Foreigner (31 page)

Jawn looked perplexed for a moment, then seemed to get Toroca’s meaning. Shouting back at his own shipmates in the Other language, he said, “The big one is
lees-tash
” — presumably the word for “blind.”

One of the Other sailors shouted out, “Then what is he doing here?” but Jawn ignored that and motioned for Toroca and Afsan to come aboard. Toroca helped Afsan get hold of the rope ladder. “It’s about thirty rungs to the top,” he said. “Remember, they can touch you without difficulty; let them help you get up on deck.”

Afsan grunted and began to climb. He had trouble with the first couple of rungs, but soon got the hang of it, and before long was up on the Other ship. Toroca tied his little sailing boat to the rope ladder in hopes that it wouldn’t bash against the big boat too much; the Other vessel could doubtless take the impacts, but the
Stardeter
had a fragile hull. He then made his own way up the ladder, banging his knuckles as it swung back against the ship when a big wave came by. Finally, he was on the deck, too. Toroca bowed deeply in Quintaglio greeting, then spoke the standard salutation used by the Others: “It is my good fortune to see you.” One of the Others made a derisive sound, but Toroca thought he was more likely mocking his halting command of their language than the actual sentiment.

Jawn repeated the greeting, then asked in his own language, “Who is this?”

“My … father,” said Toroca. “Afsan.”

Jawn bowed at Afsan, and, in heavily accented Quintaglio, said, “I cast a shadow in your presence.”

Afsan tilted his muzzle toward Jawn, impressed.

“Enough of this,” said the same one who had snorted earlier, speaking the Other tongue. “Ask him why they attacked us, Jawn.”

Toroca faced the fellow directly, and spoke in the same language. “That is what I have come to … to…”

“
Gan-noth
,” said Jawn. Explain.

“That is what I have come to explain,” said Toroca. “My people want no fight. We not good feel about what happened.”

The belligerent fellow let loose a vocal barrage containing many words that Toroca didn’t know, but he realized part of it was a body count of how many had been killed by the Quintaglios aboard the
Dasheter
.

“We are sorry for that,” said Toroca. “It is moving by the hand of God,” he said, an Other idiom meaning, we couldn’t help ourselves. “Your appearance causes a … a violent reaction within most of us.”

“Appearance,” said Jawn. “Then your father … he can be here because he is lees-tash, yes?”

“Yes.”

Jawn faced Afsan, and spoke in halting Quintaglio. “Toroca says he does not want to fight. Do you?”

“No,” said Afsan. And then repeating himself in the Other style of amplification, which Toroca had taught him during the voyage out: “No, no.”

“How,” said the belligerent one, who Toroca had come to suspect must be the captain, “is not fighting possible between our peoples?”

“We can have no direct contact,” said Toroca. “But my people are good at interacting without contact. We could trade, exchange documents, learn more about each other…”

“Enough!” The captain spit a string of words at Jawn so rapidly that Toroca could only pick out a few terms. Jawn looked upset.

“What did he say?” asked Toroca.

“He said you are — not the absence of good, but the opposite of it. You live out of the sight of God. We cannot trust you, he says.”

“Ah, but you can trust us, Jawn. You saw it yourself back in your city. I cannot lie without my muzzle turning blue; none of my people can. You know that.”

“
Joth-shal
,” said the captain.

“What?”

“A trick,” said Jawn. “He thinks you’ve tricked us into thinking that about yourselves.”

“Do you think it is a trick?” said Toroca.

Jawn looked thoughtful, then said slowly, “Among those who died trying to visit your ship was my sister.”

“We told you to stay away.”

“Yes, you did. You…”

“How?” snapped the captain, his face suddenly suspicious. “How…” and then a string of words Toroca couldn’t follow.

Jawn looked at Toroca. “My friend asks a good question,” he said. “How did you know what effect our appearance would have on you? How did you know enough to warn us not to visit your ship?”

Toroca’s heart sank. Not knowing what to do, he turned to Afsan and quickly filled him in. Afsan shrugged.

“Because,” said Toroca slowly, “that day I arrived in your city was not the first time Quintaglios had seen your peoples. We had landed on another one of your islands a few days before…”

The captain spoke again and Toroca recognized the name of one of the islands.

“Oh, God,” said Jawn. “You killed two people there, didn’t you? There was a massive search; one body was found, and another was never recovered.”

“Now the test!” said the captain. “If you killed them, you must die for it. Prove you cannot lie,
thash-rath
. Tell us you killed them.”

Toroca briefly explained to Afsan what was going on.

“Not a great experiment,” observed Afsan. “You die either way.”

“I did not kill them,” said Toroca in the Other language, “but, yes, ones of my kind did. We feel not good about it.” Toroca held up a hand, and was relieved to see his claws were still sheathed. “If you believe that we did kill them, you must also believe we are sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

“If you knew the effect of our appearance, then why did you come back to our islands?” said Jawn. “Why did you risk killing more of us?”

“That is why Afsan is here,” Toroca said. “He is one of our greatest thinkers, and is influential with our Emperor. He has something to” — he tried to recall the word he’d just learned — “explain to you about what will come for our world. Let him show you; I will translate what he says.”

The captain’s tail swished. “You are dangerous. Your kind must be eliminated if my kind is to be safe.” He moved in closer. He was no bigger than Toroca; the young geologist could surely take him in single combat. But other sailors had weapon tubes trained on him. “We attack you tomorrow,
thash-rath
. Tell me where your weakest point is.”

Toroca crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not wish for this conflict to go on,” he said, “but I will not…” His noble speech faltered as he realized he didn’t know the Other word for
betray
. “I will not
not
help my people.”

The captain held out his right hand, motioning to one of the armed sailors to give him his tube. “Tell me, or I’ll shoot you,” he said.

“No!” said Jawn. “Do not!”

“I would rather die than not not help my people,” said Toroca.

The captain grunted, a sound of grudging respect. “Finally a quality to admire in your kind,” he said. “No matter. Tell me where your people’s weakest point is, or I shall kill the large one.” He swung the mouth of his tube toward Afsan.

“No!” said Toroca, first in Quintaglio, then in the Other tongue. “He is blind.”

“So you say,” said the captain. “He is also much bigger than any of us, and that makes him dangerous. Now, tell me, where exactly should we attack? Where are you least fortified?”

“I cannot reveal that,” said Toroca.

The captain did something to the tube. It made a loud click.

“Tell me, or I will
kas-tak
.” A word that presumably referred to operating the weapon.

“Do not,” said Jawn again. “They came here in peace.”

“There will be peace,” said the captain. “When they are all dead, and the
jar-dik
to our people is over, there will be peace.” He looked at Toroca again, his yellow eyes thin slits against his yellow face. ’Tell me!”

Toroca closed his eyes. “The docks.” The Quintaglio word exploded from him.

The captain looked at Jawn, who provided the equivalent Other term.

“The docks,” Toroca said again. “The harbor.”

“Where?” snapped the captain. “Exactly where?”

“Dead ahead, at the easternmost tip of our land,” said Toroca. “You cannot miss it. Our Capital City is built on cliffs overlooking those docks. They are unfortified and unguarded.”

“Thank you,” said the captain. “Thank you very much.” And then he casually aimed the mouth of his tube at Afsan and moved his fingers. A flash of light leapt from the barrel’s mouth and wingfingers who were roosting on the ship’s rigging took to flight. Afsan fell backward against the raised wall around the edge of the ship, and collapsed to the wooden deck.

“You said you wouldn’t shoot him!” shouted Toroca in Quintaglio.

The Other captain must have been anticipating the question, because he answered it even though he couldn’t possibly have understood the words. “You may not be able to lie,” he said simply, “but I can.”

Toroca ran over to the fallen Afsan. A neat round hole, with blackened edges, was visible on his upper-left chest. Blood was seeping from the wound. Toroca lifted Afsan’s sash from over his shoulders, wadded it up, and pressed it against his chest, trying to stanch the flow. Afsan groaned.

“Why?” Toroca said, but he realized that wasn’t the question he really wanted to ask. He fixed his gaze on the captain and spoke the eighth Other interrogative word: “Glees?” How righteous is this?

Jawn, too, was looking at the captain in naked disgust. He turned to Toroca. “How is he?”

“Bad,” said Toroca, his Other vocabulary lessons failing him. “Bad.”

Afsan tried to lift his head. There was some blood in his mouth; the metal pellet had probably torn into his lung or windpipe. “I…” His voice was raw, pained. “I do not wish to die here.”

“Nobody’s going to die,” said Toroca, glad for once that his father was blind and could not see his muzzle. He turned to Jawn. “I am not a healer,” he said. “I have to get him back to my people.”

“No,” said the captain. He gestured at some of his sailors. “Take them below.”

Jawn protested in language Toroca couldn’t follow, but soon weapon tubes were being waved at them. Toroca put an arm around his father and helped support his massive weight as they were taken down a ramp into the ship’s interior. Large skylights were inlaid into the ceiling; there were no signs of interior lamps.

Afsan was groaning slightly with each step. While helping him walk, Toroca could no longer hold the leather sash against his father’s wound, but Afsan himself was doing it now. They soon found themselves at the doorway to a little room. Even aboard ship the Others favored any floor plan that wasn’t square; the room was five-sided. A circular skylight admitted late-afternoon sun.

There were coarse sacks stacked in three of the five corners. Toroca helped Afsan lie on his side, leaning against one of the sacks. The door was closed, and Toroca heard the sound of metal hitting metal. He tried to open the door but found he couldn’t shift it.

“Locked,” said Afsan faintly.

“What does that mean?” said Toroca.

“Secured … so it can’t be opened.”

“Oh.” Toroca came back to where Afsan was lying. “How are you?”

“Cold,” he said. “Cold. And thirsty.”

“The
hak-al
is still inside you?”

“
Hak-al
?” said Afsan.

“It’s an Other word. A piece of metal, fired from a weapon.”

“Oh.” Afsan groaned. “I think I prefer a society that doesn’t often use locks, and has no word for such weapons.” He winced as his fingers probed his wound. “It’s stopped bleeding.” He shuddered. “How long … how long until they attack Land?”

“They’re only a day’s sail away now,” said Toroca. “But they’re not used to real darkness; I suspect they’ll attack early in the morning of the day after tomorrow.”

Afsan grunted, but whether in pain or acknowledgment, Toroca couldn’t say. Soon, he slipped into unconsciousness. Toroca leaned back against the opposite wall and watched Afsan’s shallow breathing.

Much later — Toroca had lost all track of time — he heard footfalls in the corridor outside, and the sound of metal against metal again. It was now quite dark; only pale moonlight filtered in through the skylight. Cautiously, Toroca got up and walked across the room. He tried the door again. It swung open. He peered out into the corridor. No sign of anyone.

Jawn, he thought. Jawn understood not wanting to die away from home. Toroca hurried over and touched Afsan’s shoulder. No response. He shook it lightly. Again nothing. He placed a hand on his father’s chest. It was still warm, still moving up and down with respiration. Toroca let out a sigh of relief, and gently shook Afsan once more. If Afsan had been well, he never would have woken him thus; he could have regained consciousness startled, jaws snapping. Soon, though, Afsan did slowly lift his muzzle.

“The door,” whispered Toroca. “It’s open. Come on, let’s go…”

“A trap?” said Afsan weakly.

Toroca shook his head. “A friend, I think.” He reached a hand out and grasped Afsan’s arm, helping him up. “Hurry.”

Toroca looked out the corridor again, then, cupping Afsan’s elbow, led him up on deck. The nighttime breeze was cool. Clouds covered about half the sky. The sound of water slapping the ship’s hull and of the sails rippling in the breeze masked their footfalls.

Toroca jogged ahead to look over the edge of the ship. The rope ladder was still there leading down to the
Stardeter
. He looked back at Afsan, who was walking slowly, a hand clasped over his wound. Toroca hurried back to him, once more cupping his elbow, and led him to the ladder.

“I’ll go down first; you’ll need help getting aboard. Give me about twenty-five beats, then follow me down.”

Afsan grunted in pain. Toroca slipped over the side of the ship and started the descent. The rope ladder was wet, having been in the spray kicked up by the ship’s movement for many daytenths now. Finally, Toroca made it into the boat. The
Stardeter
had taken on a small amount of water, either from spray or rain. Toroca almost slipped as he stepped off the ladder. He looked up. Afsan was coming over the side of the ship now. The ladder seemed to sag under his weight, and at one point, Afsan missed a rung and almost fell the remaining distance to the ship, but he managed to steady himself and make it down the rest of the way. Toroca could barely discern Afsan’s face in the darkness, but his expression was one of agony, as if with each movement of his arms or legs, spikes were being driven into his body.