Afsan’s voice was a bit wistful. "That would not be … prudent."
"Why not?"
"I should think that would be obvious."
"Oh?"
"It would not be appropriate. I’m her father, for God’s sake."
"Yes?"
"Look: there are no other fathers in this world — fathers who know who their children are, that is. Emperor Dybo knew his father, of course, but Ter-Reegree had been killed long before I came to the Capital. And Dybo himself has yet to have offspring. I understand that, I think: after his right to rule was challenged by Dy-Rodlox, Dybo had agreed to let his own clutch, the imperial hatchlings, undergo the culling of the bloodpriest. But I suspect that he’s chosen an even simpler path: not to be responsible for any eggs at all." Afsan paused. "So, without any models to follow I’ve had to make up this fatherhood business as I go along. And mating with one whom I know to be my daughter does not seem appropriate."
"Oh?"
"Oh, indeed. And since she’s perpetually giving off signs of receptivity, I, I prefer not to spend much time with her."
"But those who are constantly in heat do make exceptional hunt leaders," said Mokleb. "They have an energizing effect on the members of the pack."
"I am blind, Mokleb. I cannot hunt anymore."
"But you could mate."
"Of course."
"Have you recently?"
"No. No, not in a long time. A male normally has to be in the presence of a female in heat to become aroused, after all." He clicked his teeth. "I don’t get around as much as I used to."
The wind continued to blow across Afsan from behind.
"It’s an interesting occupation, I should imagine," said Mokleb. "Being a hunt leader."
"I’m sure it is," said Afsan.
Mokleb was quiet for a time. "I once toyed with the idea of that profession, but I developed knee problems in my early adolescence. I cannot run fast. They tried hacking off my leg when I was young, to see if it would grow back without the impediment, but it did not."
"Ah," said Afsan. "I’m sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about," said Mokleb, with finality. "If the problem had been solved, I wouldn’t have been allowed to pursue my studies. They would have made me become a hunt leader."
"Nonsense," said Afsan. "Why, they wouldn’t have done that unless…"
She got off the boulder she’d been sitting on and walked around to the other side of Afsan’s rock, letting the wind blow over her and onto him. Afsan’s nostrils flared slightly. "Oh, my," he said.
"Beautiful day," said Garios.
Novato, who had been making more sketches of the pyramid and the strange tower growing up out of its apex, looked up at the sky. Clouds covered most of it. "Looks like rain," she said.
"Oh, perhaps, perhaps. Still, beautiful day."
"Since when is rain beautiful? Especially here, where we get more of it than we need."
"Oh, maybe the weather isn’t great. I guess I’m just in a good mood."
"Ah," said Novato, noncommittal.
At this point, Delplas ambled by about thirty paces away — far enough that normally no territorial gesture was required. But Garios waved at Delplas anyway with a wide sweep of his arm. "Beautiful day!" he called.
Delplas shook her head. "You’re crazy," she said good-naturedly, but then she splayed her fingers in a conspiratorial gesture aimed at Novato.
Novato sighed. She’d felt the first tinglings herself this morning, but hadn’t expected anyone else to be able to detect her new pheromones yet. It’d still be a few hundred days before she was fully receptive; given that receptivity came only once every eighteen thousand days, it took its time coming into full bloom.
"Beautiful day," said Garios again, to no one in particular.
Males, thought Novato.
*11*
The twenty days on the island of the Others passed quickly, and now it was time for Toroca to check in with the Dasheter. Jawn offered a boat and rowers to take Toroca out, but Toroca repeated what he’d tried to make clear over and over, although his speech was more fluent now: "Do not come near the Dasheter," he said in the Other language. "To do so would be bad."
"I still do not understand," said Jawn. "I am curious about your sailing ship."
"Accept my words," said Toroca. "I will return soon. I am sorry you cannot see my sailing ship."
Jawn didn’t seem satisfied, but he let it go. "Swim safely."
"I will," said Toroca, and, with that, he climbed down the rope ladder and entered the water. It was a long swim out to the Dasheter, but the weather was good. His tail propelled him along.
Toroca’s mind was full of thoughts as he swam. The Others were so unlike Quintaglios. Cooked food; "cooked" being a word Jawn had taught him. No territoriality; even to Toroca, the open displays of physical contact the Others exhibited were distasteful. And they used tools to kill animals; Toroca had seen many of those metal fire sticks. Toroca shuddered as he swam along: he hadn’t realized just what had happened that first day. Someone had shot at him as he’d approached the shore. Jawn had apologized later; the person on the pier had mistaken Toroca for an alligator.
An alligator! Oh, the ignominy!
Toroca continued to slice through the waves, occasionally using his feet to steer in the direction he wanted to go. With the giant Face of God hanging stationary overhead, navigation was easy. The Face was waning gibbous now, its unilluminated limb looking dark purple against the lighter violet of early morning sky. The water was still cooler than Toroca would have liked. Part of him was sad to be leaving the Others, even though he fully intended to return, but it would be good to see faces that were green instead of yellow. He’d missed Keenir’s gravelly voice, and Babnol’s gentle clicking of teeth, and even old Biltog’s endless stories about days gone by. Why, soon he’d…
What was that?
Something big was coming toward him, wave tops churning in its wake. Toroca went below the surface and saw it front-on: a body circular in cross section, thicker than Toroca’s own torso, with three equally spaced tapered projections, one on top and two at the lower sides. He kicked sideways to get another angle on the animal.
Oh-oh.
From the side, he could see that the upper projection was a stiff dorsal fin, and the two side projections were flippers. The body was streamlined, starting with an elongated snout and ending in a large vertical tail fin. At the pelvis, two more small flippers projected from the creature’s sides.
A fish-lizard. The Dasheter’s fishing nets often caught small ones; they provided a welcome dose of reptilian flesh in the diet. But this one was half again as long as Toroca. The body was slate gray in color and the visible part of the eyes looked like tiny mercury drops in the middle of raised scleral bone rings. Its nostrils were just in front of its eyes. And projecting forward from its face was that long, tapered snout, lined with sharp teeth.
The beast quickly turned so that Toroca saw it head-on again. There was no doubt: it was coming after him. Toroca swam well for a land creature, but this animal was in its native element. There was no chance that he could outdistance it.
Suddenly the fish-lizard was upon him, its long, narrow jaws opening wide. Toroca felt a hundred little daggers tear into him as the jaws closed on his thigh. Clouds of red appeared in the water. Toroca pounded his fists on the creature’s snout. That surprised it; it was not used to battling prey that had hands. The fish-lizard rotated around, its giant tail slapping Toroca. Toroca struggled for the surface, gulping air as soon as he broke through the waves. The animal twisted its body and tried to bring its needle-like prow to bear again.
Toroca had eaten enough small fish-lizards over the kilodays to know their anatomy: the dorsal fin had no bones in it at all, and the giant tail fin was only supported along its lower edge by an extension of the backbone. The upper prong of the fin was pure meat. Toroca’s jaws were still open wide from taking in air. He chomped down on the upper part of the tail fin, his curving teeth easily slicing into it. The fish-lizard, which had been about to bite into Toroca’s leg, opened its own jaws wide, letting out a silent underwater scream.