A butcher? You take the word of a butcher over a priest?”

“Cadool is no longer a butcher. He is my assistant. And I take his word over anyone’s.”

“But I’m telling the truth,” said Bogkash.

“You thought to lie to me,” said Afsan simply. “A blind person can’t see if you are lying. But Cadool is my eyes in these matters. Now, I ask you again, do you have any knowledge of the death of my daughter and my son?”

Bogkash looked at Afsan, then Cadool. “Surely what happens here, in the Hall of Worship, is private.”

“Is it? Whenever I had to do penance here as an apprentice, your predecessor, Det-Yenalb, would later discuss it with my master, Tak-Saleed.”

“Saleed and Yenalb died ages ago. You must have been just child then.”

“Shy of my first hunt. That makes a difference?”

“Well, of course.”

“Haldan is—was—little older now than I was then. She’d only taken her pilgrimage three kilodays ago. And Yabool, of course, was the same age as Haldan.” A pause. “Regardless, I have imperial authority for this investigation.” Afsan had no need of a document bearing Dybo’s cartouche to assert this; his muzzle declared that the stated authority was genuine. “Answer my questions.”

Bogkash appeared to consider. At last he said, “About Haldan and Yabool, I know little. But another of your children—the one who works on the docks…”

“Drawtood.”

“Yes, Drawtood. He has been here often of late, walking the sinner’s march, circling the Hall over and over again.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“An unburdening of guilt must be freely offered. I note which individuals enter and leave the Hall at times other than normal services, but I don’t normally engage them in conversation. Even here, the rules of territoriality apply most of the time.”

“But you know nothing about Haldan or Yabool, only Drawtood?”

“That’s right.”

“Why bring it up, then?” asked Afsan. “What’s he got to do with them?”

Bogkash shrugged. “You tell me.”