Toroca counted. There seemed to be about ten of each symbol. “You’ll have to find a new tree soon enough,” said Toroca absently. “This one’s almost over the edge.”
Jodor looked up. “It’s always been like that.”
“But the cliff face is eroding away…” said Toroca.
“Eroding?”
“Crumbling to sand. That’s what the beach is made of: sand that weathered out of the rocks of the cliff face.”
Jodor looked impressed. “Is that a fact?”
“So this tree must have been farther back from the edge originally,” said Babnol.
“Not that I can recall,” said Jodor.
“Oh, it’s a gradual process, to be sure,” said Toroca.
Jodor shook her head. “See that branch there? See the way it sticks out over the cliff face?”
Toroca nodded.
“When I was a youngster, that used to be the great stunt: climb up the tree, then crawl out along that branch, so that there was nothing except it between you and the sheer drop down to the beach.”
Toroca’s inner eyelids fluttered. “It was that close to the edge when you were a child?”
“Uh-huh. And I’ll save you the trouble of asking. Yes, I’m as old as I look. I hatched forty-seven kilodays ago.”
“And you’re sure that the branch stuck over the edge even when you were very young?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Jodor, pleased to be dumbfounding the fellow from the big city. “In fact, my old creche master caught me crawling out onto that branch once. He gave me a stern talking-to, I’ll tell you, but then he had to admit that he’d done the same thing back when he’d been a boy. He was almost as old then as I am now, so that means it’s been right up at the edge for at least a hundred kilodays.”
“A hundred kilodays,” said Toroca. He held out an arm to steady himself against the massive, ancient tree trunk.
Babnol looked startled, too. “But the first sacred scroll says the world is only five thousand kilodays old. If a hundred kilodays can pass with next to no visible retreating of the cliff edge, Toroca, how long would it take to erode enough rock to make all the sand on that beach?”
Toroca looked back over the edge, as if some trick must be involved that proper scrutiny would reveal. “During our stay here, we dug very deep indeed on the beach,” he said. “We must have gone down ten paces, and the bottom of the sand was nowhere in sight.”
He looked again at the tree, gnarled, proud. “A hundred kilodays, and no visible progress.” He turned to Jodor. “A hundred kilodays is about two percent of the age of the world,” he said, “according to the scrolls.”
Jodor seemed unconcerned. She was just finishing chiseling today’s date into the bark beneath the emblem she’d carved. “So?”
“So if the erosion is that slow, it would take more than five thousand kilodays to accumulate that much sand.”
Jodor clicked her teeth. “I see the mistake you’re making,” she said. “The first sacred scroll was written over two thousand kilodays ago. That means there have been seven thousand, not five thousand, kilodays since the world was created.”
Toroca shook his head. “It’s not enough. It’s off by—by orders of magnitude.”
“What are ‘orders of magnitude’?” asked Jodor.
“Powers of ten. Seven thousand kilodays wouldn’t be enough. Tubers, seventy thousand kilodays wouldn’t be enough, either.”
Jodor still seemed to be unconcerned. “If this wasn’t stormy Fra’toolar, I’d say you’d been out in the sun too long, Toroca. We know the world is seven thousand kilodays old; therefore, whatever process you’re concerned about could not have taken longer than seven thousand kilodays to occur.”
Toroca dipped his head. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. But then he swung around, looking out over the panorama visible from the top of the cliff, before Jodor could see his muzzle turn blue with the liar’s tint.
*8*
It was well-known that Emperor Dy-Dybo didn’t care much for parades, but this was Jostark’s Day, in honor of craftspeople. The parade was important to Capital City’s economy, launching the ten-day festival that brought skilled workers from all over the province to trade their wares in the central marketplace.
The day was sunny, the sky a pristine, cloudless mauve. Four pale moons were visible despite the daylight, two of them on either side of the brilliant sun, crescents bowing away from the tiny white disk. The constant east-west breeze blew harbor air over the city, but the usual background sound of ships’ bells and drums coming up from the docks was gone. All work had suspended so that everyone could attend the parade.
In addition to all the city folk and the many tourists, there were two unexpected spectators. One was Rodlox, the governor of Edz’toolar province, about the same height as Dybo, but trim and well-muscled. Yes, strictly speaking, his name was now “Dy-Rodlox,” he having recently ascended to the governorship upon the death of his predecessor, Len-Ganloor, but he suffered the use of the praenomen that honored Dybo only on the most formal of occasions. At all other times, he was merely “Rodlox.” He stood, arms folded in front of his chest, leaning back on his tail, waiting. Next to him was his aide, Pod-Oro, about twice Rodlox’s age.
Governor Rodlox and Pod-Oro would be missed today in Edz’toolar, for a corresponding but much less elaborate parade was being held in that province’s capital to mark Jostark’s Day there. But they had come here, to the Capital, precisely to see the Emperor, chubby Dybo himself, march down the public streets.
Rodlox and Oro watched from the side of the Avenue of Traders, one of Capital City’s widest thoroughfares, as the procession approached. At the front of the marching group was Lub-Galpook, daughter to Afsan and Novato, who, since the death of Jal-Tetex, had become the new imperial hunt leader. She moved with stealth, as if stalking prey. Behind her, fanned out in a traditional pattern, were nine of the town’s best hunters. As Galpook continued forward, she would periodically hold up her hands in the hunter’s sign language, redeploying her pack. The nine would silently take on new configurations.
The governor of Edz’toolar paid little attention. His mind was on other matters, weightier matters. He couldn’t stand the name “Dy-Rodlox,” but thought that “Rod-Rodlox” had quite an attractive ring to it…
And then, at last, Dybo was visible, there, in the distance, at the very end of the parade.
The Emperor. The mad Emperor who wanted to take them to the stars.
Dybo was almost exactly the same height as Rodlox, but the Emperor’s girth… Rodlox thought it was like seeing himself stretched wide, reflected in some distorted mirror. Still, that he saw any of Dybo in himself was disturbing. It robbed him of some of his individuality. Did Dybo have the same fears as he did? The same weaknesses? One’s innermost self should be private. But here, waddling toward him, was another iteration, a caricature, a mockery of himself.
The crowd lining the road was sparse. Even to see the Emperor, Quintaglios would not pack themselves tightly together. The parade would continue for a distance of many kilopaces so that everyone would have a chance to see it.
Crafters—in whose honor this march was held, after all—were passing by now, each holding a sample of his or her wares: a tall, thin Quintaglio with tanned leathers draped over his snake-like arms; a stouter fellow with brown and yellow freckles on his muzzle holding two complex metal instruments; a slim female, apparently one of Novato’s students, carrying a brass far-seer, sunlight glinting off its metal tube and glass lenses; a vastly old giant, skin so dark green as to be almost black, bearing books bound in hornface hide; many tens more.