Fossil Hunter (29 page)

“He speaks fondly of all his children,” said Toroca.

Drawtood looked at the floor. “I’m sure he does.”

Toroca couldn’t determine its cause, but there seemed to be a melancholy air about his brother. “Are you well, Drawtood?” he asked at last.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“And — happy?” Toroca surprised himself with the question.

“I have my job. I have this little place to live in. Why should I not be happy?”

“I don’t mean to pry,” said Toroca. “It’s just that I worry about you.”

“And I about you, brother.”

Toroca was taken aback. “You do?”

“Of course. Your job takes you far away, to dangerous places.”

Toroca looked out the window. “I suppose that’s true.” A beat, then: “What’s new since the last time we met, Drawtood?”

“New with me? Nothing is ever new with me. You’re the one who leads the interesting life.” There was no trace of malice, or any emotion, in Drawtood’s tone. “You tell me what’s new with you.”

Toroca opened his mouth, but then, after a few moments, closed it without saying a word. What could he talk to Drawtood about? Superposition? Fossils? The strange lifeforms of the south polar cap? His new theory of evolution? Drawtood didn’t have the schooling to appreciate any of those topics. Finally: “I’ve made a new friend.”

This did seem to interest Drawtood. “Yes?”

“A female. Her name is Wab-Babnol. We work together.”

” ’Babnol.’ An unusual name. It means ’loner,’ doesn’t it?”

Toroca was surprised. “Does it? I’ve never encountered the name before.”

“Yes, I’m sure — ’loner.’ Or maybe outcast. Funny name for the creche masters to have given her.”

“In a way,” said Toroca, “it’s fitting.”

Drawtood nodded politely, not understanding.

“You’d like her,” said Toroca.

“I’m sure I would,” replied Drawtood. “How old is she?”

Toroca felt a slight tinge of embarrassment. “Eighteen kilodays.”

Drawtood clicked his teeth. He understood the significance of the figure. “I see.”

Toroca thought to feign shock, to take mock offense at the innuendo, but then, after a moment, he clicked his teeth also. “You know me well, Drawtood.”

The dockworker nodded. “Of course,” he said simply. “We’re brothers.”

Toroca hadn’t seen Babnol for several days. At last, though, he caught sight of her on the grounds of the palace. He jogged over to catch up with her, the late afternoon sun beating down from above. The grass here in the courtyard was kept short by a couple of armorbacks that roamed freely within its confines.

“Babnol!” called Toroca.

She looked up, but the expression on her face was not the one Toroca had hoped to see. “Greetings,” she said softly.

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” he said. “It’s as though you’ve been avoiding me.” He clicked his teeth to show the remark was intended as a jest.

“I’m sorry,” said Babnol. “Very sorry.”

“Well, it’s good to see you now,” said Toroca. “Are you packed? The
Dasheter
sets sail for Fra’toolar tomorrow.”

Babnol turned away and was quiet for several moments. Finally: “I can’t go back there with you.”

Toroca’s voice was full of concern. “Is something wrong?”

A hint of blue on Babnol’s muzzle. “It’s nothing.” She looked away. “Nothing at all.”

Toroca longed to move closer to her, to bridge the gap between them, but he stood fast. “It’s not because we’ll be searching for artifacts again, is it? I thought we now agreed on that…”

“It’s nothing to do with that, Toroca,” she said, and there was no hint of a blush this time. “It’s just … just something I prefer not to discuss.”

Toroca’s tail swished; he was slightly hurt. “Well,” he said, “if there’s anything I can do — you know I’m not completely without influence.”

She bowed slightly. “Indeed. But even Dy-Dybo himself — or whoever succeeds him in this mad challenge — couldn’t do anything about what’s troubling me, I’m afraid. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” No blue; Toroca relaxed somewhat. “It’s just that I have to be on my own for a bit.”

“Where are you going?”

A direct question. Babnol was silent for a few moments, then said, “I don’t know. Perhaps the Shanpin foothills.”

“The foothills! No Pack roams there; it’s all scorched ground and basalt.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ll be all alone.”

“That’s right, too.”

“I don’t understand,” said Toroca faintly.

“No,” she said after a few heartbeats. “No, I suppose you don’t.” She turned and walked away, tail swishing sadly.

When Afsan and Novato had first met, Novato had worked in a small room in the ruins of an ancient temple to the hunter Hoog. Although Var-Keenir and a few other mariners prized her far-seers, her work had largely been considered unimportant. Novato’s home Pack of Gelbo, in distant Fra’toolar, had tolerated her labors, for although her far-seers brought little in trade, the visits from mariners meant great ships came to the tiny port, making available goods that otherwise would have been rare.

Now, though, she lived in the Capital. Here she was director of the exodus, a minister of the throne, and confidante to the Emperor. Instead of one room, she had an entire building and the largest staff of any ministry, a staggering eighteen people.

When she’d become a member of Dybo’s court, Novato had been given a new cartouche. It was carved in intricate detail on the door to her workshop. The upper part showed a far-seer tube in profile. Beneath that was a diagram showing the truth about the universe, with Land a single continent on the far side of a moon of a giant planet that was covered with bands of cloud. And beneath that, a sailing ship, with double-diamond hulls, moving freely through space. A cartouche was normally carved with a raised oval lip around it, but for Novato’s the artist had left gaps in the border, indicating that Novato’s work was not constrained by the traditional borders of the world.

It was bad form to arrive at any confined area in a group. Such an intrusion might trigger the territorial reflex. Afsan therefore went up to Novato’s office door alone, scratched on the signaling plate, and was granted permission to enter.

“Greetings, Afsan,” said Novato, pushing off her dayslab to stand up.

“Hello, Novato.”

On her desk were sketches of wingfinger and insect wings. Little model wingfingers made of wood and bits of leather were everywhere; some seemed quite sophisticated, others, perhaps older attempts, were being used simply as paperweights. One wall was covered with intricate charcoal sketches of fossil birds. On tabletops around the office were mounted specimens and skeletons of the fauna Toroca had brought from the Antarctic.

Novato hurried to move a pile of books that had been sitting in the middle of the floor, lest Afsan trip over them. “What brings you here?” she said, her voice warm. “It’s always a pleasure, of course, but I didn’t expect you.”

Afsan’s tone was neutral, perhaps even timid. “I have a question to ask.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Cadool must join us.”

“Cadly is here, too?” “Cadly” was Novato’s nickname for Cadool. “Cadool” meant “hunter of runningbeasts,” but “Cadly” meant “long of leg,” something Cadool definitely was. “I’ve missed him. By all means, bring him in.”

Afsan went to the door and called for Cadool. A few moments later, he appeared.

“Cadly!” declared Novato.

Cadool nodded concession. “It is good to see you, Novato.”

“I’m so glad the two of you have come,” said Novato. “Coordinating the exodus keeps me very busy, I’m afraid. I’m sorry I haven’t called on either of you lately.”

“It is good to see you,” said Afsan.

“I’m sorry, Afsan,” said Novato. “I’ve been babbling. You said you had a question for me?”

“That’s right.”

There was silence for a time. Novato’s teeth touched in laughter. “That silence you’re hearing is me looking at you expectantly, my dear.”

“I’m sorry. The question is…” Afsan hesitated, his tail swishing back and forth nervously. “The question is, did you kill Yabool or Haldan?”

“And this silence,” said Novato, no levity in her tone at all, “is me glaring at you. What moves you to ask such a thing?”

“What always moves me,” said Afsan. “The need to expose the truth.”

“And what is Cadool” — no friendly sobriquets now — “doing here?”

Afsan’s voice was small. “He is here to see whether you are lying.”

Novato’s voice had a tone Afsan had never heard in it, the sharp edge of anger. “Why are you doing this?”

Afsan thought. Finally: “I do it out of … out of
affection
for our children.”

“And what about affection for me?”

Afsan’s voice carried a note of surprise. “That is a given.”

“A given? Then why treat me this way?”

Afsan paused. “Cadool, perhaps you would leave us?”

“No,” said Novato sarcastically. “Stay. It’s obvious why you’ve brought him along, Afsan: to assure you that my words are honest.”

Afsan nodded, then swiveled his muzzle toward his assistant. “Stay, Cadool. But not for that reason. Rather, stay because we agreed that friends should share. I make no secret of my feelings for Novato.” He paused, as if seeking the right words, then turned back toward where he’d heard Novato’s voice coming from. “Novato, I abjure pity, but I suspect you know it’s not easy being blind.” His tail swished back and forth slowly. “Falling asleep is — is strange for me.” He gestured in her direction. “For you, and for Cadool, it’s a slipping from light into darkness; you close your eyes, shut out the world, and drift into unconsciousness.”

He paused again, phrasing what he was about to say in his mind. “But I am always in darkness. When I change from being awake to being asleep, there is no real sensory change, no shutting out. I — I need something else, some substitute for the drawing of eyelids over orbs, for changing from day to night. For me, every night that I do sleep, I do so thinking of you, Novato.”

Afsan’s voice was warm, but with a melancholy tinge to the words. “As I lie on my belly, wishing to sleep, I recall your face. Oh, I know it’s your face of sixteen kilodays ago, the one and only time I ever saw you, a younger, less interesting face than I’m sure you have now, but it’s you nonetheless.” He paused. “I can still describe it in detail, Novato. Other images I have trouble recalling, but not you, not your face, not the line of your muzzle, the shape of your eyes, the delicate curve of your earholes. It’s that face that calms me each night, that helps me let go of the burdens of the day, and, for just a little while, forget that I cannot see.”

He dipped his torso in a concessional bow. “You are special to me, Novato, more special than I can say, and that time we spent together, discovering truths both about ourselves and about the universe, was the happiest, indeed, the only truly happy, time of my life.”

He shook his head. “To hurt you is to hurt myself. It pains me to ask the question I have asked, but suspicion has fallen on you. It was not I who thought of you, and I tell you that I reacted with indignation, too, when your name was suggested. I came to you first, before any others, not because I see any possibility of you being the perpetrator, but because I couldn’t bear, even for a few days, that others might think you capable of such crimes. So I ask the question to exonerate you, and Cadool’s declarations about your reply — not to me, for I need no proof of your honesty, but to others — will clear you of suspicion for all time.”

Novato’s breath came out in a long, whispery sigh. “And you, Afsan? Surely if I’m suspected, so are you.”

“Doubtless this is true, although there are those who say a blind person couldn’t have killed in the way that was used. On the other hand, although no one has raised the point, I have not hunted for kilodays, and it is, after all, through the hunt that we supposedly purge our emotions of anger. Perhaps one such as myself, a great hunter in his youth but now no longer able to join in a pack, might indeed need another outlet for his hostility.”

“Then will you answer the same question, Cadool to be the witness to the answers for both of us?”

“I will. Gladly.”

“Very well. Ask your question again.”

“Did you, Wab-Novato, kill Haldan or Yabool?”

“No.”

“Do you have any knowledge of who did?”

“No.”

“Very well.”

“Aren’t you going to ask Cadool if my muzzle turned blue?”

“I know,” said Afsan, “that it did not.” A pause. “Now ask me.”

Novato’s tone was one of appeasement. “I’m sorry, Afsan, I didn’t mean to doubt you. You are very special to me as well.”

“You should ask the question, though. No one has yet.”

“I…”

“Consider it a favor.”

Novato swallowed. “Did you, Sal-Afsan, kill Yabool or Haldan?”

“I did not.”

There was silence for a time. Finally, Novato exhaled noisily. “Well,” she said warmly, “I’m glad that is over.”

“I wish it were,” said Afsan sadly. “I’m afraid I still have to ask that question of several other people I also care deeply about.”

The time had come for Babnol and Toroca to say goodbye. She wore a backpack made of thunderbeast hide that contained a few things she might need on her journey. Food wouldn’t be a problem, though. She would kill what she needed along the way.

The sun, white and fiercely bright, was crawling its way up from the horizon. Babnol bowed. “I’ll rendezvous with you at Fra’toolar in a hundred days or so,” she said.

Toroca said nothing at first. He watched a golden wingfinger move across the purple sky. Then: “Don’t go.”

“I have to.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m…” Her voice trailed off.