Fossil Hunter (3 page)

Neither of them seemed the least bit interested in Toroca, though. He watched as a large wingfinger alighted on Dybo’s statue. The flyer’s reptilian head looked down at Toroca briefly, then it pushed off and glided away, its furry white coat shimmering in the afternoon sunlight, the pointed crest off the back of its head acting as a rudder to help it steer in flight. Toroca turned back and looked around the square again.

Ah, someone was coming.

But it wasn’t Forgool. It couldn’t be.

Forgool was said to be around thirty kilodays old, almost twice Toroca’s own age. But this person was no bigger than Toroca himself. Still, whoever it was was crossing the square with purposeful strides, heading straight for Toroca.

As the Quintaglio came closer, Toroca took note of two features simultaneously.

One was startling only in that it again diverged from what he’d been expecting. Forgool was a male, but this person was a female: the front of her neck lacked the loose folds of a dewlap sack.

But the second feature would have been startling under any circumstances. She had a horn growing out of her muzzle. Toroca’s inner eyelids batted across his black orbs. He’d never seen the like before on an adult.

When she got within about twenty paces, the female stopped. “Permission to enter your territory?” she said, her voice a bit anxious.

“
Hahat dan.
” said Toroca, with a little bow of concession.

“You are Kee-Toroca, leader of the Geological Survey?”

Toroca nodded.

“I know you were expecting Dak-Forgool,” she said. “I am from his Pack, Pack Vando. It is my sad duty to report to you that Forgool is dead. He succumbed to a fever.”

Toroca dipped his muzzle. “I’m very sorry. I’d always wanted to meet him. My condolences to your Pack.”

“Thank you.”

There was a silence between them for several moments, then Toroca said, “I am sorry to hear this, and I thank you for bringing me word — I know it was a long journey for you. But I must head back and join my survey team now. It is too bad. We could have used another geologist.” Toroca bowed and began to move away.

“Wait,” said the female. “Take me with you.”

Toroca leaned back on his tail. “What?”

“Take me with you. I’ve come in Forgool’s place.”

“Were you his apprentice?”

The female looked at the cobblestones. “No.”

“Who did you study under?”

“Hoo-Tendron.”

“I’ve never heard of him. Is he a geologist?”

“No. Ah, he’s, um, a merchant.”

“A merchant?”

“Yes, with my Pack of Vando. But he trades in gemstones and fossils, and I’ve been his apprentice for many kilodays.”

“The Geological Survey is a scientific undertaking. We have no need of traders.”

“Nor do I wish to be a trader anymore.” She raised a hand. “It’s true I’ve had no formal training in geology, but I’ve dealt with fossils and gems for most of my life. Our Pack roams along the Passalat sandstones.” The Passalats were the finest-grained stones in all of Land, known for their magnificent fossils. “I’ve excavated every kind of fossil, even delicate ones like those strange winged things that aren’t wingfingers.”

“Birds?” said Toroca. “You’ve personally found bird fossils?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, impressed. “They’re the rarest find of all. No one knows exactly what birds were.”

“Indeed,” said the female.

“But you know no geology?” said Toroca.

“I know what I’ve taught myself. And I can read, Toroca — I’m one of the very few from my Pack that can make that claim. I’m willing to learn, but I’ve already got skills that your project can use.”

Toroca considered. At the very least, they could use another pair of hands. “What’s your name?”

“Babnol. Wab-Babnol.”

Toroca bowed. “I cast a shadow in your presence, Babnol. You have the same praenomen as…” He stopped himself before he said my mother. “As a good friend of mine, Wab-Novato.”

But Babnol apparently already knew the story. “She’s your mother, isn’t she? A great Quintaglio.”

Toroca nodded. “That she is.” He looked up at the purple sky. “We work in rough conditions, Babnol. And we’re about to head south…”

“I’ve heard all about it,” she said. “Forgool was so looking forward to it. A voyage to the south pole!”

“The work is not at all glamorous. You’ll be expected to labor hard, to do repetitive and meticulous tasks.”

“I’m prepared for all of that, good Toroca. Please: there’s nothing for me in Pack Vando. I know you need someone, and it will take many dekadays for any other geologist to get here. Let me join your team. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

Toroca considered, looking her up and down. She was in fine physical shape: well muscled; her belly so light green as to be almost yellow, her shoulders and arms a darker shade freckled with brown; her eyes, solid black, wide and intelligent.

And the horn.

Bizarre. Bright in the sunlight.

She held her head high, almost haughtily, Toroca thought, but she didn’t seem haughty in any other part of her manner. Indeed, she seemed to have a commendable enthusiasm.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Welcome to the Geological Survey of Land.”

She bowed deep concession. “Thank you, Toroca. Thank you very much. You won’t be sorry, I promise you.”

“It’s a three-day hike down to where the rest of the survey team is working. We should get going. We’ve found some fascinating downrock beds there. They present quite a puzzle.”

“A puzzle?” said Babnol with glee. “I love puzzles.”

Toroca clicked his teeth. “I have a feeling this is going to work out very well,” he said. “Shall we go?”

Time was a funny thing, thought Emperor Dy-Dybo, resting his enormous belly on the ruling slab in his rebuilt palace in Capital City. His childhood had seemed as though it would never end. As a member of The Family — the direct descendants of the Prophet Larsk, who had been first to gaze upon the Face of God — Dybo had lived a life of leisure, while his mother, Len-Lends, had ruled with an iron hand.

But then, when Dybo was just twelve kilodays old, all of that had come to an end. A landquake, a collapsing roof, his mother dead, and suddenly he was lying on the ruling slab himself, he, no longer Dybo, but now Dy-Dybo, the Emperor of all the Fifty Packs and every one of the eight provinces.

Dybo was twenty-eight kilodays old — even to a pessimist, which Dybo most assuredly was not, still hardly even early middle age. And yet he was feeling old. He looked across the ruling room at the white marble statue of his mother, Lends, with her stern visage. Government had always moved in generations. His mother, in addition to being Empress, was also governor of Capital province, and she had been about the same age as the governors of the other provinces. Throughout his adolescence, while Dybo was being groomed for the Emperorship, seven other children about his age were likewise serving as apprentice governors in Jam’toolar, Fra’toolar, Arj’toolar, Chu’toolar, Mar’toolar, Edz’toolar, and Kev’toolar.

But because of Lends’s early death, Dybo had ascended ahead of his time. He’d always thought of himself as a young Emperor, because no one else of his generation had yet become a governor.

That had changed now.

A newsrider brought word this morning.

Len-Ganloor, a contemporary of his mother and the governor of Edz’toolar, harshest and most isolated of the provinces, had been killed. An accident on a ceremonial hunt, apparently. Ganloor and her senior advisors had gone after a shovelmouth — such an easy kill — but a hornface herd was panicked into a stampede by their arrival. Ganloor and the rest of her party were trampled to death.

Ganloor’s apprentice, Rodlox, Dybo’s contemporary, was now governor of Edz’toolar.

Rodlox. He’d met him not too long ago, the last time Ganloor had come through the Capital, but Dybo couldn’t really recall him at all. Just another of the endless parade of faces that went through his court. Of course, his name no longer would be just Rodlox, but rather now must be Dy-Rodlox, the long-established custom being that governors affirmed their loyalty to the Emperor by taking a praenomen derived from his name. Dybo would have to remember to send appropriate condolences about Len-Ganloor and congratulations about Dy-Rodlox to Edz’toolar.

Rodlox was also twenty-eight kilodays old, the same as Dybo, so the newsrider had said. Dybo was no longer the only one of his generation to hold high office.

And that made him feel older than he was. Old and weary. There was so much yet to do, and, it seemed, so little time.

There was a saying attributed to the ancient philosopher Keladax: time crawls for a child, walks for an adolescent, and runs for an adult. Dybo thought, yes, there was much truth in that.

Time was indeed running.

But more important, time was running out.

Dybo’s advisor, Afsan, had only a rough idea of how long it would be before the world disintegrated. His best guess had been perhaps three hundred kilodays. But since he’d made that prediction, some sixteen of those kilodays had already gone by.

Still, thought Dybo, a good start had been made. Early on, he had appointed Wab-Novato, inventor of the far-seer, as director of the effort to find a way to get the Quintaglios off their doomed world before it broke apart. And Novato had immediately set to work.

Dybo thought back to the day, long ago, when she had come to see him in his temporary ruling room, a vestibule in one of Capital City’s many temples. He had used it until the replacement for his old palace, leveled in one of the great landquakes, had been built.

Novato was a few kilodays older than Dybo, with a mind as sharp as a hunter’s polished claw. Dybo had been surprised by the new sash she had worn that day, although now it had become famous throughout Land. The sash crossed from her left shoulder to her right hip, and consisted of two parallel strips of dyed leather, the lower one green, the upper black. Dybo had later learned that these colors symbolized the exodus project, representing the move from verdant Land into the darkness of the night sky.

On that day, back in the temporary ruling room, Novato had begun by saying, “We need to take stock of our resources.”

Dybo liked Novato a lot but often couldn’t see what she was getting at. “What?” he had replied.

She leaned back on her tail. “We need a complete catalog of raw materials, a list of everything that we’ve got to work with.”

Dybo spread his arms. “But I’ve already said that you may use anything anywhere on Land, if it will help the exodus project. You’ve got access to everything already.”

Novato bowed deeply. “And I thank you for that, Your Luminance, but, forgive me, you are missing my point. I need to know exactly what’s out there: exactly what rocks and ore and crystals and types of wood and so on are available, where they are found, and how easy they will be to collect and use.”

“You mean a — what is the word? — an inventory? Of all of Land?”

“An inventory, yes, and a survey. There are so many parts that have never been really explored. Much of the southern region of Edz’toolar province remains unmapped. Most of the great plains of Mar’toolar are barren of life, but may be rich in metals. Some of the small islands in the Downriver Archipelago have never even been visited.”

“But such a survey would take kilodays.”

“Aye, it would. But we need that information.”

“So you’ll know what rocks are available?”

“Exactly.”

“And who would be in charge of this survey?” asked Dybo.

“I imagine there would be several teams,” said Novato, “but Irb-Falpom, the palace land surveyor, seems the right choice for leading the principal expedition.”

“A kindly soul, and a keen mind. All right, Falpom it shall be.” And indeed, it was Falpom for fifteen kilodays, until she died of old age, and her young apprentice Toroca, one of Afsan and Novato’s children, took over. But, back on that long-ago day when he had first approved the Geological Survey, Dybo had commented, “But surely, Novato, you must realize that this survey will take ages to complete.”

“I do,” she had said.

“So, what, may I ask, will you be doing in the interim?”

“Me?” Novato had replied, a look of utter seriousness on her face. “I’m going to learn how to fly.”

As Babnol and Toroca hiked along, heading south to join up with the Geological Survey team, Toroca quietly contemplated Babnol’s nose horn.

All Quintaglio children were born with horns on their muzzles — birthing horns, they were called — to help them break out of their shells. But these were always lost within a few days of hatching. Babnol’s, for some reason, had not been. Instead, she’d retained the horn into adulthood. It wasn’t unattractive, just startling, a fluted cone of yellow-white bone projecting up. It must interfere with Babnol’s field of vision, Toroca thought, but then so did his own muzzle — one gets used to the parts of one’s face that block vision.

Perhaps Babnol had tried to have it removed, and maybe it regenerated, just like other body parts. Complex structures such as eyes and organs couldn’t regenerate, but a simple bony growth like that might very well come back.

It was funny, in a way. Although Toroca had never regenerated any body part, it had always been comforting to know that should he lose a finger or toe or piece of his tail, it would regrow. But how frustrating to have an outlandish protuberance coming out of one’s face and not even be able to hack it off. The thing would just keep coming back, time and again.

Toroca would have thought that a facial horn would make Babnol look docile. After all, only hornfaces had such things, and they were dull-witted plant-eaters. But a horn on the muzzle of a carnivore had an entirely different effect. It made Babnol look formidable. And, indeed, the way she carried herself, with her muzzle often tipped up in a haughty fashion, gave her quite an air of power and authority.