Foreigner Page 11

  Toroca doubtless had mortally wounded the animal, but he wondered if the reverse was also true. Treading water, he examined the bites on his thigh and tail. Both were still slowly oozing blood, but neither seemed particularly deep. Now that the fish-lizard was gone, the water was relatively calm—calmer, in fact, than it had been when he’d swum in the opposite direction twenty days before. He rested his head on the surface, and, with slow movements of his tail, glided gently onward.

  “We spoke before about the names of your children,” said Mokleb, “but didn’t really get into your relationship with them. This is a unique area; I’d like to explore it.”

  The sun was sliding down the western sky toward the Ch’mar volcanoes. Two pale moons—one crescent, one almost full—were visible despite the glare. A few silvery-white clouds twisted their way across the purple bowl of the sky.

  Afsan’s face showed a mixture of emotions. “My children,” he said softly, adjusting his position on his rock. “And Novato’s, too, of course.” He shook his head slightly. “There were eight of them to begin with.”

  “Yes.”

  “One died in childhood. Helbark was his name. He succumbed to fever.” Afsan’s voice was full of sadness. “I was devastated when he died. It seemed so unfair. Like all of my children, Helbark had been spared the culling of the bloodpriest. It was as though God had given him the gift of life, but then snatched it away. Helbark died before ever saying his first word.” Afsan’s tail moved left and right. “You know, Mokleb, I’ve never seen any of my children; I was blinded before they came to Capital City. I felt I knew the other seven because I knew the tones they used, knew what caused their voices to sing with joy and what caused their words to tremble with anger or outrage. But Helbark…if there is an afterlife, Mokleb, I sometimes wonder if I would recognize him there. Or whether he would recognize me.”

  Mokleb made a small sound, noncommittal. Afsan went on. “After Helbark died, Pal-Cadool and I had gone to the site of that kill everyone keeps talking about—the place where I helped bring down that giant thunderbeast. We found a stone there and took it back to the mountain of stones upon which the Hunter’s Shrine is built. You know the old legend? That each of the original five hunters had brought one stone there for every kill they’d made during their lives? Well, I wanted to bring a stone from one of my kills. Poor Helbark was far too young to have acquired a hunt or pilgrimage tattoo. I thought that maybe if a kill was consecrated in his name, it might help his passage into heaven. Pal-Cadool helped me climb the cairn so that my stone could be placed right at the summit, inside the Shrine—the structure made out of past hunt leaders’ bones. Most people don’t know about it, but on the far side of the stone cairn, there’s a hidden stairway leading to the summit. I couldn’t have made it otherwise.”

  “A priest advised you to do this?”

  Afsan shifted uncomfortably. “I rarely speak to priests,” he said.

  “Of course, of course,” said Mokleb. A topic for another time. “But Helbark isn’t the only one of your children to have passed on, is he?”

  Quietly: “No.”

  “There was Haldan and Yabool.” A pause. “And Drawtood.”

  Still quiet: “Yes.”

  “How do you feel about what happened to them?”

  Afsan’s tone was bitter. “How would you expect me to feel?”

  “I have no expectations at all, Afsan. That’s why I ask.”

  Afsan nodded, and then, “They say I’m gifted when it comes to solving puzzles, Mokleb.” He fell silent, perhaps reluctant to continue.

  Mokleb waited patiently for several beats, then, as a gentle prod, she agreed: “Yes, that’s what they say.”

  “Well, most puzzles don’t count for anything. Whether you solve them or not doesn’t really matter. But that one…” He fell silent again. Mokleb waited. “That one mattered. That one was for real. Once Haldan had been murdered”—the word, so rarely spoken, sounded funny, archaic—“once she had been murdered, the puzzle was to figure out who was responsible.”

  “And you did,” said Mokleb.

  “But not in time!” Afsan’s voice was full of anguish now. “Not in time. Don’t you see? It wasn’t until Drawtood killed again, taking the life of my son Yabool, that I figured it out.”

  “Murder is such an uncommon crime,” said Mokleb. “You can’t blame yourself for needing more data.”

  “More data,” repeated Afsan. He made a snorting sound. “More data. Another body, you mean. Another dead child of mine.”

  Mokleb was silent.

  “Forgive me,” Afsan said after a time. “I find these memories difficult to deal with.”

  Mokleb nodded.

  “It’s just that, well…”

  “Well what?”

  “Nothing.” Afsan’s blind face turned toward the crumbling edge of the cliff.

  “No, you had a thought. Please express it.”

  Afsan nodded and apparently rallied some inner strength. “It’s just that I always wonder why Drawtood committed those murders.”

  “You were with him when he passed away.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s commonly believed that he confessed to you before swallowing the poison that killed him.”

  “I’ve never discussed the specifics of that night,” said Afsan.

  Mokleb waited.

  “Yes,” said Afsan at last, “Drawtood did speak of his reasons. He…he did not trust his siblings. He was afraid of them.”

  “Having siblings is unheard-of, Afsan. Who knows how one is supposed to react?”

  “Exactly. But if having siblings is unknown, so is, is—let me coin a word: so is parenting.”

  “Parenting?”

  Afsan clicked his teeth. “Saleed would have scowled fiercely at me for turning a noun into a verb. He hated neologisms. But, yes, parenting: the job of being a parent. And I mean ‘being a parent’ far beyond just having been involved in fertilizing or laying eggs. I knew who my children were, had daily contact with them, was in part responsible for their teaching and upbringing.”

  “Parenting,” said Mokleb again. The word was strange indeed.

  “That’s the worst of it,” said Afsan. “I was Drawtood’s parent, his father. All children have something in common with their parents; studies in plant and animal heredity make that clear. But my role in Drawtood’s composition was greater than that. I knew him! And yet he ended up a killer.”

  “I don’t see your point,” said Mokleb.

  “Don’t you? Maybe some responsibility goes along with being a parent. Maybe I failed in some way at what I should have done.”

  Mokleb shrugged. “There’s so little data in this area.”

  “Data again,” said Afsan. “Perhaps if I’d seen my children more as children and less as data, things would have been different.”

  “But most children have no parents, not in the sense that you’re using the word.”

  “That’s true,” said Afsan, although he didn’t sound mollified. “Still, it’s something to think about: the relationship between parent and child.”

  Mokleb stared out over the precipice at the choppy waters beyond. “It is indeed,” she said at last.

  The four ladders finally stopped growing; no new rungs emerged from the apex of the pyramid. The ladders stood silent, stark against the harsh gray sky of stormy Fra’toolar, rising up and up until they faded into invisibility. The whole pyramid seemed dead: nothing was happening at all. Still, Novato waited a full day before she, Garios, and Delplas finally entered. The openings in the centers of each of the pyramid’s sides were fourteen paces wide: wide enough that three of them could walk abreast with a minimally acceptable seven paces between each other. The sounds of their toeclaws echoed loudly as they made their way down the long blue tunnel, a tunnel that was miraculously lit with dim red light from panels in the ceiling. The floor, although made of the obdurate blue stuff, was roughened to provide traction, as if inviting people to walk dow
n this terrifying path into the very heart of the structure.

  Novato’s pulse raced. She glanced left and right, saw that Garios and Delplas had their claws exposed, saw the nervousness in their expressions. The whole pyramid was about three hundred paces wide, and Novato was silently counting off paces as they continued into its heart. The tunnel continued right into the center: a hundred and forty paces into the vast structure. Novato tried not to contemplate the huge weight of alien material over her head.

  At last they came to the central vertical shaft. The inside base of the tower was square, fourteen paces on a side. The sides of the interior shaft were the bases of the four great ladders. They rose up and up, as high as Novato could see, converging to a point some fantastic distance above her head. Novato was sure the apparent convergence occurred long before the actual top of the tower was reached.

  She looked at the stretched ladders, large open rectangles running up their impossible lengths. A brave wingfinger, apparently not perturbed by the alien structure, had built a nest on the crosspiece at the bottom of one of the ladders, and the flying reptile’s white droppings streaked the gleaming blue material.

  Novato tried to picture the kind of giant being that might climb such a ladder, but she knew, of course, that it had not been physical giants who were responsible for this structure. Indeed, the absolute opposite was true: incredibly tiny engineers had built this. And yet the image of giants would not leave her mind. The builders of this tower to the sky were giants in comparison to the Quintaglios. She leaned back on her tail, looking up, humbled.

  And then her heart began pounding erratically; she had to force herself not to run out of the structure. Something was approaching from up above.

  The thing moved silently. Only moments ago it had emerged from the vanishing point far overhead, but already it was looming larger and larger, coming down one of the corners of the shaft. It was big and metallic, and it was moving quickly although it wasn’t actually falling.

  Soon it began to slow—and a good thing, too, for otherwise it would have smashed into the floor. Novato could hear a faint descending whistle as the object came closer. It was as big as a shed or large carriage, and its bottom fit perfectly into the right angle made by two adjacent inner tower walls. The rest of it was rounded, like a beetle’s body.

  Novato, Garios, and Delplas quickly moved across the tower’s base so they, quite literally, would be on the safe side. The giant beetle came to a stop at ground level. There it sat for a few moments, then its whole surface seemed to turn brighter, more shiny, as if it were liquefying, and suddenly a large rectangular opening appeared in its side, revealing that its interior was almost completely hollow. Once the door had appeared, the structure’s surface became duller, more solid-looking.

  And there it sat.

  Novato moved over to it and cautiously peered through the doorway. There didn’t seem to be much inside, but—

  Incredible.

  She could see right through the walls. From the outside, the thing was opaque, built from thick metal, but in looking through the walls from the inside, she could see right through to the blue material of the tower itself. She was terrified to step inside the beetle lest its walls grow liquid again and the door disappear, trapping her within. But she did stick her head into the doorway briefly to confirm that she could indeed see out in all directions. Looking up, she could see the four ladder-like sides of the tower stretching impossibly high overhead and, craning her neck around, she could even see her own palm pressed flat against the beetle’s outer hull.

  A few opaque objects were visible within the beetle’s walls, but basically from the inside it seemed to be made of glass while from the outside its appearance was that of burnished metal. Novato had spent a lot of time working with various materials in her studies of optics, but she’d never encountered anything with properties like this. She pulled her head out of the doorway and extended a fingerclaw. The beetle wasn’t made of harder-than-diamond stuff, anyway: she had little trouble scratching its metal outer hull.

  Garios was leaning back on his tail, his long muzzle looking up. “You were right,” he said softly.

  Novato looked at him. “What?”

  “You were right. Emergency equipment, that’s what it was—emergency equipment for the ark-makers.” He pointed at the silver beetle. “There it is—a lifeboat to take them back to space.” He paused. “Only one of the three emergency kits was still…still viable after millions of kilodays. Perhaps the second would have built a flying machine to take the ark-makers back home, and the third…well, God only knows what the third would have built. But this one, the one that survived, has made some sort of lifeboat.”

  Novato realized in an instant that Garios was correct. And she also realized a more wondrous, a more terrifying, thought: that soon she herself would have to take a ride aboard this lifeboat.

  Chapter 12

  Back aboard the Dasheter, old Biltog tended to Toroca’s injuries. There was nothing major. Toroca was irritated by the glee his shipmates took in his story of the attack by the fish-lizard, but, after enduring his disdain for the hunt for so long, they were entitled to some fun at his expense now that he’d single-handedly killed a formidable predator.

  And, of course, everyone was interested in the Others.

  “Tell us, Toroca,” demanded Keenir, “what were they like?”

  Toroca, still exhausted, supported himself by leaning against the foremast. “They are good people,” he said. “I hope that, despite our differences, there is some way that we can become friends.”

  Keenir looked out over the water, perhaps thinking of the slaughter he’d been part of back on the Others’ island. He made no reply.

  “Tell me more about the murders of your two children,” said Mokleb.

  Afsan shifted uncomfortably on his rock. “Both of them were killed the same way,” he said. “Their throats were slit.”

  “Slit? With a knife?”

  “No, with a broken piece of mirror.”

  “Broken mirror,” said Mokleb. “And they were killed by their brother, Drawtood, correct?”

  Afsan clicked his teeth, but it was a forced gesture, with little humor behind it. “Yes. Even I saw the symbolism in that, Mokleb. Broken mirrors, distorted reflections of oneself.”

  “Where did the killings take place?”

  “In their apartments. The killings occurred several days apart. Haldan was murdered first. Drawtood snuck up on each of them, or otherwise was able to approach them closely, and then he did the deed.”

  “Snuck up on them?”

  “So I presume, yes.”

  “Fascinating,” said Mokleb, and then: “You discovered one of the bodies.”

  “Yes.” A long pause. “I found Haldan. If anything should have given me nightmares, that should have been it. In fact, I can’t think of a more terrifying scenario for a blind person than slowly coming to realize that the room he’s in isn’t empty but rather contains a horribly murdered body.”

  “And you say Drawtood snuck up on his victims?”

  “Well, he was doubtless let into the apartments by them. They did know him, after all. But to manage the close approach, yes, I presume he did that by stealth.”

  “Fascinating,” said Mokleb once more. She wrote furiously on her notepad.

  It was the end of the day. Novato was ambling back toward the camp, located a few hundred paces from the base of the blue pyramid supporting the tower. Garios had caught up with her and was now walking about ten paces to her left.

  There was some small talk, then Garios asked, in a tone of forced casualness, “What will happen to your eight egglings if you mate with Afsan? Will they be spared the culling of the bloodpriest again?”

  Novato turned her muzzle sideways, making clear that her gaze was on Garios. She held it just long enough to convey that she felt he was stepping into her territory. “I doubt it,” she said at last. “I mean, there are a lot fewer people who think Afsan
is The One today than there were twenty kilodays ago.”

  “Ah,” said Garios, again with a tone that would have been offhand where it not for the slight quaver underlying the words, “so you’ve been contemplating the question.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “But you didn’t hesitate before answering,” he said.

  “I’m a bright person.” Novato clicked her teeth. “I can answer questions without meditating on them for daytenths on end.”

  “Oh, then you haven’t been contemplating this issue.”

  “Not directly.”

  “Afsan already has four children.”

  “He had eight,” said Novato, a little sadly. “Four survive.”

  “Still, I’ve had but one.”

  “Well, if this is a contest, I win,” said Novato gently. “I’ve had nine, five of whom still live. I’m the mother to more adult Quintaglios than anyone else alive.”

  “Granted,” said Garios. The sky overhead was rapidly growing darker; a few stars already pierced the firmament. “But I’m talking about just Afsan and me. He’s had four. I’ve only had one.” He held up a hand. “Yes, there are those who would argue that Afsan is a great person, that our species is enriched by having more of his offspring. Still,” he said, and then, a little later, “still…”