Foreigner (16 page)

“Ah, I see: the tower, of course, will lean toward the lowest corner, even if only very slightly.”

“Right. And when the tower does lean, that makes the lowest corner even lower, and the tower will lean some more, and on and on until the whole thing is leaning over like a tree in a storm — no matter how strong the building material is.”

“So the tower can’t be thirteen thousand kilopaces high,” said Novato.

“That’s right. Indeed, it can’t be anywhere near that high.”

Novato leaned back on her tail. “Obviously the pyramidal base gives the tower some stability, but the actual tower itself is only fourteen paces wide. How high could a tower that wide be?”

“Oh, I’m no Afsan,” said Karshirl. “I’d need to sit down with ink and writing leather to figure that out.”

“Roughly, though. How high? Remember, this tower extends well above the clouds.”

“And how high up are the clouds?” asked Karshirl.

“Oh, it varies. Say ten kilopaces. Could a tower fourteen paces wide be even that tall without collapsing in the manner you’ve described?”

Karshirl was silent for a time. “Ah, well, um, probably not,” she said at last.

Novato nodded. “So some other factor is at work here.” She gestured at the vast blue pyramid and the narrow four-sided tower thrusting up from its apex toward the vault of heaven. “Somehow, impossible as it seems, this tower does stand.”

No one normally sat in the
Dasheter
’s lookout bucket when the ship was at rest. Still, even when just walking the decks, old Mar-Biltog couldn’t keep himself from occasionally scanning the horizon, so it was no surprise that he was the first to catch sight of them. He thumped the deck with his tail. The fools! Toroca said he’d warned them! Cupping his muzzle with his hands, Biltog shouted, “Boats approaching!”

Toroca, who happened to be passing fairly near, ran as fast as he could with his healing leg to the railing around the
Dasheter
’s edge. Biltog had already made his way across the little bridge that joined the Dasheter’s forehull to its aft, and Toroca could hear his now-distant voice shouting again, “Boats approaching!”

And so they were: two long, orange boats. Typical Other designs. The lead boat contained five Others, each operating a pair of oars. They were packed in more tightly than Quintaglios could ever manage. The rear boat was too far away for Toroca to count its occupants, but it was likely a similar number.

In response to Biltog’s calls, Quintaglios were coming up the ramps onto the top deck. That was the worst thing that could happen. “No!” shouted Toroca. “Go below! Stay below!”

Babnol was emerging about ten paces away. Toroca pointed at her. “Get everyone below!” “What’s happening?” she said. “Get everyone below now! Others are coming!” Babnol reacted immediately, turning tail and heading back down the ramp. Toroca heard her entreating sailors to go to their cabins.

Toroca hurried toward the ropes that led up to the lookout’s bucket. He began to climb. When he got four body-lengths up, where he was sure the Others could see him, he waved his arm widely. “Go back!” he shouted in the Other tongue. “Stay away!”

The
Dasheter
’s sails were furled, so he didn’t have to compete with their snapping, but the wind was in his face, stealing his words. “Go back!” he shouted again, and then, more plaintively, “Please! Please go back!”

The orange boats sliced through the water, approaching fast. Toroca thought about ordering the
Dasheter
’s sails unfurled, for rowboats were no match for a sailing ship, but by the time the ropes could be untied and the red leather sheets had billowed out, the Others’ boats would have already arrived.

Toroca stopped waving. Even if they couldn’t hear him, they could surely see him. He made go-away gestures with his left hand. He hoped the sign of pushing away was universal, but in his lessons with Jawn such things had never come up. “Go back!” he shouted again in the Other language.

It was no use. He looked down toward the deck and saw three red leather caps. “Get below,” he shouted. “For God’s sake, get below.”

The crewmembers were tarrying. They were curious about the Others, and perhaps doubted the stories of the effect the Others’ appearance would have on them. Still, respect for Toroca ran deep, and two of the three heeded his words, heading below. The third, farther away, perhaps couldn’t hear the order.

The nearer of the orange boats had now pulled up beside the
Dasheter
. From Toroca’s vantage point, he couldn’t see it at all, since the raised sides of his ship blocked it from view. He scurried down the ropes, getting a nasty burn on his right hand in doing so, and hurried toward the gunwale.

Below was Morb, the Others’ security chief, his black armbands stark against his yellow limbs. He was waving up at Toroca, and had his mouth open in that way that the Others considered to be friendly. “Go back!” shouted Toroca in the Other language. “Go back!”

Morb made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Nonsense!” he shouted up from the waves. “You have been out to visit us. It is time we did the same!”

Morb’s boat was bobbing on the waves alongside one of the
Dasheter
’s own shore boats; they’d been used for fishing while the
Dasheter
waited for Toroca. Morb had his hands on the rope ladder used to access these boats, a ladder that led up to the
Dasheter
’s foredeck.

“It is not safe!” shouted Toroca.

Morb’s tone was a bit sharper. “It is wrong for you to know all about us with us knowing almost nothing about you. I am coming aboard!” The Other began climbing. Toroca was near panic. In desperation, he brought his jaws down on the rope ends that tied the ladder to the gunwale. The rope was tougher than he’d expected. Some of his looser teeth popped out. He smashed his jaws together again, and this time did sever one of the two heavy lines. But Morb was already most of the way to the top.

Suddenly a green arm shot out from the
Dasheter’
s side, gripping Morb’s ankle. Toroca leaned over the gunwale and saw an open porthole on the deck immediately below. Someone had been watching through a window, had seen this Other as he passed by.

Morb twisted as the ladder, anchored now by only a single rope, swung madly to the left. He smashed his other foot down on the arm grabbing his ankle. Whoever was holding on screamed and let go. Morb took hold of the
Dasheter
’s gunwale just as Toroca brought his jaws together on the remaining rope anchoring the ladder. As before, two massive bites would be needed to sever the braided cord, but before Toroca could get his second bite in, Morb had hauled himself over the railing and was standing on the deck of the
Dasheter
.

Suddenly old Biltog appeared at the top of the ramp, his right arm bloodied and hanging limply at his side, but the rest of his body moving up and down, up and down, bobbing in full
dagamant
.

Toroca shouted, “Into the water, Morb! For your own safety, jump into the water.”

Morb stared at Biltog for a moment, the murderous fury in the old sailor’s expression obvious to Toroca but apparently less clear to the Other. “What is wrong?” asked Morb.

Toroca caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Something had sailed over the rear hull of the
Dasheter
. Ropes, metal hooks. The Others in the second boat had brought their own climbing equipment. Their ropes were pulled tight, and the hooks caught in the railing around the ship’s edge.

What to do? Push Morb over the side? Try to draw Biltog’s attention away from the Other? Or run to the rear of the
Dasheter
and try to dislodge the Others’ rope ladder before more boarded the ship?

And then, all at once…

Biltog charged…

Morb ran across the deck…

An Other appeared at the top of the ladder on the
Dasheter’
s rear hull…

And one more Other appeared at the top of the rope ladder adjacent to Toroca, anchored at only one side, half-severed but still holding.

Captain Keenir emerged at the mouth of another access ramp — too proud, too stubborn, too foolish to not try to intervene in what was happening…

Biltog intercepted Morb, leaping through the air, jaws split wide, landing on the Other’s back, the two of them smashing into the deck hard enough to rock the ship, Biltog’s jaws tearing into the Other’s spinal cord … Keenir caught sight of the Other at the top of the ladder near Toroca. The Other’s face was wide with terror and he quickly reversed himself, scrambling over the gunwale and grabbing at the damaged rope ladder. Keenir’s footfalls echoed like thunder. “Captain, no!” shouted Toroca, but Keenir was too deep in the bloodlust to heed any words.

The Other on the rope ladder was having a hard time getting down. The rope twisted and…

It snapped!

The Other and the rope ladder went crashing toward the waves.

Keenir, not to be deterred, leapt over the railing, diving down toward the water.

The Other below was flailing about, trying to make it to the orange boat.

Keenir sliced into the water. Toroca, gripping the railing, hoped that the impact would be enough to break the old mariner out of
dagamant
, but soon he was on the surface again, his muscular tail propelling him through the waves. Within moments he was upon the swimming Other, jaws digging into the Other’s neck, tearing it open. The water turned red.

Toroca pivoted and saw Biltog, his muzzle covered in blood, still bobbing up and down. The sailor began running toward Toroca, toeclaws splintering the wooden deck.

Biltog was substantially older than Toroca, much too strong for Toroca to fight. Toroca looked left and right, but he was trapped against the railing; Biltog could alter his course to intercept him no matter which way he decided to run. But suddenly Biltog was airborne, a giant leap pushing him up off the deck. It turned out that he wasn’t after Toroca, but rather had decided to join his captain. Biltog sailed over the edge of the ship, his red cap flying off, the tip of his tail slapping into Toroca’s head as it passed him. Toroca swung around. Biltog was in the water now, swimming toward the orange boat, which was trying to escape, the three remaining Others aboard it rowing with all their might.

Biltog chomped through an oar and then, grabbing the little boat’s side and pulling hard, he capsized the ship, tossing its occupants into the water.

Suddenly a large red stain began spreading across the waves. Keenir was out of sight; he must have come up on one of the Others from underneath, jaws tearing into its body. Biltog had another’s tail in his mouth. His jaws worked, muscles bulging, and the tail sheared off.

Pounding on the deck behind him.

Toroca swung around…

A ball of limbs and tails, some green, some yellow, locked in mortal combat. More Quintaglios had come up from below.

Toroca watched, helpless to intervene. Sounds of splitting bone and smashing teeth filled the air, punctuated by screams from both Others and Quintaglios.

He thought again of the story of the Galadoreter, blown aimlessly by the wind, its decks covered with the dead …

“Toroca!”

Deep, gravelly — Keenir’s voice, from over the side. Toroca looked over the edge. “Are you all right, Captain?”

Keenir was moving up and down, but with the bobbing of the waves, not in territorial display. “They’re all dead down here,” he called, his tone aghast.

Biltog was floating next to him in the red water. And next to the two of them, five yellow carcasses bobbed up and down, in death returning the challenge.

“Stay down there!” Toroca shouted. “It’ll be safer!”

Behind him, the battle raged on, the planks of the deck slick with blood.

Looking over the gunwale, Toroca saw the second orange boat, off in the distance. Only two of its crew were still aboard, but they were already a good part of the way back to their island, where doubtless they’d report that their eight comrades had been torn limb from limb by the strange green visitors.

Toroca wondered if the Others had a word for war.

An endless beach of sand, spreading to every horizon. No waves were visible, but their pounding against the shore formed a constant background, a steady, rhythmic pulse like the beating of many hearts.

Lying on the sand were several large broken eggshells. Each egg had opened and was cracked roughly in half. The halves were all sitting in the sand, rounded ends down, like beige bowls. Afsan walked over to the nearest shell half and looked inside. The edge was clearly visible, with a fringe of shell fragments still adhering to a tough white membrane. He couldn’t quite make out what was inside, though. He tipped forward from the waist, his tail lifting from the ground, and picked up the egg, cradling it in both hands. It was surprisingly heavy.

He tipped back, letting his weight rest on his tail, and looked down into the egg.

It was full of thick, dark liquid, bowing upward slightly into a meniscus. He rocked the egg gently back and forth, watching the liquid move inside the shell.

And then it hit him.

Blood.

The liquid was blood.

Afsan’s claws leapt out in alarm, piercing the eggshell in ten places.

Blood flowed onto Afsan’s hands.

He should have thrown the shell aside, but somehow he couldn’t, not until the dark red liquid had completely drained through the holes. He felt it begin to crust along the edges of his fingers, along the backs of his hands.

At last the egg was empty. He put the fragment back down on the sand.

He knew he shouldn’t look, but he had to. He moved a few paces over, found the next egg half, prodded it with his middle toeclaw. The egg tipped over, blood pouring out onto the ground.

Afsan’s heart was racing. He hurried over to another bowl-shaped egg half. It, too, was filled with crimson blood. He ran across the sands to a fourth egg-bowl. This one was so full that the vibrations caused by Afsan’s movement made blood slosh over the ragged edges.