Fossil Hunter (6 page)

Gork gladly wore a leather harness and led Afsan around, always choosing a safe path for its master, avoiding rocks and gutters and dung. Afsan found himself growing inordinately fond of the beast and ascribed to it all sorts of advanced qualities, including at least a rudimentary intelligence.

He was surprised that such pets weren’t more common. It was in some ways pleasant to spend time with another living, breathing creature that didn’t trigger the territorial instinct. Although Gork was cold-blooded, and therefore not very energetic, it was still fast enough as a guide for Afsan, given how slowly Afsan walked most of the time, nervous about tripping.

Afsan and Gork, alone, out among the ancient boulders, wind whipping over them, until…

“Eggling!” A deep and gravelly voice.

Afsan lifted his head up and turned his empty eye sockets toward the sound. It couldn’t be…

“Eggling!” the voice called again, closer now.

Afsan got up off his rock and began to walk toward the approaching visitor. “That’s a voice I haven’t heard in kilodays,” he said, surprise and warmth in his tone. “Var-Keenir is that you?”

“Aye.”

They approached each other as closely as territoriality would allow. “I cast a shadow in your presence,” said Keenir.

Afsan clicked his teeth. “I’ll have to take your word for that. Keenir, it’s grand to hear your voice!”

“And it’s wonderful to see you, good thighbone,” said Keenir, his rough tones like pebbles chafing together. “You’re still a scrawny thing, though.”

“I don’t anticipate that changing,” said Afsan, with another clicking of teeth.

“Aye, it must be in your nature, since I’m sure that at Emperor Dybo’s table there’s always plenty of food.”

“That there is. Tell me how you’ve been.”

The old mariner’s words were so low they were difficult to make out over the wind, even for Afsan, whose hearing had grown very acute since the loss of his sight. “I’m fine,” said Keenir. “Oh, I begin to feel my age, and, except for my regenerated tail, my skin is showing a lot of mottling, but that’s to be expected.”

Indeed, thought Afsan, for Keenir had now outlived his creche-mate, Tak-Saleed, by some sixteen kilodays. “What brings you to the Capital?”

“The
Dasheter.
”

Afsan clicked his teeth politely. “Everyone’s a comedian. I mean, what business are you up to?”

“Word went out that a ship was needed for a major voyage. I’ve come to get the job.”

“You want to sail to the south pole?”

“Aye, why not? I’ve been close enough to see the ice before, but we never had the equipment for a landing. The
Dasheter
is still the finest ship in the world, eggling. It’s had a complete overhaul. And, if you’ll forgive an oldster a spot of immodesty, you won’t find a more experienced captain.”

“That much is certain. You know that it is my son Toroca who will be leading the Antarctic expedition?”

“No, I did not know that. But it’s even more fitting. His very first water voyage was aboard the
Dasheter
, when we brought Novato and your children to Capital City all those kilodays ago. And Toroca took his pilgrimage with me three or four kilodays ago.”

“We don’t call it a pilgrimage anymore.”

“Aye, but I’m set in my ways. Still, not having to bring along that bombastic priest, Bleen, does make the voyage more pleasant.”

Afsan actually thought that Bleen wasn’t a bad sort, as priests went. He said nothing, though.

“Where is Toroca now?” asked Keenir.

“According to his last report, he’s finishing up some studies on the eastern shore of Fra’toolar. He’s expecting a ship to rendezvous with his team there, near the tip of the Cape of Mekt.”

“Very good,” said Keenir. “Whom do I see about getting this job?”

“The sailing voyage is part of the Geological Survey of Land. That comes under the authority of Wab-Novato, director of the exodus.”

“Novato? I’m certain to get the job, then, I daresay.”

Afsan clicked his teeth. “No doubt,” and then, in a moment of sudden exuberance, he stepped closer to the old mariner. “By the very fangs of God, Keenir, it’s good to be with you again!”

Toroca had learned to fake the appropriate responses. It was expected behavior, and he had quickly discovered that life was so much easier if one responded as expected. He couldn’t remember the last time his claws had distended of their own accord, but, when the situation warranted, he could force them from their sheaths, force the tapered yellow-white points out into the light of day, force himself to look like a hunter, a killer.

But he was neither of those things. Oh, he had gone on his first ritual hunt — and had been amazed at the bloodiness of the affair, the viciousness of the others in his pack — for to be an adult who did not bear the hunter’s tattoo over his left earhole would mean he would be shunned by society, reduced to a life of begging.

He didn’t want that.

But he didn’t want to ever again taste blood that was still warm, either. One hunt had been enough.

Toroca had seen the abandoned stone buildings near the edge of the towering brown cliffs when they’d first arrived here, and his team hiked all the way up to them for shelter when storms made it impossible to camp out on the beach. Today, though, the weather was fine. Toroca and Babnol had simply come up to the old buildings to fetch the equipment they had stored there, as they prepared for the rendezvous with the sailing ship that would take them to the south pole.

The buildings were made out of stone blocks. Doubtless the walls had originally been straight, but over the kilodays landquakes or other forces had caused them to bulge here, to buckle there. Some of the walls had faint paintings on them, primitive in style, showing Quintaglios solely in profile, backs held halfway between horizontal and vertical, two arms dangling down, looking like they were mounted on the body one atop the other — the attempt at perspective was crude, and the “upper” arm was always in exactly the same position as the “lower” one. Tails were long and impossibly straight, and faces showed one black Quintaglio eye staring out from the side of the head, instead of facing forward. Toroca noted that the Quintaglios in the frescoes were wearing broad belts, but no sashes. He wondered how old the paintings were.

A guttural scream split the air.

Toroca and Babnol ran for the doorway of the building they’d been in, and came out into the light of day. Toroca scanned all around, looking for the source of the sound, but…

“There!” shouted Babnol.

Toroca wheeled. Off toward the north, a group of Quintaglio hunters had descended on a hornface. The four-footed beast had its head tipped low, the massive frill of bone at the back of its skull rising up like a shield, the two horns above the eyes thrusting out like lances, the shorter, slightly curved horn above the nose sticking proudly up.

The animal screamed again as a mid-sized Quintaglio female leapt onto its back and, holding on to the edge of the neck frill for balance, dug her jaws into the bunching muscles of the shoulder. The ground was now slick with blood.

The hunters made short work of the hornface. In a matter of moments, it was dead, the corpse teetering for a moment, then falling onto its left side with a great leathery slapping sound.

It was wise to wait until hunters were satiated before approaching them. Toroca and Babnol did just that, watching long muzzles scoop out great hunks of meat. A flock of wingfingers circled over the kill. They, too, were waiting. Once the hunters had begun to collapse onto their bellies, Toroca moved out of the doorway and ambled over to them. “Permission to enter your territory?” he called out.

An elderly female looked up. “
Hahat dan
,” she replied. “But, you are right — this is indeed our territory. What are you doing here?”

Toroca stopped well short of the site of the kill and bowed. “I am Kee-Toroca,” he said. “Leader of the Geological Survey of Land.”

The female gestured to her hunting partners. “Get up, friends. We have an imperial emissary amongst us.” The others staggered to their feet, then leaned back on their tails for balance. “I’m Fas-Jodor,” she said, “and these are the best hunters of Pack Derrilo.”

“Greetings,” said Toroca. He indicated Babnol. “This is Wab-Babnol, a trader in fossils.”

“You’ll have to collect old Jodor before you go,” said one of the hunters, and the others clicked teeth at the jest. Babnol nodded good-naturedly.

“Pack Derrilo is returning to this area,” said Jodor.

“This is part of your normal range?” said Toroca.

“It is, and of Packs Horbo and Quebelmo. Horbo vacated here about five kilodays ago, heading west along the bottom of the Cape of Mekt, then back up the west side. We’ve been working our way down the east side from the north.” Packs roamed, moving from place to place, lest an area be overhunted. It was not unusual for ancient settlements such as this one to play host to several Packs in rotation, with long periods of vacancy in between. “The hunting had gotten quite sparse by the time Pack Horbo cleared out,” said Jodor. “But, as you can see, things seem to have improved in the interim.” She slapped her belly.

Toroca nodded. It was normal ritual for a hunting party to precede the caravans with the rest of the Pack’s people and goods, and for the hunters to consecrate the ground with a traditional kill as a way of reclaiming the vacant territory.

“We’re just leaving ourselves,” said Toroca, “by sailing ship.”

“Surely you’ll stay until the rest of our Pack arrives,” said Jodor. “They’d like to see people from the Capital.”

“We’d enjoy that, but I’m afraid we’re on a tight schedule. We have a rendezvous to make on a specific date.”

Jodor nodded. “Unfortunate. But walk with me now, Toroca. There’s one more ritual I have to perform. Babnol, you can join us, or partake of some of the kill, whichever you prefer.”

Babnol looked at the hornface carcass. “Thank you, no. That particular kind is not to my taste. I’ll walk with you.”

Jodor began walking, and Babnol and Toroca, spread out in a line with five paces between each of them, followed.

” ’Geological Survey,’ ” said Jodor. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

“Geology is the study of the history and structure of our world,” said Toroca.

“Hmm,” said Jodor. “Seems a rather frivolous task, if you don’t mind me saying so. I thought all scientific efforts were being bent toward the exodus.”

“Oh, this survey is indeed in support of getting us off this moon,” Toroca said. “I report directly to Wab-Novato, leader of that effort. Our goal is to find and catalog all the resources that Land — and indeed this entire world — has to offer. We have to know exactly what’s available to work with.”

“Ah,” said Jodor. “That makes sense. So you’re strictly looking for minerals — coal, metals, and the like.”

They were getting close to the edge of the cliff now. “Well, that’s the main task, but while we’re at it, we’re indulging our curiosity in other matters. I’m particularly interested in fossils myself.”