Foreigner (23 page)

She looked down again.

Her blood ran cold.

The tower, this marvelous tower to the stars, now appeared to be bowing out as if it were about to fold over and break in half. She’d thought at first that it was an optical illusion: the curving horizon line made it difficult to tell by sight if the tower was truly straight, but as the bowing became more pronounced, there could be no mistake.

She’d known what her daughter Karshirl had said: the tower was unstable. There was no way for something so tall and so narrow to stand without buckling, and yet she’d been fool enough to think that whatever magic had held it against its own weight so far would continue to keep it erect for the duration of her voyage.

Her first thought was that she was going to die, plummeting back to the ground at a dizzying speed. Her second thought was that hundreds of people would die when giant pieces of the tower fell out of the sky.

She felt herself slowly being pushed up toward the ceiling. She saw now that the tower was bowing the other way farther down, as if it were a great blue snake, undulating its way to the stars. After a time, she began drifting toward the floor again.

And then Novato realized what was happening.

Erupting volcanoes in Edz’toolar, the province next to Fra’toolar, where the tower was anchored.

Landquake.

What she was seeing was the rippling of the landquake being transferred up the structure of the tower. The first wave had yet to reach her. She could see another huge wave rolling up behind it, the tower bowing first to the east then to the west like a string plucked by a giant’s hand. In addition, the tower was moving up and down in longitudinal compression waves.

But something else was happening. White gas was shooting out of the copper cones that projected from every fifth strut up the tower’s length. She’d seen little puffs shoot out from time to time during her ascent, but these were massive exhalations, geysers against the night.

Novato saw a dent appear in the crest of the wave that was hurtling toward her, saw the tower material bow inward, moving in the opposite direction of the gas plume, saw the one giant wave become two smaller ones, with lesser crests and shorter lengths. And then it happened again, slowly, majestically, the waves splitting once more into new waves half as long and half as tall. When the disturbance did reach her, the lifeboat simply rose and fell gently, like a sailing ship rolling on a swell.

The waves continued to dampen out. Soon, the jets of white fog coming from the copper cones became smaller and less frequent.

And it hit her, all at once: how the tower had remained standing, and what those occasional puffs of gas she’d seen venting from ihe cones had meant.

When the tower began leaning to the left, compressed gas nudged it to the right. When it began to topple to the right, a jet of air pushed it to the left. Along its whole length, the tower was constantly adjusting its orientation. Karshirl had been correct: no normal structure as long and thin as this one could stand. Like the mythical Tower of Howlee, it would buckle, regardless of the strength of the building material. But that had assumed that the tower was passive — and this tower was not. It was — the thought was incredible — it was alive, in a very real sense, constantly detecting shifts in its attitude and compensating for them with jets of air. Even the giant shifts caused by a landquake rippling up its length were dampened by this process.

Whoever had built the ancient blue ark had been incredibly advanced. They had plied the distance between stars, something Novato was only beginning to comprehend the difficulty of doing. They had created the strange and wonderful dust that had built this massive tower, an object longer than the world was wide. Nor was it any ordinary object; it was smart, reacting to changes in conditions.

And yet, whoever the ark-makers were, they, too, had failed. One of their arks had crashed, the crew killed, its cargo of lifeforms never released. If something could defeat the ark-makers, what chance did Quintaglios have against the fate that awaited them?

Novato hugged her arms to her body and tucked her tail between her legs. She settled slowly to the floor, afraid.

The
Dasheter
continued to race back toward Land, the armada of Other ships in hot pursuit. The Face of God was already half submerged below the waves. Right now, the sun was touching one horizon, and the Face, completely full, was sitting on the other. Toroca, standing on deck, cast a long shadow away from the sun, but the shadow itself was partially filled in by the soft ocher light reflecting from the Face.

Captain Keenir approached Toroca from up ahead. Even though he knew Toroca was free of territorial feeling, Keenir couldn’t overcome the ingrained protocols: whenever possible, approach from the front rather than behind.

“Beautiful sunset,” said Keenir, stopping ten paces shy of the younger Quintaglio.

Toroca nodded. “That it is.”

Keenir leaned against the gunwale. “You know,” said the captain, his gravelly voice carrying an unusual tone of reflection, “I’ve been lucky. I’m eighty-three, a lot older than I have any right to be. I’ve probably seen more sunsets from aboard a ship than any other Quintaglio alive.” He gestured at the thin line of cloud, stained dark purple against the purplish-red sky, and at the swollen egg of the sun. “Even so, I never get tired of looking at them.”

They watched the sun slip below the waves. Almost at once, the sky began to darken. Toroca turned to face Keenir. “Did you want to see me about something?”

“Yes,” said Keenir, the standard gruffness returning to his voice. “The Other infant.”

“Taksan,” said Toroca.

“You’ve named it?” said Keenir, surprised.

“Of course. And he’s a him, not an it. There is no creche master around; who else would name him?”

“I suppose,” said Keenir. Then: “What are you going to do with him?”

“What do you mean?”

Keenir exhaled noisily, as if he felt Toroca was being dense. “I mean, good Toroca, we are at war with his people. Surely the child should be disposed of.”

“What?” said Toroca, shocked.

“You made a good start when you got rid of the other two,” said Keenir. “After all, taking prisoners isn’t normal procedure.”

“There are no ’normal procedures,’” said Toroca. “There has never been a war like this.”

“No, no. But in the ancient territorial conflicts, before the time of Dasan, prisoners were never taken. I mean, you can’t put a bunch of Quintaglios into a cell together; they’d kill each other.”

“Taksan is not a Quintaglio; his race is not territorial.”

“I know that,” said Keenir, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “Still, we have no facilities on this ship for holding a prisoner…”

“Stop calling him that,” said Toroca. “He is not a prisoner.”

“Well, use whatever term you want. But he is one of the enemy, and has no place aboard this ship.”

“What would you have me do, Keenir?”

“I don’t know,” said the captain, scratching the underside of his jaw. “Toss him overboard, I suppose.”

“
What?
Keenir, you can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. Look, you’ve had to keep him in your lab as is. No one else has even seen him. But you can’t keep him there indefinitely. And soon enough one of my crew is going to by eyes on him. Whether the sight of an infant Other will be enough to trigger
dagamant
I don’t know, but we can’t risk it in the close confines of a sailing ship. I won’t have the
Dasheter
become another
Galadoreter
.”

“But Taksan — Taksan is my…”

“Your what?” said Keenir.

“Nothing. You can’t make me get rid of him.”

“You may direct the Geological Survey, Toroca, but
I
am captain of the
Dasheter
, I can allow nothing to put my ship or crew at risk.” Keenir turned his back and looked out over the waves.

Toroca’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I will not harm Taksan. If you try to do so, or allow anyone else to, I will kill you.”

Keenir clicked his teeth. “Oh, come on, Toroca. Be serious.”

Toroca raised his hands to show that his claws were unsheathed. “I am being serious, Keenir. I shall kill anyone who harms Taksan.”

Var-Osfik was the Arbiter of the Sequence, the person responsible for keeping Quintaglio knowledge in order. Osfik was a fussy old thing, but lately she’d had to make a lot of changes. Astrology, for instance, had originally come right after prophecy in the Sequence, since both dealt with the revelation of hidden truths. But after Afsan’s discovery about the Face of God, Osfik moved astrology to in between physics, which dealt with the way things work, and geology, the study of the world, thus making astrology the study of the way the worlds work. That had been a major move, and librarians across Land probably cursed her for it. Mokleb thought about this as she scratched the signaling plate — gold, befitting Osfik’s station — next to the arbiter’s door.

“Who is it?” came a gruff voice, muffled by the wood.

“Nav-Mokleb, undertaking business requested by the Emperor.”

“
Hahat dan
.”

Fortunately, Osfik was female; Mokleb’s pheromones would have less effect on her. Mokleb was amazed by how crowded the room was. Objects of all types covered the floor, tabletops, and shelves. On one wall were cases containing insects on pins, arranged from right to left in ascending order of beauty. On Osfik’s desk, an assortment of smith’s tools. Mokleb couldn’t discern any order to their sequence, unless — perhaps in ascending order of strength needed to wield them. On the floor, planks of wood from various trees, with a few set aside, apparently not yet fitted into the progression. The Sequence for wood was old and well established. That Osfik was mulling it over was a sign of the times: all knowledge was subject to reinterpretation these days.

“I’m a busy person,” said Osfik without preamble. “I’m sure you can appreciate that. Do me the courtesy, therefore, of dispensing with protocols. I accept that we have bowed at each other, that we’ve acknowledged how we cast shadows in each other’s presence, that you wouldn’t have bothered me if it wasn’t important, and so on. Now, quickly and precisely, Nav-Mokleb, what do you want?”

Mokleb felt off balance, as though someone had lifted her tail and she was tipping forward. Niceties were always observed; every encounter was an intricate social dance. She was not quite prepared for this, and, on the whole, she thought she didn’t like it. Nevertheless: “I’ve but one question, Osfik: is there such a thing as a purple wingfinger?”

Osfik looked up, nictitating membranes fluttering. “This is the Emperor’s business, you said?”

“Indirectly. His Luminance has asked me to treat a member of his staff. I’m a healer of sorts.”

“Oh. I know who you are, Mokleb. You’ve taken more than daytenths of my time, what with these books and tracts you’ve published. The study of the mind always fit neatly under philosophy before, but I could not see putting your works on the same shelf as those of Dolgar or Spooltar — no offense; quality is not the issue. Content is. You treat the study of the mind in a more medical matter.”

Mokleb was surprised that her work had attracted Osfik’s attention. “I don’t wish to add to the burden I’ve already created for you. I simply need to know whether there is any species of wingfinger with purple wings.”

“You’re in luck,” said Osfik. “I’ve got most of the books on wingfingers right here. Since Toroca discovered those unknown wingringer forms on the southern ice cap, I’ve been trying to fit them into the Sequence.” She snorted briefly. “He’s another who has made my life difficult. His evolutionary model has required a complete reordering of the sequence of life.”

Osfik rummaged around until she found a large, square book bound in leather. “Here it is.
The Wingfingers of Land
, a collection of paintings by Pal-Noltark.” She handed the heavy volume to Mokleb. “Have a look. It’s not a great book; Noltark ordered it by geographic region when properly wingfingers are arranged by increasing maximal adult wingspan. Still, he boasts to have painted every species. If a purple one exists, it’ll be in there.”

Mokleb began turning the stiff paper pages. There were more varieties of wingfinger than she’d ever imagined: some had pointy crests off the backs of their skulls, others did not, but all had wings supported on incredibly elongated fourth fingers, and all had fine hair covering most of their bodies. There were scarlet wingfingers, green wingfingers, copper wingfingers, white ones, black ones, ones with striped bodies and ones freckled with colored dots, but nowhere was there one that was purple. She closed the cover.

“Find what you were looking for?” asked Osfik.

“No — I mean, yes. I found that there is no such thing as a purple wingfinger.”

Osfik nodded. “I never saw a purple wingfinger,” she said, “and I never hope to see one, but I can tell you anyhow I’d rather see than be one.” Then the old arbiter clicked her teeth. “Say, that’s good. I should write that down.”

Mokleb thanked Osfik and left. The purple wingfinger was symbolic, obviously, of something that was troubling Afsan. But what? The sky was purple, of course, and some kinds of flowers were purple, too. Some shovelmouths and thunderbeasts had purple markings on their hides. The blue-black pigment used in hunting tattoos could look purple in certain light.

And what about wingfingers? Flying reptiles, they came in all sizes. They laid eggs. Some ate insects, some ate lizards, many kinds ate fish, and many more fed on carrion.

Purple.

Wingfinger.

Mokleb shook her head.

Novato had dreamed of flying before. Indeed, after a ride in one of her gliders, she often found herself feeling as though she were still soaring. But that sensation of flight had always been accompanied by a feeling of forward motion, of slicing through the air. Now, well, it was simply as if she were hovering, floating, a cloud.