Fossil Hunter (28 page)

“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!”

Toroca tried to maintain a relationship with each of his siblings. Some of them seemed more interested in acknowledging kinship than others. He never forced the issue, but he did enjoy spending time with those who didn’t seem to mind.

There was an exception, though. His brother Drawtood appeared to be uncomfortable around people. In some strange way, that made Toroca even more interested in seeing him, for Drawtood seemed as lonely as Toroca. Toroca’s loneliness came from no one sharing his desire for intimacy. Drawtood’s, on the other hand, seemed self-imposed, as if he went to special lengths to distance himself from the rest of society.

Beyond that, though, there was another reason for the separation between them. Toroca was a geologist. His sister Dynax, a doctor. Brother Kelboon was an authority on mathematics. But Drawtood had never done well academically. He worked on the docks of Capital City, helping to load and unload boats. If it hadn’t been for their shared blood, their lives would probably not intersect at all. Still, each time he came to the Capital, Toroca visited several of his siblings, including, always, Drawtood.

Drawtood’s home was so close to the harbor that the sounds of ship’s bells and drums and the high-pitched calls of wingfingers circling above the docks were a constant background. Toroca entered the vestibule of the adobe building and drummed his claws on the copper signaling plate. Drawtood answered, expressionless as always, and swung the door aside to let Toroca in.

“I brought you a small gift,” said Toroca, fishing in the hip pouch of his sash. “Here.”

The proper way to give a gift was to set it on a tabletop or some other piece of furniture, then to back away so that the recipient could easily fetch it. But Toroca simply held the object out in his palm. He did demand a small price for his presents, and that was that the recipient actually take them from his hand. Drawtood shuffled forward, took the object, his fingers briefly touching Toroca’s hand as he did so, and then scurried to the opposite side of the room.

It was a gemstone polished in a cabochon shape. The material was golden brown and seemed to have a white four-pointed star embedded in its center. The stone was quite lovely, thought Toroca, and although common at traders’ tables in western Land, it was rare here. For Afsan and Novato and his other siblings, he usually brought something that was interesting — a curiosity of some sort, an unusual crystal or intriguing fossil. But Toroca reckoned that such things would hold little appeal for Drawtood, although the laborer did seem to enjoy pretty rocks.

“Thank you,” said Drawtood, shifting the gem back and forth in his hand, watching the way light played across its surface.

“It’s from Arj’toolar,” said Toroca. “Not far from where Afsan was bom.”

“Afsan,” repeated Drawtood. By mutual consent, they never referred to him as their father. “I don’t see him very often.”

“I’ve just come from a meeting that he was at. An update on the Geological Survey.”

Drawtood nodded. “Of course.” A pause. “Does he ever mention me?”