rather than risk further disastrous contact.
Babnol’s tone was full of concern. "Be careful, Toroca."
Toroca looked at her wistfully. He’d always wanted their relationship to be so much closer. "I will."
"We’ll be back for you, lad," said Keenir.
"Thank you."
Toroca moved to the side of the ship and began to climb down the rope ladder that led to the shore boats tethered
below. He could have paddled one of those to the island instead of swimming in, but the boats were pretty big for one
person to manage; swimming would be easier and faster. When he got to the bottom, he managed a little tip of his
torso and saw, up on deck, Keenir and Babnol likewise executing ceremonial bows.
The waves were high enough that Toroca had been splashed up the calf by the time his foot reached the bottom rung.
Without further ado, he let go and slipped beneath the waves.
They were far enough north that the water was cooler than what Toroca was used to, but it wasn’t cold enough to
pose a hazard. He put his arms flat at his sides, stretched his legs out behind, and undulated his tail. His body sliced
through the water. He passed a school of silvery fish at one point and later saw a couple of limpid floaters bobbing on
the surface. The Face of God waned visibly during the course of the long swim in, and the sun moved closer and closer
to its edge.
In the distance, Toroca could see a few of the Others’ own sailing ships, but they tended to stay close to shore. That
wasn’t surprising; the Others presumably long ago determined that there was nothing except empty water for
thousands of kilopaces around.
Even from far away, Toroca was surprised by how different the Others’ ships looked. Quintaglio vessels had diamond
shaped hulls, square sails, and an even number of masts (the Dasheter had four). The ship passing Toroca far to the
left had a rounded hull, three masts, and overlapping triangular sails.
Toroca was now a hundred paces from shore. He was approaching what seemed to be a small coastal city made of
wooden buildings. Right off, that seemed alien. Quintaglios normally built from adobe or stone; surely wooden
buildings were at risk of fire from lamp flames. And these buildings were such odd shapes! The Others seemed to
avoid right angles; it was hard to tell from this vantage point, but most of the buildings appeared to have eight sides.
Toroca stopped swimming for a moment. There were fifty or sixty people walking along a broad wooden pier built along
the contours of the water’s edge. So many! Why, it was as if they had no territoriality at all. And then Toroca saw
something that amazed him: two individuals walking side by side down the pier. He could see them clearly, and there
could be no doubt about what they were doing.
Holding hands.
Incredible, thought Toroca. Absolutely incredible.
He began to swim again, his tail propelling him over the remaining distance.
Finally, somebody noticed him. He saw a hand pointing in his direction, and a shout went up. Others turned to look
out at the waters. More arms pointed at him. One person turned and ran toward the octagonal buildings. Two large
Others grabbed a juvenile and, against the juvenile’s apparent wishes, dragged the child away from the edge of the
pier. One Other was shouting gibberish. Two Others shouted back; more gibberish. Toroca was about ten paces from
the pier now.
Someone pointed a blackened metal tube at Toroca. A flash erupted from its open end and a sound came from it like
the bellow of a shovelmouth. The water exploded next to Toroca as something crashed into the waves. Someone ran
to the Other holding the tube and motioned angrily for him to put it down.
There was a rope ladder dangling from the side of the pier into the water. Toroca grabbed it. The rope itself was of a
material Toroca had never seen — perhaps some kind of waterweed fiber — and the knots along its length were tied in a
complex style he’d likewise never encountered. Still, it was clearly meant for accessing the pier from the water, or vice
versa, and so he pulled himself up, rung after rung, his body feeling cool as the air ran over his wet form. At last he
was up on the pier; it, too, was bizarre, made of long planks that went lengthwise instead of crosswise, the way a
Quintaglio would have built it.
Toroca stood there, dripping, hands on hips, looking at the Others, and they stood looking at him. Some were pointing
at his swimmer’s belt, and Toroca was reminded of how he had made much of the fact that the first Other they’d
encountered had been wearing jewelry. They must know he was intelligent. These Others all sported copper jewelry,
but some were also wearing vests made of a material that looked too pliable to be leather.
The Other with the metal tube was near the front of the crowd. He held the tube in such a way that he could raise it
again in a fraction of a beat.
One of the Others stepped forward and spoke, a string of nonsense syllables emanating from its mouth.
At the back of the crowd, Toroca could see someone trying to get through. Incredibly, he was actually tapping people
on the shoulder to get them to move, or gently pushing them aside. On Land, this fellow’s throat would have been
ripped out by now, but people were gladly making way for whoever this was. Once he’d gotten to the front, Toroca saw
that this Other also was brandishing a metal tube, but it was smaller and more compact. He was wearing black bands
around both his arms; no one else had such bands.
"Hello," said Toroca, and then he bowed. The moment seemed to call for some sort of speech, but if the Others’
language sounded like gibberish to Toroca, his words would likely sound the same to them. "Hello," he said again,
simply.
The Other with the armbands said "Hello" back at him. For a moment, Toroca thought that the Other understood him,
but it was soon clear that he’d simply repeated the sound Toroca had made.
If this Other had been a Quintaglio, he’d have been a good piece younger than Toroca, but none of the Others seemed
as large as an old Quintaglio. Either this wasn’t a location frequented by the elderly, or Others simply didn’t grow as
fast or as big as Quintaglios.
Toroca made a gesture toward the city, indicating, he hoped, that he wished to go there. The Other with the black
armbands looked warily at Toroca, then stepped aside. Toroca began to walk down the pier, and this Other walked
silently beside him. There was a hubbub among the spectators. Some had claws out; others had them sheathed. If
these were Quintaglios, that would mean some were frightened and others were just curious — exactly the mix of
emotions Toroca himself was feeling as he continued down the pier.
*7*
"Normally, I sit where the patient can’t see me," said Mokleb. "Otherwise, they spend too much time watching for my
reactions. Therapy is not a performance, and I am not an audience. Also, there may be times when the most effective
response to something you say may not in fact be the truth. By sitting out of view, the patient cannot see my muzzle.
In any event, since you are blind, it doesn’t matter where I sit. However, you should be as comfortable as possible.
That rock you are straddling is your favorite, yes?"
"Yes," said Afsan.
"You should relax as much as possible. Rather than sitting up, you may find it more comfortable to lie on your belly.
Why don’t you try that?"
Afsan obliged, settling himself down on the top of the boulder, his arms and legs dangling a bit over the sides and his
tail, semi-stiff, sticking up into the air.
"Good. Now, I’m going to sit on another boulder. I take copious notes; using a system of simplified glyphs, I can
record both sides of our conversation verbatim. You’ll occasionally hear the sound of my fingerclaw dipping into a pot
of ink or solvent, or the sound of me getting a new sheet of paper. Pay no attention, and don’t worry about whether