Foreigner (29 page)

“You’ve said that before, yes. Let’s consider that. He was able to come very, very close to his siblings apparently without triggering their territorial reflexes.”

“He snuck up on them,” said Afsan.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps their own senses of territoriality were so subdued as to allow him to approach them openly.”

Afsan said nothing for a long time, then, slowly, the word hissing out like escaping breath: “Perhaps.”

“And do you remember, Afsan, the mass
dagamant
that ensued while the bloodpriests were temporarily in disrepute?”

“How could anyone forget that?” Afsan said, his voice heavy.

“Indeed. But who quelled the madness? Who rode into town atop a shovelmouth, leading a stampede of prey beasts so that the violence could be turned away from killing Quintaglios and onto hunting food?”

“Pal-Cadool.”

“Cadool, yes. A trained animal handler, and, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, one who has subsumed his personal sense of territoriality into defending
your
territory. His actions were dictated by the fact that he perceived you to be in danger. But who else aided in the quelling of the rage? Who else rode atop a shovelmouth, this time from the imperial stockyards?”

Afsan’s head snapped up, his muzzle swinging toward Mokleb. “Why — Emperor Dybo.”

“Dybo! Indeed. And what do Dybo and your son Toroca have in common?”

“I don’t see…”

“Think about it! What caused the bloodpriests to be banished from the Packs?”

“The revelation that there had been malfeasance involving the imperial creche,” said Afsan. “All eight imperial egglings had been allowed to live.”

“Precisely! All eight egglings got to live. Just like Toroca, Dybo never faced the culling of the bloodpriest, never suffered the trauma of seeing his infant brothers and sisters swallowed whole.”

“Perhaps,” said Afsan. “Perhaps.” And then: “But I’ve seen Dybo on the verge of
dagamant
. Aboard the
Dasheter
, during your pilgrimage voyage, when he was attacked by Gampar.”

“But you told me it was you, not Dybo, who killed that sailor. Nothing you said indicated that Dybo would have, of his own volition, fought Gampar to the death. I believe he would not have, except if necessary in rational self-defense. But on his own, when it mattered most, during the mass
dagamant
of kiloday 7128, Dybo did not succumb to the madness. He was able to function rationally because he had never been traumatized by witnessing the bloodpriest’s culling.”

Afsan looked thoughtful. “Incredible,” he said at last. “So what you’re saying is…”

“What I’m saying is that no future generation must go through the trauma of the culling of the bloodpriests. You said it yourself, Afsan. Parenting is the key: the relationship between ourselves and our children. We must find another way to control our population. Never again must children have their minds shocked that way. We can change this, this madness within ourselves. It’s not instinct that we have to overcome — not at all! Rather, it’s abuse of our children that we must put an end to.”

The
Dasheter
was finally close enough to Land that Keenir felt he could risk pulling away from the Other ships, confident that they’d follow the same course the rest of the way in. He unfurled the
Dasheter
’s two remaining sails, and his ship leapt ahead of the armada, letting the Quintaglios arrive back at Land five days before the Others would get there.

As soon as the
Dasheter
had docked, Toroca and Keenir hurried to an audience with Emperor Dybo.

Garios had immediately told Novato of Dybo’s summons for her to return to Capital City. Garios, of course, wasn’t about to let Novato go back alone to where Afsan was, so they boarded a fast ship and headed out together. But once back in the Capital, Novato had left Garios and gone to see Afsan anyway. When Garios next saw her, she was walking with the blind sage, who was accompanied by his large lizard.

“Hello, Garios,” said Novato as they drew nearer. “May we enter your territory?”

Garios looked up, his long muzzle swinging from Novato to Afsan, then back again. “
Hahat dan
.”

“It’s a pleasure to be with you again, Garios,” said Afsan.

“Afsan,” said Garios, somewhat curtly. Then, perhaps regretting his tone, he added, “I cast a shadow in your presence.”

“And I in yours,” said Afsan.

There was a protracted silence.

“I’ve made my choice,” said Novato.

Garios’s voice betrayed his hope. “Yes?”

Novato’s tone was soft. “I’m sorry, Garios, but it has to be Afsan again.”

Garios’s tail swished. “I see.”

“I know you were hoping otherwise,” said Novato. “Please understand, I never wanted to hurt you.”

“No,” said Garios. “No, of course not.”

Afsan’s toeclaws were churning the soil. “However,” he said, “it would be a loss to our species to not have more offspring from one so gifted as you.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” said Garios, his tone neutral.

“Will you walk with us?” said Afsan. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Someone I’ve, ah, grown quite close to myself.”

“Who is it?”

“Her name is Mokleb,” said Afsan. “Nav-Mokleb.”

“Oh?” A pause. “May I be so bold to ask how old she is?”

Afsan shrugged. “I really don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”

“Oh. I thought perhaps you were getting at … Never mind.”

“But I think you will find her quite, ah, open to new acquaintances,” said Afsan. “I’ve had a certain amount of trouble resisting her myself. Come along, Garios. She really is a fascinating person.”

Despite territoriality, Quintaglios in Capital City favored apartment blocks over individual dwellings because they withstood landquakes better and were easier to repair. Novato had been pleased to find her own apartment just as she’d left it when she’d departed the Capital for the Fra’toolar dig; of course, she’d taken all the usual precautions, such as moving breakables off shelves and placing them on the floor before departing on her long trip.

But all those objects had now been put back up on the shelves, leaving a wide open expanse of floor — an expanse of floor that was just right for what was about to come. She and Afsan lay together on it. The windows were closed, letting Novato’s pheromones build up in the room. They lay there, five paces been them, talking about things that were important to them, about experiences they’d shared together, joys they’d known, and some sorrows, too, talking softly, warmly, intimately, as Novato’s Toeromones wafted over them.

They talked for daytenths on end, teeth clicking freely at fondly remembered times they’d spent together. Finally, intoxicated by the pheromones, his dewlap puffing, Afsan pushed off the floor and, despite his blindness, moved unerringly toward Novato. He placed his hand on her shoulder, touching her, feeling the warmth of her skin. His claws remained sheathed; so did hers. He stroked her shoulder lightly, back and forth, feeling the appealing roughness of her hide. Novato moaned softly.

And, at last, more than twenty kilodays after the first time, Afsan moved even closer to her still. The two of them savored every moment.

The next morning, Afsan and Novato woke slowly, their tails overlapping, the euphoria of the night before still upon them. Afsan was expected back at what was now called the war room in the palace office building; final tests of his designs were to be conducted today. He could not touch Novato again, but there was a warmth in her voice that thrilled every part of him. He bade her good day, and called for Cork to lead him on his way. But as they were walking along, Afsan heard the sound of feet approaching. “Who’s there?” he called out.

“Hello, Afsan. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Toroca!” Afsan’s voice was warm as he reigned Gork in. “
Hahat dan
, boy,
hahat dan
. It’s good to hear your voice again.”

“And yours, Afsan.” Toroca, taking advantage of Afsan’s blindness, allowed himself the luxury of approaching within four paces of the older Quintaglio. Cork padded over to Toroca, tasting the air with a forked tongue.

“This is a time for reunions,” said Afsan. “Novato is back, too.”

“I haven’t seen her yet,” said Toroca, “but I’m looking forward to it.”

“I take it the
Dasheter
is safely docked, then?” Afsan said, leaning back on his tail.

“Yes, late last evening. I’ve spent most of the night briefing Dybo.”

“And did Dybo tell you what we’ve got planned?”

“Planned — no, I did all the talking. We tried to summon you to join us, but you weren’t at either Rockscape or your apartment.”

Afsan looked away. “This message you sent by wingfinger — what news about that?”

Toroca looked his father up and down. It was so very good to see him again. “The
Dasheter
had no trouble outrunning the Other ships, but they are indeed in hot pursuit. They will be here in four or five days, Keenir estimates.”

“We will be ready for them,” said Afsan, his voice uncharacteristically hard.

Toroca’s tail moved nervously. “That’s what I came to speak to you about.”

Afsan waited.

“This whole thing, Afsan: it’s our fault. We were the aggressors.”

“So your missive indicated.” Afsan scrunched his muzzle. “But there’s nothing to be done about that now.”

“I can’t agree with that,” said Toroca. “I feel an obligation to try to prevent the coming battle.”

Afsan tilted his head. “Is that possible?”

“I can interact with the Others, Afsan. My — my lack of territoriality, I guess … it lets me be with them. But so far, I’m the only one they’ve had direct contact with.”

“If I understand this correctly, you’re the only one they could have contact with.”

“I don’t think that’s completely true, Afsan. It’s not pheromones that trigger the violent response; when Keenir and I first encountered an Other, she was downwind of us. No, it’s a reaction to the appearance of the Others. The appearance doesn’t affect me, because of the way I am. And, good Afsan, you are blind: it could not affect you.”

Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he spoke. “Come over here, so you are downwind of me.” Toroca obeyed. “There are not many people I can say such things to, but come closer. Come stand right by me.”

Toroca moved nearer. “Yes?”

Afsan turned his muzzle to face his son, then lifted his eyelids.

“My … God,” said Toroca. “Are they — are they glass?”

Afsan clicked his teeth lightly at the unexpected suggestion. “No. No, they’re real.”

“But eyes don’t regenerate, and … and, anyway, it’s been ages since you were blinded.”

“I had an accident while you were away. I was kicked in the head by a hornface. There was substantial tissue damage. Healer Dar-Mondark thinks that may have something to do with it.”

Toroca nodded. “Miraculous. I’m sorry; forgive me, Afsan. I should be jubilant for you. It’s just that I was sure that if you could talk to the Others, you could help me prevent a slaughter. With the world coming to an end, there are more important matters than fighting. But now that you can see again…”

Afsan’s voice was soft. “I cannot see, Toroca.”

“But your eyes…”

“Do not work.”

“That’s … that’s…”

“The phrase ’that’s a kick in the head’ comes to mind,” said Afsan gently. “Unfortunately, the particular kick I got seemed to do only half a job.”

“I assume there’s something wrong with the way they regenerated, no?” Toroca stared intently into Afsan’s dark orbs, as if trying to see their inner workings. “It has been such a long time, after all.”

“No. As far as Dar-Mondark can tell, they regenerated perfectly. The problem, he suspects, is in my mind.”

“Is there nothing that can be done?”

“I am, ah, undergoing therapy. There’s a chance my sight will return.”

“How long has this therapy been going on?”

“Forever, it seems.”

“What are the chances of the therapy being successful in the next five days?”

“We’ve had, ah, a major breakthrough. But I still cannot see.”

“Then perhaps you will risk coming with me to try to meet with the Others.”

“What could I do?”

“Your whole life has been devoted to championing reason over emotion. It is irrational for us to be at war. There is an old proverb: only a fool fights in a building that’s on fire. By working with the Others, we can perhaps save both our peoples. I have some vague ideas about how some of their technology could be adapted to spaceflight. But by wasting time on a conflict with them, none of us may get off this world. If they see that more Quintaglios than just myself want peace, perhaps we can convince them to turn back.”

“And you think these … these Others will be receptive to an envoy of peace?”

“I don’t know for sure. There is one Other who would be — Jawn is his name — but I’m not even sure if he’s on board one of the boats coming this way. I thought I caught a glimpse of him once through your far-seer, but I can’t be sure.”

“And what will happen to us if the Others are not receptive?”

Toroca’s voice did not waver. “They may kill us.”

“You have never had much stomach for killing, my son,” said Afsan. “I, on the other hand, have been revered as a great hunter.”

“Of animals, Afsan. The Others are not animals.”

“I suppose not.”

“I can’t believe you don’t share my view that peace is the way. Dolgar said it: ’The intelligent person must abhor violence.’ If there’s any chance for peace, I must pursue it.”

Afsan was quiet for a time. “What do you propose?”

Toroca’s tail swished. “That we take a small boat out to meet the Others. If my friend Jawn is among them, he will come to talk with us. I know it.”