Toroca filled his lungs once more. The fish-lizard was an air-breather, too, but it was cold-blooded and could go much longer between breaths, especially since its body, unlike Toroca’s, was built for subsurface maneuvering. The creature moved almost effortlessly, a little flick of a paddle here, a gentle movement of the tail there. Toroca looked up at the Face of God overhead. He wished for a moment that it really was the countenance of the deity; he most certainly did not want to die out here.
The fish-lizard was swinging around to attack again. Toroca felt the sharp teeth cut into his tail. Blood was clouding the water, some his own, some the lizard’s. Toroca hadn’t had a chance to examine his own wounds yet; he didn’t know if they were superficial or if he was hemorrhaging to death. And, he thought, God help me if there’s a shark in the area; about the only thing that made Quintaglio dagamant look tame was a shark driven to frenzy by blood.
Toroca tried beating on the thing’s gray torso with his fists in hopes of driving it away, but it seemed determined to make a meal of him. Perhaps he could gouge its eyes out; but no, the scleral rings of bone afforded a lot of protection.
Toroca lashed with his tail to get out of the way. The lizard changed trajectory, barreling toward him. Its jaws were closed, perhaps to better streamline its form when moving quickly.
Suddenly Toroca had an idea. Instead of trying to swim away, he surged forward, his tail undulating, his legs kicking. He almost thought he was going to be impaled on the thing’s long snout. But as the fish-lizard came close, he grabbed the snout, one hand gripping it near its tip, where his handspan was easily enough to wrap around the snout’s circumference, the other hand grasping it at its base, where it joined the reptile’s head. He then brought his right knee up directly under the middle of the snout and, with all the strength in his arms, bent the snout downward. It took everything he had, but at last he felt the long jaw bones snap. New blood mixed with the cool water. Now that there was only ligament and flesh holding the snout together, Toroca finished the job with a massive bite from his own jaws, severing the fish-lizard’s long prow cleanly from its body. The lizard’s tail was smashing wildly left and right, but Toroca kicked out of the way, letting go of the snout, which slowly began to drift downward. The lizard, completely disarmed, tried to butt Toroca with its bloody front end but soon tired of that and swam away. Toroca doubtless had mortally wounded the animal, but he wondered if the reverse was also true. Treading water, he examined the bites on his thigh and tail. Both were still slowly oozing blood, but neither seemed particularly deep. Now that the fish-lizard was gone, the water was relatively calm — calmer, in fact, than it had been when he’d swum in the opposite direction twenty days before. He rested his head on the surface, and, with slow movements of his tail, glided gently onward.
"We spoke before about the names of your children," said Mokleb, "but didn’t really get into your relationship with them. This is a unique area; I’d like to explore it."
The sun was sliding down the western sky toward the Ch’mar volcanoes. Two pale moons — one crescent, one almost full — were visible despite the glare. A few silvery-white clouds twisted their way across the purple bowl of the sky.
Afsan’s face showed a mixture of emotions. "My children," he said softly, adjusting his position on his rock. "And Novato’s, too, of course." He shook his head slightly. "There were eight of them to begin with."
"Yes."
"One died in childhood. Helbark was his name. He succumbed to fever." Afsan’s voice was full of sadness. "I was devastated when he died. It seemed so unfair. Like all of my children, Helbark had been spared the culling of the bloodpriest. It was as though God had given him the gift of life, but then snatched it away. Helbark died before ever saying his first word." Afsan’s tail moved left and right. "You know, Mokleb, I’ve never seen any of my children; I was blinded before they came to Capital City. I felt I knew the other seven because I knew the tones they used, knew what caused their voices to sing with joy and what caused their words to tremble with anger or outrage. But Helbark … if there is an afterlife, Mokleb, I sometimes wonder if I would recognize him there. Or whether he would recognize me."
Mokleb made a small sound, noncommittal. Afsan went on. "After Helbark died, Pal-Cadool and I had gone to the site of that kill everyone keeps talking about — the place where I helped bring down that giant thunderbeast. We found a stone there and took it back to the mountain of stones upon which the Hunter’s Shrine is built. You know the old legend? That each of the original five hunters had brought one stone there for every kill they’d made during their lives? Well, I wanted to bring a stone from one of my kills. Poor Helbark was far too young to have acquired a hunt or pilgrimage tattoo. I thought that maybe if a kill was consecrated in his name, it might help his passage into heaven. Pal-Cadool helped me climb the cairn so that my stone could be placed right at the summit, inside the Shrine — the structure made out of past hunt leaders’ bones. Most people don’t know about it, but on the far side of the stone cairn, there’s a hidden stairway leading to the summit. I couldn’t have made it otherwise."
"A priest advised you to do this?"
Afsan shifted uncomfortably. "I rarely speak to priests," he said.
"Of course, of course," said Mokleb. A topic for another time. "But Helbark isn’t the only one of your children to have passed on, is he?"
Quietly: "No."
"There was Haldan and Yabool." A pause. "And Drawtood."
Still quiet: "Yes."
"How do you feel about what happened to them?"
Afsan’s tone was bitter. "How would you expect me to feel?"
"I have no expectations at all, Afsan. That’s why I ask."
Afsan nodded, and then, "They say I’m gifted when it comes to solving puzzles, Mokleb." He fell silent, perhaps reluctant to continue.
Mokleb waited patiently for several beats, then, as a gentle prod, she agreed: "Yes, that’s what they say."
"Well, most puzzles don’t count for anything. Whether you solve them or not doesn’t really matter. But that one…" He fell silent again. Mokleb waited. "That one mattered. That one was for real. Once Haldan had been murdered" — the word, so rarely spoken, sounded funny, archaic — "once she had been murdered, the puzzle was to figure out who was responsible."
"And you did," said Mokleb.
"But not in time!" Afsan’s voice was full of anguish now. "Not in time. Don’t you see? It wasn’t until Drawtood killed again, taking the life of my son Yabool, that I figured it out."
"Murder is such an uncommon crime," said Mokleb. "You can’t blame yourself for needing more data."
"More data," repeated Afsan. He made a snorting sound. "More data. Another body, you mean. Another dead child of mine."
Mokleb was silent.
"Forgive me," Afsan said after a time. "I find these memories difficult to deal with."
Mokleb nodded.
"It’s just that, well…"
"Well what?"
"Nothing." Afsan’s blind face turned toward the crumbling edge of the cliff.
"No, you had a thought. Please express it."
Afsan nodded and apparently rallied some inner strength. "It’s just that I always wonder why Drawtood committed those murders."