“That’s a huge one,” said Keenir softly. Then, shouting: “It’ll be breaking up, this far north. Watch for fragments!”
Toroca, now wearing a light cloak—such a strange feeling for a nonpriest to have clothes on!—had come up on deck to see what all the shouting was about. He moved as close to Keenir as protocol would allow and looked out in the direction Keenir’s far-seer was pointed. There was indeed something there, brilliant in the sunlight, completely white. An island, perhaps? That would be fascinating! No islands were known this far from the mainland. “What is it?” Toroca asked.
Keenir stepped close enough to Toroca to hand him the far-seer, then moved back to a more appropriate separation. “Have a look. It’s called an iceberg.”
“An iceberg!” Toroca rotated the tube, bringing the object into focus for his younger eyes. “I’ve heard of them. Frozen water, right?”
“Right.”
“I never knew they could be so huge.”
“That’s a small one, actually.”
“It’s white,” said Toroca. “Water is clear.”
“Not when frozen. And not when there’s that much of it. It’s white, or bluish-white.”
“An iceberg. I’ve always wanted to see one of those. Captain, we must go closer!”
“No. It’s a hazard to navigation. The part you’re seeing above the waves is only a tenth of the whole thing; most of it is submerged. These icebergs drift north and melt. And they don’t just grow smaller and smaller until they disappear. Hunks drop off. If we hit one, it could rip our hull open. We’ll give it wide clearance; treat it as if it were a member of The Family—just get out of its way.”
“But I’d love to see so much ice up close.”
“You will. You’ll see more ice than you can possibly imagine. You’ll grow sick of it, I promise you.” Keenir lifted his head and shouted to his crew, “Hard to starboard!”
The night sky danced.
A curtain of diaphanous green fluttered across the firmament, now rippling, now waving. Its reflection could be seen on the water. Moments later, streamers of yellow grew upward from the horizon, twisting and intertwining as they did so, growing taller with each passing moment. Vertical bands of deeper green, pulsating as if alive, appeared across the sky, counterpointing the yellow.
Toroca thought he could hear, just below the threshold of certainty, a hissing sound, punctuated by occasional crackles, like a fire spitting its last.
The display was awe-inspiring, gorgeous—
—and fleeting. Already, it had started to fade.
Toroca shook his head in wonderment. He’d thought, perhaps, that his father had unraveled all the secrets of the skies, but it was clear that they still contained many new mysteries.
*15*
The old imperial palace had been destroyed in the great landquake that occurred shortly after Dybo and Afsan had returned from their pilgrimage voyage to gaze upon the Face of God. The new palace, built not far from the ruins of the old, was less ornate, more modern in design, simpler and cleaner. After all, it would not do for resources to be lavished on the Emperor’s home when all on Land were being asked to make sacrifices to speed the exodus project.
Rodlox was brought by imperial guards to the palace’s ruling room. He wasn’t wearing his gubernatorial sash, perhaps a sign that he no longer considered that office a sufficient honor. No, the sash he wore, crossing from his left shoulder to his right hip, tapering as it did so, sported no decorations at all. But it was red, the color traditionally reserved for members of The Family. He was making clear to all that he claimed his place amongst the ruling dynasty.
Rodlox was furious that Dybo was not yet here. A deliberate slight, no doubt, this keeping him waiting. He fought to prevent his anger from showing. He would not let the guards report to Dybo that this insult had been effective.
At last the Emperor waddled in. His sash—made of perhaps twice as much material as Rodlox’s, to accommodate Dybo’s greater circumference—was also red, a true blood red, a hunter’s color, made with the finest and rarest dyes. In comparison to the royal livery, Rodlox’s looked too light, too pink, quite literally a pale imitation of Dybo’s own. Rodlox clenched his fists.
Dybo looked Rodlox up and down, an appraisal made clear by the tipping of his muzzle. At last the Emperor said, without preamble or traditional bow, “Why have you challenged me?”
Rodlox folded his arms across his muscular chest. “You are not rightful Emperor.”
Dybo, in turn, spread his arms. “You cannot be sure of that. Without conclusive evidence, it’s a hollow claim.”
Rodlox’s tone was firm. “I am sure of it, sure in my very bones.”
Dybo stepped up to the marble platform that supported the ruling slab and the katadu benches for imperial advisors. He lowered himself belly-first onto the angled slab and looked down upon Rodlox.
Rodlox refused to be victim of such a transparent ploy. Rather than look up at the Emperor, he simply turned sideways and gave the appearance of examining the tapestries on the far wall, although in fact his black eyes were locked on his rival. “It’s true,” he said. “I know it’s true.”
The ruling slab creaked slightly under Dybo’s weight; that amused Rodlox, but the Emperor went on, oblivious. “Dy-Rodlox, look at me. Look at my muzzle.” Rodlox turned to face him. “I tell you, I have no direct reason to believe what you say is true.”
Rodlox shrugged. “That your muzzle hasn’t turned blue doesn’t surprise me. It means only that those who perpetrated this fraud did not confide in you.”
“Are you saying they did confide in you, Dy-Rodlox? Did someone tell you this, someone who would know?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. Consider this, brother, not one of the provincial governors has risen up to challenge your authority to rule, authority based solely on the fact that you are a descendant of the now-discredited Larsk. Not one of them. Why is that?”
“Satisfaction with my administration?” Dybo said innocently.
“You know full well that many people object to the exodus project, think it a mad obsession on your part, an obsession driving us to ruin.”
Dybo dipped his muzzle in mild concession. “Some say that, yes.”
“And yet, despite the opposition to the exodus, not one of the other governors has risen against you.”
An insect had somehow made it into the room and was buzzing above Dybo’s back. He flicked his tail, trying to shoo it away. “So you’re saying the reason they haven’t challenged me is that the other governors are also party to this conspiracy.”
“I think they are,” said Rodlox, “except for myself.”
“If such a conspiracy involved all governors, why are you exempt?”
“Both the previous incumbent in your office of Emperor and the previous incumbent in my office of governor of Edz’toolar died prematurely. I know my predecessor told me nothing about this before she died; perhaps Lends had said nothing to you before that roof collapsed on her.”
“I tell you, she did not.”
“I must accept that,” said Rodlox, “but I suspect at least some of your advisors know. Mek-Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest, for one. Have you asked him?”
“No.”
“Why not? If my claim is absurd, he could prove that. Ask him.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“He’s gone missing.”
“You’ve had him locked away, I’d warrant.”
“I’ve done no such thing. He’s left town, apparently of his own volition.”
“Regardless,” said Rodlox, “his absence bolsters my claim.”
“If this is true, surely Maliden isn’t the only one who knows.”