Fossil Hunter (15 page)

Six fingers.

And yet — perhaps the user of this device had been like her: different from most. A facial horn; a sixth finger. Did one or the other make you lack goodness?

Of course not.

But this was an ancient artifact, dating from the very beginning of life.

Things do occasionally hatch from eggs that are so horrible, so deformed, that the bloodpriests dispatch them immediately, without waiting for the formal culling.

There were no bloodpriests at the beginning, none until God bit off Her own arms, and Mekt formed from one of Her fingers.

So a horrible thing that hatched from one of the eggs of creation wouldn’t have been dispatched, since there was no one to do the dispatching.

She turned the device over in her hands.

It lacked goodness. She was convinced of that.

It had been dead and buried for thousands of kilodays, sealed in a tomb of solid rock. It was only by sheer accident that Toroca had released it.

Time, now, to correct that.

She walked over to the porthole, felt the chill wind on her muzzle, heard the slapping of waves against the hull, the snapping of sails, the calls of distant wingfingers.

Toroca would hate her for this.

But she was only thinking of him, of his safety, of his soul.

She tossed the object out the porthole. It hit the gray waves with a splash and sank immediately from sight, gone forevermore.

Arj’toolar, in northwestern Land, is a province known for its sheltered ports and hospitable inns, its metalworkers who turn copper and brass into complex instruments, its weavers who make fishing nets used throughout the world, its large holy sector, and its vast herds of orange-and-blue-striped shovelmouths, a peculiar breed with meat considered the tastiest of all.

Its governor was Len-Haktood, a hoary fellow who had survived to old age despite his quick temper only because his office shielded him from the kinds of attacks such a temper would normally engender. He was a meaner, pettier version of his sister, the late empress Len-Lends. Apprenticed to Haktood was Kroy, sister of the current Emperor, Dybo.

Haktood looked out the window. An ugly mob had gathered outside — fully ten people, standing far too close to each other. They were chanting slogans: “Truth in government!” “No special deals!” “A rightful leader for the people!” Five burly imperial guards, sent by Dybo, stood mutely along the far wall of Haktood’s office.

Haktood summoned Kroy, who did indeed look a lot like Dybo, although she lacked his plumpness, and handed her the scroll that the imperial guards had brought with them.

Kroy saw that the seal on the scroll was that of the Emperor. It had already been broken. She unfurled the leather sheet. At the top was Dybo’s cartouche, tooled in exquisite detail. Beneath it in bold, black glyphs, was a memorandum:

Kroy looked up. “Who does Dybo think he is, summoning me this way?”

Haktood was terse. “He thinks he is the Emperor. And he is correct — at least for the time being.”

“Surely you will decline.”

Haktood looked out the window. “I haven’t the power to do that.”

“But you’re a provincial governor!”

“There are forces at work greater than any authority I might have. The people are demanding this.”

“Someday, I will be governor of this province,” said Kroy.

Haktood’s tone was sly. “But why be content with governing a single province when you could be Emperor of all of Land?”

“No. I won’t go. Let the other apprentice governors play this foolish game. I’ll stay here.”

“I am your master, Kroy. I am governor of Arj’toolar; you are simply my apprentice. You will do as I say.”

“But to replay the culling. What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. But you are strong; whatever the test, I’m sure you will be the victor.”

“I am strong,” said Kroy, “but you, Haktood, you are weak. You urge me to go to the Capital solely so that Arj’toolar will be seen to have dealt with the scandal of the imperial children. You divert attention from yourself, for you, as much as me, are the product of the bloodpriests’ deception. Your right to be alive is as questionable as my own.”

“I have earned the respect of the people, Kroy. You are still an apprentice; you have earned nothing.”

Kroy bared her fangs at Haktood. “Pray that I do not win. Under normal circumstances, an apprentice, such as myself, would have had no power until you passed on. But if I become Emperor, I shall be your superior, Haktood. Our positions will be reversed; I will be the master — not just of you, but of all of Land. You will regret not supporting me now, that I promise you.”

From outside came the cries of the mob.

“You’ll have a one-in-eight chance, Kroy. Do you fancy your odds are better against that mob?”

The lead imperial guard stepped forward. “I will guarantee your safe passage to the Capital.”

Kroy looked the burly fellow up and down. “And what about my safety once I’m there?” The guard was silent.

Special cold-weather clothing had been made for the sailors. Toroca wasn’t used to wearing any clothing, except his sash, and the concept of garments that would cover him almost completely was not appealing.

The clothing was well-designed. Most of it was made out of an inner and outer layer of thick leather, stuffed in between with wingfinger hair. The jacket had a long hood that tied down around the muzzle, leaving only a slit for the eyes and a small opening at the tip for breathing.

The lower part consisted of three tubes, two open-ended ones for the legs and a third, tapered one, closed at the end for the tail. Getting the lower part on was awkward: Toroca seemed to always end up with one extremity left over that hadn’t made it into its appropriate tube, or else with it on backward so that the tail’s part faced off the front.

Once the two parts — bottom and jacket — were on, the wearer then tied on a thick, padded waistband, lined right around with pockets. The waistband protected the parts that would otherwise become exposed when tipping over caused the jacket to separate from the bottom. There were also thick boots of thunderbeast leather, lined inside with wingfinger hair, and silly things that weren’t quite gloves, since all the fingers save the thumb went into the same amorphous, hair-lined pocket.

The problem, of course, was that these costumes were almost too efficient to test. During the early part of the voyage, Toroca could stand wearing his complete snowsuit for only a few centidays before he began to overheat, his dewlap waggling. But soon he would be glad to have such warm clothing. Very soon.

Toroca watched Babnol constantly, his eyes following the way she moved, the way she gestured, the way she leaned back on her tail, the way her muzzle crinkled when she was amused, the way her eyes narrowed to slits when she was concentrating. The way she breathed. The way she existed.

He longed to reach out, to touch her, to feel the tough texture of her skin, the tiny bumps of her tattoos, the warmth of her flesh. Every time she stepped back from him, opening a territorial buffer between them, it hurt.

The sun sat low on the horizon. It never rose far here in the southern latitudes. A day was brief enough as it was; that the sun never reached the zenith, so that long shadows were cast even at noon, was downright depressing.

It really wasn’t that cold, Toroca realized. Var-Osfik, the Arbiter of the Sequence, had recently approved a new scale of temperature, devised by one of the contemplatives of the holy land of Arj’toolar. On it, the freezing and boiling points of water were separated by one hundred degrees, and the freezing point was designated as zero. Keenir had an elaborate blown-glass tube, filled with colored liquid, that was supposed to indicate the temperature on this scale. No one knew how accurate it was, since it had obviously never been tested at temperatures much below ten degrees — the coldest it normally got even at night on Land. Here it was indicating about twelve degrees below zero at noon, and temperatures of perhaps twenty below at night. (It was hard to get a good reading at night, since the device couldn’t be read in the dark, and the colored liquid began to rise as soon as one brought a lamp flame close to it.) Cold, yes, but not so cold as Toroca had feared. In fact, he was getting quite used to the bracing nature of the air here, and even found it invigorating at times.

Still, the darkness was dispiriting. Toroca understood why the sun never seemed to rise very high in the sky, but that didn’t make it any less dreary. More and more people had taken to being up on deck at noon, to enjoy what little brightness and warmth there was. Conditions were crowded, but everyone strove to keep the mood light. Toward that end, the noontime swapping of jokes on the
Dasheter
’s foredeck had quickly become a tradition. Since people’s teeth were often chattering from the cold anyway, every joke, even the lamest, got a good reception.

“That’s awful,” groaned Toroca in good humor to Biltog, a ship’s mate who had known his father. Biltog had just told the old groaner about the traveling doctor and the shovelmouth, which somehow Toroca had avoided hearing — mercifully, many would say — until now.

Surveyor Bar-Delplas was making a face. “Now, listen to a real joke, Biltog,” she said. She saw Babnol coming toward them. “Hey, Babnol!” she called. “What do you call a hornface that’s had too much to eat?”

Babnol looked in her direction briefly, but continued on without a word.

“What’s with her?” Delplas asked Toroca.

“You swished your tail right into it, I’m afraid,” said Toroca. “Babnol doesn’t like the word ’hornface.’ “

“Why not?”

Toroca tilted his head in the direction of the departing Babnol. “They called her that when she was a child.”

Delplas shrugged, then went on with her joke. But Toroca paid no attention to the punch line, and instead stared after Babnol, all glee gone from him.

“Land ho!”

The shout went up from Biltog, once again up in the lookout bucket.

Except it wasn’t land that was ho. Toroca, Keenir, Babnol, and many others hurried up onto the
Dasheter’
s foredeck. Biltog’s greater elevation gave him a substantial advantage; it took some time for what he’d spotted to come into view.

For dekadays, the horizon had been nothing but gray water touching mauve sky. But at last there was a line, a bright white line, scintillating in the blazing sun.

As the
Dasheter
sailed closer, the line expanded into cliffs of bluish-white ice and hard-packed snow. Fissures cut through the ice at places, showing a cool blue interior.

Toroca watched in amazement as a great wall of ice fell away into the water, splashing up giant waves. As they came closer, he could see cracked sheets of ice jostling together along the rim of the solid snow-packed ice cap. He’d had no ideas what he might find here that could be useful for the exodus project, but, at first assessment, it looked like nothing at all was here except ice and snow.

Keenir wouldn’t bring the
Dasheter
any closer, lest one of the floating pieces of ice pierce its hull. Unfortunately the water here was too deep for the anchor. They sailed along, parallel to the ice edge, searching.

But then Keenir, who had been scanning the ice with his far-seer, motioned for Toroca to come close. He handed him the instrument. The brass tube was bitterly cold; Toroca was indeed thankful now for the strange handgear he’d been given to wear. He rotated the tube to bring the image into focus, then staggered back on his tail.

Something was moving around on the ice.