Fossil Hunter (34 page)

“Toroca!”
went the shout again, echoing off the hard blue walls.

Ahead, Gan-Spalton was standing by an open doorway. “It had been closed,” he said, pointing. “One of the few I’ve seen that really had a door. I operated the latch, and…”

The corpse was desiccated. If it had been at one time covered with skin, that skin was long since gone. The body was about the same bulk as Toroca, but that was the only characteristic they had in common. The dome-shaped head had five eyes. A long trunk dangled from the face. It ended in a pair of convex, shell-shaped manipulators, each with six little fingers within, just right for handling the strange artifact Toroca had found all those days ago.

The body was slumped over, a bowl-shaped structure visible beneath it that might have been a chair. The creature’s torso was made up of a series of disks, shining like opals in the torchlight. At the end of the torso was a cup-shaped brace supporting three pairs of legs. The first pair was long, the second and third pairs much shorter, and looked as though they wouldn’t have reached the ground if the creature had been standing.

Toroca staggered back on his tail. What manner of creature was this? It was unlike a Quintaglio, or anything else he was familiar with. Even the bizarre lifeforms of the south pole had shared a fundamental body plan that he recognized, but this, this was like nothing he’d ever seen before, nothing he’d even imagined before.

And then it hit him, and his jaw dropped.

This ship, this giant blue vessel, must have traveled very far indeed.

After the collective
dagamant
, Cadool searched and searched for Afsan. At last he found him, disoriented, unsure of where he was, slumped in an alley beside a building, exhausted, bruised, bloodied, but not severely injured.

They retired to Rockscape for three days, recovering, and waiting for Gathgol, now the busiest of all workers in the province, to collect all the bodies that littered the streets.

But, at last, Afsan and Cadool came back into the city to deal with the task at hand.

“Let’s rest here,” said Cadool. They’d been walking all afternoon, going from one side of the Capital to the other, the streets still a mess, blood splatters on the paving stones and adobe walls, broken tree branches and discarded sashes skittering along the avenues, propelled by the wind.

Here, in a small plaza, a marble likeness of the astrologer Tak-Saleed had been erected. Unlike many of the monuments in the Capital, this one was still standing despite the riots. Cadool helped Afsan find a seat on a bench, sitting him in the shadow of the statue.

“There is no sign that bloodpriest Maliden is in Capital City,” said Cadool, easing himself onto another bench. “Dy-Dybo’s guards have searched everywhere.”

Afsan nodded. “I always thought that was a long shot. Maliden would do well to be on the run; he’d be a fool to have remained here.”

“Indeed.”

“And Rodlox is telling the truth when he says he didn’t do it.”

“I’ve not heard such invective in my whole life,” said Afsan. “He took great offense that we should even ask.”

“But he did not commit the murders.”

“No.”

“It’s difficult to really fathom a motive for Dy-Dybo’s other siblings,” said Cadool. “Even so, only Dedprod and Spenress were already in town at the time of the first murder, and neither of them did it.”

“That’s right, neither of them.”

“So that excuses all members of The Family.”

“Yes.”

“But not all members of your family.”

Afsan’s tail swished. “No.”

“Toroca was away on his Antarctic voyage during the first murder,” said Cadool.

Afsan nodded. “It pleases me that I didn’t have to speak to him about this.”

“And your daughter Dynax, although from Chu’toolar, where the mirror was made, told us the truth when asked if she was involved.”

“Yes.”

“Kelboon and hunt leader Galpook told us the truth, too; they’re innocent,” said Cadool, holding up a hand, ticking off fingers.

“A process of elimination,” said Afsan.

“Yes,” said Cadool. “Both what we’re doing, and, in a way, what he is doing.” There was no clicking of teeth accompanying the words.

“It was distasteful asking those questions of people I know,” said Afsan.

“They will forgive you.”

“I suppose.”

“There’s no doubt who the murderer is,” said Cadool.

Afsan spoke quickly. “There’s little doubt, yes. But until I confront him, I will assume his innocence.”

“As you wish.” Cadool paused. “Does it hurt?”

“What? Losing two children? Or being about to lose a third? In any event, yes, it hurts.”

“I’ll never know what it’s like to have a family,” said Cadool softly.

“Apparently,” said Afsan, “different individuals react in different ways to the concept.”

Cadool nodded. “Apparently.”

They were quiet for a time, Cadool knowing that Afsan was composing himself, preparing for what must come. At last Afsan said, “Let’s go.”

“To see him?”

“’Not yet. We must go to my office in the palace first. There are some things I need. And we should have an escort, I think.”

They got to their feet and walked toward the setting sun.

It turned out that the part of the ship they’d been exploring wasn’t the major part at all. Only a tiny fraction of the ship’s bulk had been exposed by blasting away a portion of the cliff face. Much, much more of it was still buried in the rock. To get to the other section, one had to pass through another one of those rooms with doors at either end.

Everyone stood well back as Toroca, having taken a deep breath, operated the second door. But this time the air that spilled out, having been locked in for who knows how long, didn’t choke them, although it did have a musty smell about it. Toroca walked in and found an aisle as tall as ten old Quintaglios and so long that it would take a daytenth to walk its length.

Lining the corridor were rectangular chambers. Some were tiny, others huge. They were packed tightly together like a quilt, with each opening a different size, but all interlocking so that no space was wasted. Each chamber was fronted with glass — or perhaps it was that strange transparent material used to cover the lighting tubes.

And within…

Within were animals.

All dead. Some had decayed completely to dust, others were just piles of bones, others still retained their skin intact.

Toroca recognized some of them. Sort of, that is. Turtles and lizards and snakes looked just like, or very similar to, the ones he knew. But others were, well, wrong. Here, in one of the biggest chambers, was a shovelmouth, lying on its side, its head crest unlike any Toroca had ever seen before, with a large blade-like front part and a short spike pointing to the rear.

And here, a hornface with down-turned horns, like melted wax, unlike any hornface Toroca had ever heard of.

And here, the bones of another hornface, but this one with the frill of bone over the neck simply outlined, with huge hollow spaces in the middle.

And here, an armorback. A — it came to him, staggering him back on his tail — an armorback like one of those whose fossils are found only in the oldest rocks.

But most of the specimens were birds.

Birds!

Known only from the fossil record, and even there, only exceedingly rarely. Indeed, Toroca had to stare at the gaudily colored specimens for what seemed an eternity before he realized what they were. Some of the fossils of them showed a frayed body covering, and these specimens were wrapped in things that looked a bit like fern leaves, densely packed with branches.

Some of the birds had long toothy beaks, like those of many wingfingers, and some had thick beaks with no teeth at all, and some had rounded bodies and wide, flat prows, like the prows of shovelmouths.

But they were all birds.

Completely unknown in the world today.

At last, Wab-Babnol returned to join the Geological Survey team in Fra’toolar. She had come via boat — one not nearly as large or famous as the
Dasheter
, though. Toroca ordered the same boat loaded up with bird specimens to be taken back to Novato in the Capital.

As soon as he got close enough to Babnol to smell her pheromones, Toroca knew it was over. Her mating time had passed; barring unusual circumstances, she would be free of the urge until another full year had elapsed, another eighteen kilodays, another quarter of her lifetime.

“Welcome back,” said Toroca, both sad and glad at the same time.

Babnol bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better,” she said, and, a moment later, again: “Better.”

Toroca nodded. “It’s good to see you again.” He wanted to close the distance between them, to reach out, to…

And then Babnol did the incredible. She stepped toward him, closing the gap, and, with what was clearly a great deal of effort, reached up with her left hand and clasped his arm. “Thank you,” she said, still squeezing warmly, “thank you very much.”

Toroca’s heart soared. “It’s wonderful to have you back, my friend,” he said.

“And it’s wonderful to be back with you,” she said.

She held the position for five whole beats more, then stepped back three paces.

Toroca beamed.

The room was dark. A leather curtain undulated gently like a wingfinger’s flapping wing in the cool breeze from the half-open window. It was odd-night, the night on which most adults slept, but Afsan had always been out of synch with the mainstream.

The hinges of the door were well-oiled, and Afsan’s entrance had done nothing to disturb the apartment’s sleeping occupant. Afsan had only been here once or twice, but he knew the room’s layout well enough and had no trouble making his way across the living area and into the sleep chamber. As he entered the latter, he placed his leather carrying case in the open doorway.

Afsan knew there would be a candle holder on a small stand next to the part of the floor upon which the occupant was sleeping. He could hear the gentle hissing of open-mouth breathing. Afsan bent down and, after a moment, found the holder and picked it up.

Then he crossed the room, found the stool he’d been looking for, swung his leg and tail over it, and made himself comfortable. At last he spoke, not loudly, but with a firm tone. “Drawtood.”

There was no response. Afsan tried again. “Drawtood.”

This time he heard the sound of a body stirring on the floor, followed by a sharp intake of breath as Drawtood apparently suddenly woke and realized he was not alone.

“Who’s there?” Drawtood said, his voice thick and dry. Afsan heard sounds of exertion as Drawtood pushed himself up off the floor.

“It’s me, Afsan.”

Suddenly there was a note of concern in the voice. “Afsan? Are you all right? What’s happened?”

“Easy, my son. Easy. Lie back down. I just want to talk.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s the middle of the night. The eighth daytenth.”

There was a sound of rummaging. “I can’t seem to find my candle,” said Drawtood.

“I have it. You won’t need it. Lie down and talk to your father.”

“What’s wrong?” said Drawtood.

“That’s what I’m hoping to learn from you.”

“What do you mean?” The voice was wary. Afsan could tell that the speaker was still standing.

“Things are not going well, are they, Drawtood?”

“I want my candle.”

“No,” said Afsan softly. “We’ll talk on an even footing, both in darkness. Tell me your problems, son.”

“I don’t have any problems.”

Afsan was silent, waiting to see if Drawtood would volunteer anything further. A great length of time passed in silence, save for the whispering breeze. At last, Drawtood did speak again. “Why don’t you go, now?”

“I know about Haldan. And Yabool.”

“Their deaths have upset us all, I’m sure.”

“I know that you killed them, Drawtood.”

“You’re distraught, Afsan.” The voice had risen slightly in pitch. “Please, let me take you back to your home.”

“You killed them.”

Claw-ticks across the bare part of the floor.

“I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you,” said Afsan. “Pal-Cadool and five imperial guards are waiting outside your front door.”

Claw-ticks going in the opposite direction. “And other guards are waiting outside your windows, of course.” Afsan said it calmly, as if an offhand comment about the weather.

“Let me leave.”

“No. You have to talk to me.”

“I — I don’t want to.”

“You have no choice. Why did you kill them?”

“I admit nothing.”

“I am blind, Drawtood. My testimony would never stand. Admitting it to me is no confession, for I could never assert that your muzzle didn’t change color when you said it.” Afsan paused to let that sink in. Then: “Tell me why you killed them.”

“I didn’t kill them.”

“We both know that you did. A scientist should never make assumptions, Drawtood. I did — I assumed none of my children could be responsible. I was wrong.”

“Wrong,” repeated Drawtood softly.