Foreigner Page 17

  Toroca hadn’t done that yet, arguing that such a monumental change required considerable thought, and so, at least temporarily, the bloodpriests were culling hatchlings in the traditional way again.

  And now Toroca had three baby Others in his care.

  In a Quintaglio clutch, only one would be allowed to live.

  Should the same hold true for these Others?

  Toroca had seen what had happened when the bloodpriests had been banished from their Packs, when, for a time, every hatchling had been allowed to live. The population had swollen, youngsters were underfoot everywhere, and mass dagamant had gripped all of Land.

  The people had been willing to accept the bloodpriests so long as they thought every clutch was subjected to their culling. But once an exception had been found, the people rose up in anger, banishing or even killing the halpataars.

  And now into their midst had come a special clutch. Granted, there were only three hatchlings in it instead of the Quintaglio norm of eight. Still…

  Toroca leaned on his tail, deep in thought. To risk once again to be seen playing favorites, to be killing seven out of every eight babies from Quintaglio clutches, but to let all of these offspring live…The public would be incensed, especially so soon after the scandal involving Dybo and his brothers and sisters.

  And to make matters worse, Toroca was, in effect, leader of the bloodpriests until such time as he had developed a new culling criterion. For what amounted to the head bloodpriest to be seen again to be flouting the customs of the people…

  And yet, these were not Quintaglio hatchlings. Their mother had been killed by a Quintaglio, the eggs had been taken, albeit accidentally, from their native land. Surely a dispensation could be made in this case, surely all three could be allowed to live…

  Surely…

  No.

  The risk was too great. Quintaglio population controls had to be kept in place, and that meant nothing could be allowed to discredit the bloodpriests.

  Toroca hated himself for what he did next, but he had no choice. At least, since the babies were only a few daytenths old, their eyes weren’t yet open; Quintaglio egglings opened their eyes about a day after leaving their shells.

  Toroca swallowed one of the hatchlings, the squirming form moving down his gullet. It took a while for him to regain his nerve, but when he did he swallowed a second hatchling, leaving only one alive.

  Afsan and Mokleb’s next session was held at Rockscape. The ground had not completely dried from the downpour of two days ago. Mokleb’s feet were covered with mud and her legs were soaked after making her way through tall grasses to the rock that she used, downwind of Afsan’s rock.

  “You mentioned in our last session,” she said, “that the first time you’d experienced dagamant was kilodays ago, aboard the Dasheter.”

  “That’s right,” said Afsan, stretching out on his boulder. “We were sailing on beyond the Face of God, something no ship had ever done before. Emperor Dybo—he was Prince Dybo back then—and I were sunning ourselves on deck when a sailor named Nor-Gampar came charging between us, in full bloodlust. Bobbing up and down from the waist, glazed eyes, claws exposed—the whole thing.”

  “You were with Dybo, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it was you who killed this Gampar?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you saved Dybo’s life.”

  “I never thought about it that way, but, yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Dybo did not repay you well.”

  A few moments of quiet. “No, he did not.”

  “But you killed Gampar so that the prince could live.”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely this went beyond simple territoriality,” said Mokleb. “You weren’t just responding to the fact that Gampar was threatening you and Dybo. There was a larger issue at stake: the need to know. You’d convinced Captain Keenir to sail around the world, something no one had ever done. Gampar objected to that.”

  “Yes.”

  “He stood in the way of that knowledge.”

  “Yes.”

  “He stood in the way of a better life for Quintaglios.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, well, if a few people die now and then for the good of society as a whole, that’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Strides are never made without sacrifices. People will always die so others can live better lives.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you believe that?”

  “No. No, there should be alternatives. Death shouldn’t be necessary.”

  “Sometimes it is,” said Mokleb.

  “Not like that,” said Afsan. “Not because of bloody instinct. Living our lives should not require killing others of our own kind.”

  “But it does,” said Mokleb.

  “But it shouldn’t,” said Afsan. “By the very Egg of God, Mokleb, it shouldn’t!”

  On the fifth day after Novato had left, the land in Fra’toolar began to shake. Wingfingers took flight, and the calls of animals split the air. Tails flying behind them, Garios and Karshirl ran along the heaving sands. They were a good distance south of the blue pyramid, but the base of a cliff was the last place one wanted to be during a landquake. Farther along, though, the cliff face gave way to more gentle slopes. On their right, layers of rock were shattering, sending a rain of fragments down onto them. On their left—Garios looked out at the waters and his muzzle dropped open in a silent scream. A wall of water was lifting from the waves. Garios tried to run faster, the ground shifting beneath his feet.

  The giant wave was barreling in. Garios risked climbing the rocky slope. He panted out the words of a prayer. In places, debris showered down heavily, but he found a pathway up that was shielded by an overhanging rock layer. Garios had lost track of Karshirl. He hoped she was finding a comparatively safe hiding place, too.

  A slab of rock tumbled toward Garios, bouncing sideways under the overhanging ledge. He didn’t get his right leg out of the way in time. The impact was excruciating.

  Garios looked out again and screamed in terror. The incoming wall of water was higher—much higher—than the height he’d climbed to. It would—

  He was slammed against the cliff by the wave’s impact. Agony sliced through his battered leg. He felt as though his abdomen was tearing open, forced against sharp rocks.

  The water was bitterly cold, as if it had welled up from far below the surface. Submerged, Garios kept his eyes tightly shut. His lungs were bursting, desperate for air. Somehow he managed to hold on to the rocks. A boulder bounced against his back and tail, but its movements were slowed enough by the churning water to keep it from doing much damage.

  Garios’s lungs ached unbearably. Darkness was gripping him. His consciousness began slipping away—

  But then the wave subsided. His maw gaped wide, taking in gulps of air as if they were bolts torn from a carcass. The ground had stopped shaking, at least for now. The beach below was covered with waterweeds deposited by the wave. Wet sand had been lifted up onto the rocky slope, partially covering it. A litter of boulders overlay the ground below.

  Garios scanned the beach. There was no sign of Karshirl.

  His heart sank. Her body must have been washed out with the receding wave.

  Garios’s right leg was battered, and he had a shallow gash diagonally across his belly. Maneuvering carefully, so as not to lose his precarious footing, he turned around and looked back up the beach, toward the cliff face and the sky tower—

  —which was—

  My God!

  Vibrating.

  Oscillating.

  Like a plucked string. Back and forth.

  What if it fell down? What if the tower collapsed?

  God protect us!

  God protect Novato!

  Chapter 19

  Toroca was the discoverer of evolution. As the current conflict with the Others bloodily demonstrated, the Quintaglios, through the traditional cullin
g process, had not been selecting for the most desirable traits. In trying to devise a new selection criterion, Toroca had spent considerable time in creches, learning about the process of hatching and the early days of childhood.

  He hadn’t expected that information to have any practical applications for him personally. But now the little Other eggling was making loud peeping sounds. It was hungry.

  Creche workers could regurgitate at will, feeding hatchlings directly from their mouths. Toroca had no idea how to voluntarily bring food back up; it was said a fist inserted in the back of the throat could trigger such a reaction, but the accompanying convulsion might cause the jaws to snap shut, severing one’s arm just below the elbow. Instead, Toroca took little cubes of dried hornface meat in his mouth and, glad that no one was around to see the disgusting sight, chewed the meat by popping it from side to side with his tongue as he slid his jaws forward and back. When the meat was well worked over, he opened his mouth wide and, using his fingers to help dislodge it, collected the meat in a bowl. He poured some water onto it and mixed it together until he had a soft mass. He then put the bowl on the floor near the peeping eggling. The baby was stumbling about.

  Nothing happened. Toroca had expected the eggling to smell the concoction and make his way over to it. Perhaps it was the gastric odor in regurgitated food that attracted infant Quintaglios; this meat had no such pungent odor. Toroca crouched on the floor and used his left hand to scoop up some of the meal he’d made and presented it directly to the eggling. He used his other hand to gently prod the baby toward the food. Once its little yellow muzzle was up against the stuff in Toroca’s hand, the baby apparently realized what it was and began to use its tongue to maneuver bits of it into its mouth. Toroca crouched contentedly as the hatchling ate, gently stroking the baby’s back with his free hand.

  Afsan looked haggard. His tail seemed stiff and dead, one of the claws on his left hand was sticking out as if he’d lost conscious control of it, his head was tipped slightly forward, and his muzzle hung half-open as though the effort of keeping his teeth covered, something protocol required, was too much for him. The little membranes at the corners of his mouth were that ashen color one gets when feverish. It was clear that he was exhausted.

  Mokleb dipped a fingerclaw into the pot of ink she’d brought with her and began the transcript of the day’s session. Writing her words down as they were spoken, she said: “We’ve come close to the territory of this issue before, but never actually crossed the boundaries. Some call you Sal-Afsan, some just Afsan, and some call you by a third name: The One.”

  Afsan sighed. “You really have a thing about names, don’t you?”

  “Do I?” Mokleb’s inner eyelids blinked. “Well, I guess I do, at that. They are an important part of our identity, Afsan. And, as I said, some call you by a special name: The One.”

  “And some call me fat-head, among other things.”

  Mokleb refrained from clicking her teeth. “I’m curious about the effect it has on you to be called The One. It’s a reference to the prophecy made by the ancient hunter Lubal, isn’t it? When she was dying after being gored by a hornface, she said”—Mokleb topped transcribing her own words long enough to find the quote she had written down—“‘A hunter will come greater than myself, and this hunter will be a male—yes, a male—and he shall lead you on the greatest hunt of all.’”

  “Yes, that was the prophecy,” said Afsan. A pause. “I don’t believe in prophecy.”

  “Many take your proposed journey to the stars to be the great hunt Lubal spoke of.”

  Afsan waved a hand dismissively. “Metaphor again. You can make anything mean anything else.”

  Mokleb read from her notes once more. “And yet Lubal also said, ‘One will come among you to herald the end; heed him, for those who do not are doomed.’ Isn’t that your story in miniature? You did herald the end of the world, and had we not listened to you and begun work toward the exodus, we would indeed have been doomed.”

  Afsan, prone on his boulder, made a noncommittal grunt.

  “And,” continued Mokleb, “Lubal said, ‘The One will defeat demons of the land and of the water; blood from his kills will soak the soil and stain the River.’ You did kill the giant thunderbeast and you also slew the water serpent, ah,”—checking notes once more—“Kal-ta-goot.”

  “I’d forgotten that Lubal had said that,” said Afsan. “It’s been an awfully long time since I’ve been able to read the Book of Lubal, after all, and…”

  “And?”

  “And, well, it’s not the sort of thing my apprentice would expect me to ask her to read to me.”

  Mokleb inventoried her possible responses, chose a click of the teeth. “No, I suppose that’s true.”

  “In any event, the thunderbeast wasn’t a demon. And Kal-ta-goot…well, chasing it was what allowed the Dasheter to complete the first circumnavigation of the globe. If anything, Kal-ta-goot was a savior.”

  “Var-Keenir would not agree.”

  “As much as I like and admire the old sailor, Keenir and I often disagree.”

  Mokleb was silent.

  “Anyway, Mokleb, this is just another case of you forcing the words to mean something they don’t really say. I killed no demons.”

  “‘Demons,’” repeated Mokleb thoughtfully. “Strictly speaking, demons are defined as those who can lie in the light of day.”

  “Exactly. And I’ve never killed anyone who could do that. I’ve never even known anyone who could…”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Once again, you are hiding your thoughts, Afsan. I must know what you are thinking if I’m to help you.”

  “Well, it’s just that Det-Yenalb, the priest who put out my eyes—I’d never thought about it this way before, but he once hinted to me that he could lie in the light of day. He implied that it went with being a successful priest. I never knew whether he was serious about it, or was just trying to frighten me, but…”

  “Yes?”

  “He was killed in 7110, during the skirmish between the palace loyal and the Lubalites. I didn’t kill him myself, but, well, if he could lie without his muzzle turning blue, then I suppose he was demon and, in a way, he was killed in my name.”

  “And in any event,” said Mokleb, looking down at her notes, “the word Lubal used was ‘defeat,’ not ‘kill.’ You personally did indeed defeat Det-Yenalb, for society now pursues your goal of spaceflight instead of following Yenalb’s teachings.” She paused. “Besides, what about all your great hunts?”

  “All of them? There were only three of any significance before I lost my sight.”

  “But such hunts!” said Mokleb. “The giant thunderbeast. Kal-ta-goot. And a fangjaw!”

  Afsan made a contemptuous motion with his hand. “You don’t understand. You’re just like the rest of them. No one seems to understand.” He turned his head so that his blind eyes faced her. “I have never hunted. Not really. Not like a true hunter. Mokleb, the time I really needed to hunt in order to save myself, I failed miserably. As a child, I was lost in a forest. I couldn’t catch a single thing to eat. I was reduced to trying to eat plants. Plants!” He snorted. “Me, a hunter? I’m nothing of the kind.”

  “But your kills…?”

  “Those weren’t examples of hunting prowess. I honestly believe I have little of that. Don’t you see? They were instances in which I solved problems. That’s all I’ve ever done. That’s the only thing I’m good at.” He paused. “Consider the thunderbeast hunt—my first ritual hunt. The other members of the pack were taking bites out of the thing’s legs and sides.” He shook his head, remembering. “That’s how you kill a small animal, not a living mountain. No, it was obvious to me that the thunderbeast’s vulnerable spot was the same as yours or mine—the underside of the throat. So I shimmied up the thing’s neck and bit it there. Anyone could have done that; I just happened to be the first to think of it.”

  “And Kal-ta-goot?”

>   “A great hunt? Please. Even Det-Bleen, the Dasheter’s blow-hard priest, had reservations about that one. He wouldn’t consecrate the meal at first. Mokleb, I used tools for that kill. I wasn’t interested in ritual hunting at all. I realized that the animal had to breathe, just as we do, so I wrapped the anchor chain around its neck, constricting its flow of air. Again, that had nothing to do with athletic skill or hunting prowess or stealthful tracking. It was the application of the tools at hand to a specific problem.”

  “Ah, but what about the fangjaw? That animal is rarely killed by any hunter, yet you felled one on your first attempt.”

  Afsan spread his arms. “That’s the most obvious example of all. Pahs-Drawo and I stalked the fangjaw on the backs of runningbeasts. It was the runners that gave us the edge, not any skill of our own. And when it came time to actually attack, Drawo and I leapt off the runningbeasts, aiming for the fangjaw’s back. Drawo missed, landing in the dirt. I succeeded. Don’t you see? That kill wasn’t a result of hunting skill. Rather it was because I was able to calculate the trajectory properly to leap from one moving body onto another. Mathematics, that’s all that was. Mathematics and problem-solving. The same as my other hunts.”

  “But other Quintaglios would have failed in your place. Isn’t it the results that matter?”

  “Oh, possibly. But the real point is simply that I kept my head during those hunts, that I was thinking, always thinking, while the others were letting their instincts guide them. Rationality is the key. No matter what’s going on around you, you have to keep your logic at the fore.”

  “That’s something our people aren’t very good at, I guess,” said Mokleb.

  “No,” said Afsan, his voice heavy. “No, they’re not.”

  “Still,” said Mokleb after a moment, “prophecy is a metaphorical game. It does sound to me as though you’ve fulfilled most of the requirements of being The One.”