Fossil Hunter

*32*

The ground shook slightly. Like all Quintaglios, Toroca reacted with fear, for trembling ground could mean a landquake. He swung his head around, and soon his fear gave way to a son clicking of teeth. Jogging along, tail flying, gut barely clearing the black soil, was His Luminance himself, the Emperor, Dy-Dybo. Toroca stepped out of the Emperor’s path and watched him huffing and puffing, make his way around the courtyard.

The arena in which the battle with the blackdeath would occur was modern in construction, of course: few buildings survived more than a generation or two, because of the landquakes. Bui it was built to the ancient specifications, using the traditional stone-cutting techniques outlined in the scrolls of Jostark.

The playing field was diamond-shaped, like a ship’s hull, with the long axis half again the length of the short. The long axis was north-south. Along the two eastern sides of the diamond were layer upon layer of seating compartments. The two banks of compartments joined in an obtuse angle at the center of the playing field. Each compartment was big enough to hold the largest adult. The backs of the compartments were open. Not only did this afford access, but, because they opened into steady wind from the east, they ensured that the pheromones of all the occupants were blown out over the field, instead of back onto the spectators.

Each compartment contained an angled dayslab, set far enough back that the walls between compartments prevented the user from seeing adjacent cells or even the other bank of compartments. From within such a cell, one could comfortably watch a sporting event that lasted many daytenths while maintaining the illusion of splendid, peaceful isolation.

All of this had to be explained to Afsan, who, having come from a small Pack, had never been in an arena before. He ran his hands over an architect’s wooden model. And then, once he had a mental picture, he, Pal-Cadool, and Gork walked the length and breadth of the field, and circumnavigated its perimeter over and over again, so that Afsan could better understand the layout, better formulate a strategy for Emperor Dybo.

Governor Rodlox and his aide, Pod-Oro, entered Capital City’s town square, where merchants traded their goods. “It sure is crowded here,” observed Rodlox. Oro grunted in reply.

Toroca’s briefing with the Emperor took place in Dybo’s office in the new palace building, a simple, functional room, devoid of opulence or ostentation. Dybo’s desk, cluttered with papers, writing leathers, and scrolls, was situated near one corner. Novato and Afsan attended the meeting, too. They were aware of their kinship with Toroca, of course, but if it carried any special meaning for of them, there were no outward signs.

“I cast a shadow in your presence,” Toroca said to the Emperor.

Dybo acknowledged the greeting with a bow. Novato and Afsan were likewise met with the same traditional words, but they, of lesser station than the Emperor, reciprocated, repeating back same greeting back at Toroca. The four of them slowly drifted to the four corners of the room, maximizing the space between them. Dybo settled onto the dayslab overhanging his cluttered desk. Afsan leaned back on his tail, arms folded across his chest.

Novato straddled a small stool.

“What new finds do you have to report?” asked Wab-Novato.

“Well,” said Toroca slowly, “the most interesting was an artifact, a device made of some incredibly strong material, material that was harder than diamond.”

Afsan lifted his muzzle. “There is nothing harder than diamon.”

Toroca nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. But this—thing—was indeed made out of some blue material that was harder than the diamond in my testing kit. And it had been buried in rock for ages, but showed no signs of crushing or damage. The material was virtually indestructible.”

Novato was leaning forward. “Fascinating!” She turned to Dybo. “You see, Your Luminance? This is exactly the sort of thing I was hoping the Geological Survey would turn up: new resources to make our exodus more feasible.” She swung her muzzle toward her son. “Toroca, where is this specimen?”

He looked at the floor. “It’s lost, I’m afraid. It fell overboard on the Dasheter.”

“Toroca!” There was shock in Novato’s tone. “Your muzzle shows some blue.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, it was thrown overboard.”

“By whom?”

“My assistant, Babnol.” He paused, then, as if the coincidence of praenomens might forestall his mother’s wrath, said, “Wab-Babnol.”

“She’s clearly unstable,” said Novato. “I’ll have her replaced.”

“No,” said Toroca too loudly, and then once more, “No. She and I have discussed the incident. There won’t be a repetition; that I guarantee.”

Novato looked dubious, but nodded. “As you wish.” Seeing that she’d clearly swished her tail into something unpleasant, she sought to move the conversation along. “What else did you discover of value?”

“Well, the south polar cap is, as myth had it, nothing but ice and snow. We now have a map of its coastline, but even that’s of limited use, since it seems that it will change over time as ice cracks and melts. So, no, there’s nothing there, unfortunately, that will be directly useful in getting us off this world. Nothing, that is, except the lifeforms that inhabit it.”

Toroca waited for that to sink in.

“Lifeforms?” said Novato and Afsan simultaneously, and, a moment later, “Lifeforms?” said Dybo.

“Yes.”

“What kind of lifeforms?” asked Novato.

“Wingfingers,” said Toroca. “Except that these wingfingers don’t fly.”

Dybo, no savant himself, took a certain pleasure in catching his intellectuals in errors. “Then they can’t be wingfingers,” he said. “By definition, wingfingers fly.”

“Umm, forgive me, Your Luminance,” said Toroca, “but that’s not the definition set out by the Arbiter of the Sequence. A wingfinger is a type of animal, basically reptilian, as we are, but also as we are, warm-blooded, and, unlike us, with bodies covered with hair. But the diagnostic characteristic—the one thing that determines whether an animal is or is not a wingfinger—is the structure of the hand. If the four bones of the last finger are enormously elongated, as if to support a membrane, then the creature is a wingfinger.”

“All right,” said Dybo, sounding a little disappointed at Toroca’s recovery, “so they are wingfingers. But if they can’t fly, how did get to the south pole?”

“That’s a very perceptive question, Your Luminance. How indeed? My guess is that they used to be able to fly.”

“You mean,” said Dybo, “that the wingfingers you found are old and feeble?”

“No, no, no. I mean their ancestors used to fly, but, over generations, they lost the ability to do so, and instead used their gated fingers for other functions.”

Afsan, rapt, was no longer leaning back on his tail. “Changed over time, you say?”

“Aye,” said Toroca.

The blind savant’s voice was a whisper. “Fascinating.”

Dybo, ever pragmatic, said, “But how does this aid the exodus?”

“It doesn’t,” said Toroca, “at least not directly. But I’ve brought back many specimens of the lifeforms from down there. The variations in wing architecture and design should help Novato in her studies of flight.”

“I’m sure they will,” said Novato. “And, I must say, this is all very intriguing.”

“Indeed,” said Afsan.

“Wait a beat,” said Dybo, at last catching up to the meaning of what Toroca had said earlier. “You’re saying one kind of animal changed into another?”

“Yes, sir,” said Toroca.

“That’s not possible.”

“Forgive me, Your Luminance, but I believe that it is.”

“But that’s sacrilege.”

Toroca opened his mouth as if to speak, apparently thought better, closed it, and was then silent for several moments. At last, looking at the floor, he said, “Whatever you say, Your Luminance.”

Afsan stepped closer. “Don’t be afraid, Toroca. Dybo has learned from the past. Haven’t you, Dybo? He would not punish one simply for engaging in an intellectual inquiry.”

“What?” said Dybo, and then, “Umm, no, of course not. I only suggest you not speak such thoughts around the priests, Toroca.”

Toroca was looking now at his blind father, who had lost his eyes at Dybo’s order all those kilodays ago. “I’ll gladly heed that advice,” he said softly.

After the briefing with Toroca, Afsan and Dybo headed off to the dining hall. There was never much meat on the pieces Afsan ordered for his meals with Dybo—at least, not much by Dybo’s standards. Today they ate hornface rump, not the best flesh, but not bad, either. Afsan had said it was important that Dybo learn to think of food simply as nutrition and not a sensual experience.

Although perhaps it wasn’t the best choice of mealtime topics, their conversation turned, as it often did, to the murders of Haldan and Yabool.

“You have to acknowledge the pattern,” said Dybo.

“That both murder victims are children of mine?” said Afsan.

“It can’t be coincidence.”

“No, I suppose not. Although they’re both savants, both—”

“It’s possible,” said Dybo, “that they were killed by someone wanting to get at you.”

Afsan’s shriveled eyelids made a strange beating, the closest he could get to the fluttering of nictitating membranes that normally denoted surprise. “At me?”

“You have enemies. More than I have, I daresay. You took God out of the sky. You started the exodus, something not everyone is in favor of. Some Lubalites still see you as The One, but others consider you as false a figure as Larsk.”

“I’m a blind person. If someone wanted me dead, it would not be difficult.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps someone merely wants to frighten you.”

“They’ve succeeded.”

“Or perhaps it has nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps Novato is the key. They are her children as well, and she now leads the exodus project.”

“That’s true.”

Dybo was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, “How well do you really know Novato?”

Afsan’s claws extended. “I do not like the tone of that question, Dybo.”

“No doubt you don’t, my friend. But it’s something I must ask. As you said so eloquently, a leader rarely has any choice in what he or she must do. I ask again, how well do you know Novato?”

“Very well. I do not suspect her of the murders. Not at all.”

Dybo shrugged. “I don’t suspect her in particular, either,” he said. “But that means, I think, that I must suspect everyone in general. Certainly she has a connection—indeed, a relationship—to the victims.”

“She is beyond reproach. You might as well ask me whether I was responsible for the crimes.”

Dybo spoke softly. “Afsan, if I thought that you were capable—physically, I mean, not emotionally, for who really knows what another thinks?—of such violence, yes, I would ask you, too. I do not underestimate you; I know your hunting prowess. Even now, even as I train to face the blackdeath, I would not favor myself in a contest with you. But you are indeed blind. The method employed in these killings was not one a blind person could successfully manage.”

“There is such a thing as trust, Dybo. There are individuals whom you do not question, whom you believe in implicitly.”

“Oh, indeed, my friend. You are one such for me; I trust you with my life. And I know you likewise trust Cadool, and I like to think myself as well. But, forgive me, old friend, you are, well, particularly blind in matters of trust. You’ve speculated that the killer approached the victims with stealth, but you’ve missed the most obvious interpretation.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. The most obvious interpretation is that Haldan and Yabool knew their killer, and trusted him or her enough to allow the killer to approach them closely.” Afsan looked shocked, but whether at the content of Dybo’s suggestion or at the realization that he’d foolishly failed to consider this possibility himself, the Emperor couldn’t say. Dybo pressed on. “They both apparently let the killer into their homes. They obviously felt no fear in that person’s presence; indeed, felt little territoriality even.”

“Whom would they trust thus?” said Afsan.

“Ah, now, that’s my point!” said Dybo. “Haldan and Yabool might each trust certain of their colleagues. But they had different professions, so there would be no overlap there. They might trust certain of their neighbors. But they lived in different parts of Capital City, so, again, no overlap. But they did both trust their parents, you and Novato.”

Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he said, “And each other.”

“Eh?”

“And they would have trusted each other, Yabool and Haldan. Indeed, all my children would have trusted each other. They were creche-mates, after all. Creche-mates are as one. But why would one relative want to kill another?”

“My brother,” said Dybo, “wants to kill me.”

Afsan was silent again.

“But there you have it. As much as it pains me to suggest it, in addition to bloodpriest Maliden and the other names that have been put forth, you must consider Wab-Novato and your remaining children as suspects.”

“You force me to agree to that which is uncomfortable,” said Afsan.

Dybo clicked his teeth. “Then our roles are reversed, friend, for you once forced me, and all Quintaglios, to agree that the Face of God was not the actual deity.”

There was another silence. Finally, from Afsan: “I’ll consider your suggestion, Dybo, but I prefer still the idea that the killer sneaked up on my children.”

“Of course,” said Dybo, deciding not to push the matter. “Of course.” A pause while he worried a piece of meat from the bone, and then an attempt to change the subject: “By the way, Afsan, did you know that your daughter Dynax is back in Capital City?”

Afsan lifted his head. “No, I hadn’t heard that.”

“Yes, she’s here. Awfully fast trip from Chu’toolar; she must have made very good time.”

“Chu’toolar,” repeated Afsan.

“Wake up, my friend. That’s where Dynax lives, remember?”

“I know that,” said Afsan. “It’s just that mirrors that were used to kill Haldan and Yabool were manufactured in Chu’toolar. And now you say Dynax is here.”

“Yes. To pay respects to her dead siblings.”

“But here so quickly? I wonder just exactly how long she has been in town…”

Toroca was no longer startled when he felt the ground rumble. He, and just about everyone else at the palace, had gotten used to Dybo’s exercising. As the Emperor thundered near, Toroca noticed that there was a much greater gap between the ground and Dybo’s belly than there used to be. He called out, “How many laps today?”

Dybo’s voice came back, ragged with exertion. “Five.” Toroca’s eyelids fluttered. He doubted he could do that many himself.

“Cadool,” said Afsan as they walked down one of the cobblestone streets of Capital City, adobe buildings to their left and right, “you know my daughter Galpook.”

“Yes, indeed. A great hunter! The way her team captured that blackdeath—wonderful.”

“Indeed. You have seen her hunt, then?”

“Oh, yes. I was fortunate enough to go on a hunt with her about a kiloday ago. She has many of your moves, Afsan, and much of the same skill.”

“How is she at tracking?”

“Excellent. She spotted the signs of our quarry long before I did.”

“And in the tracking, did she ever alert the prey?”

“No. She tracks silently.”

“With stealth,” said Afsan.

“Pardon me?”

“With stealth. That’s the word Gathgol used to describe the way in which the murderer might have sneaked up on Yabool. With stealth.”

“Yes, but—” Cadool came to a halt at an intersection. “We’d better not go that way,” he said.

Afsan stopped at once, his walking stick swinging in a slow arc across the paving stones in front of him. “Why not? What’s wrong?”

“It’s too crowded. There must be eight or ten adolescents down there.”

“Children?” said Afsan. “I like children.”

“But so many!” said Cadool. “They’re growing fast; they’re up to my waist already.”

“Children don’t have much scent,” said Afsan. “I could probably pass through such a crowd without difficulty.”

Cadool was unusually edgy. “But I cannot, Afsan. I can see them. And now three other adults have stopped at the next intersection. They, too, don’t know which way to go.” Cadool slapped his tail against the paving stones. “Roots! This congestion is getting unbearable!”