Toroca seemed to lack the instinct for territoriality, lack the urge that drove other Quintaglios apart.
He’d never told anyone. Never said a word. It was liberating, this difference. Empowering.
And more than just a little bit frightening.
Toroca had left the other surveyors back at the great cliffs on the storm-swept coast, looking for any fossils at all from below the Bookmark layer, and cataloging the myriad forms they found above it. Rather than talk at length about how he’d managed to intervene rationally in the territorial battle between Delplas and Spalton, he’d simply left, hiking north toward the port town of Otok. This trip had been planned for some time, after all, and it afforded an ideal excuse to avoid conversation on this topic. It was a three-day hike into the town, where he was to rendezvous with Dak-Forgool, an eminent geologist from Arj’toolar newly assigned to the Geological Survey.
Otok was a pleasant enough little town. It consisted mostly of amorphous adobe buildings, the kind easily repairable after a landquake. The streets were simply dirt, pounded down by the caravans of hornfaces. The town square, the only part paved with cobblestones, contained only two statues: there was one of God, Her arms ending in stumps below Her shoulders, and another of Dy-Dybo, the Emperor, who in naked white marble looked even rounder and fatter than he did in the flesh.
Toroca had arranged to meet this Forgool at the foot of Dybo’s statue. He was looking forward to the encounter; Forgool had written much of value about the erosion of uprocks into downrocks. Toroca glanced at the sun, tiny, blazingly white, sliding down the purple bowl of the sky. It looked to be about the fourth daytenth, but—
Bells from the Hall of Worship. One. Two. Three. Four. Yes, Toroca was bang on time. But where was Forgool?
Toroca was wearing his geologist’s sash—he’d brought along needle and gut ties and had sewn the two ripped pockets during a break in his long hike. A geologist’s sash was quite distinctive, what with its twelve pockets running down its length. Forgool should recognize it immediately, and therefore have no trouble spotting Toroca, standing now in the considerable shade afforded by the statue of Dybo.
Toroca scanned the square. It was almost empty, of course. He saw one old Quintaglio crossing from the right, his tail dragging across the stones. A younger Quintaglio approaching from the left changed course to give the oldster wide clearance, and she nodded territorial concession at him as she did so.
Neither of them seemed the least bit interested in Toroca, though. He watched as a large wingfinger alighted on Dybo’s statue. The flyer’s reptilian head looked down at Toroca briefly, then it pushed off and glided away, its furry white coat shimmering in the afternoon sunlight, the pointed crest off the back of its head acting as a rudder to help it steer in flight. Toroca turned back and looked around the square again.
Ah, someone was coming.
But it wasn’t Forgool. It couldn’t be.
Forgool was said to be around thirty kilodays old, almost twice Toroca’s own age. But this person was no bigger than Toroca himself. Still, whoever it was was crossing the square with purposeful strides, heading straight for Toroca.
As the Quintaglio came closer, Toroca took note of two features simultaneously.
One was startling only in that it again diverged from what he’d been expecting. Forgool was a male, but this person was a female: the front of her neck lacked the loose folds of a dewlap sack.
But the second feature would have been startling under any circumstances. She had a horn growing out of her muzzle. Toroca’s inner eyelids batted across his black orbs. He’d never seen the like before on an adult.
When she got within about twenty paces, the female stopped. “Permission to enter your territory?” she said, her voice a bit anxious.
“Hahat dan.” said Toroca, with a little bow of concession.
“You are Kee-Toroca, leader of the Geological Survey?”
Toroca nodded.
“I know you were expecting Dak-Forgool,” she said. “I am from his Pack, Pack Vando. It is my sad duty to report to you that Forgool is dead. He succumbed to a fever.”
Toroca dipped his muzzle. “I’m very sorry. I’d always wanted to meet him. My condolences to your Pack.”
“Thank you.”
There was a silence between them for several moments, then Toroca said, “I am sorry to hear this, and I thank you for bringing me word—I know it was a long journey for you. But I must head back and join my survey team now. It is too bad. We could have used another geologist.” Toroca bowed and began to move away.
“Wait,” said the female. “Take me with you.”
Toroca leaned back on his tail. “What?”
“Take me with you. I’ve come in Forgool’s place.”
“Were you his apprentice?”
The female looked at the cobblestones. “No.”
“Who did you study under?”
“Hoo-Tendron.”
“I’ve never heard of him. Is he a geologist?”
“No. Ah, he’s, um, a merchant.”
“A merchant?”
“Yes, with my Pack of Vando. But he trades in gemstones and fossils, and I’ve been his apprentice for many kilodays.”
“The Geological Survey is a scientific undertaking. We have no need of traders.”
“Nor do I wish to be a trader anymore.” She raised a hand. “It’s true I’ve had no formal training in geology, but I’ve dealt with fossils and gems for most of my life. Our Pack roams along the Passalat sandstones.” The Passalats were the finest-grained stones in all of Land, known for their magnificent fossils. “I’ve excavated every kind of fossil, even delicate ones like those strange winged things that aren’t wingfingers.”
“Birds?” said Toroca. “You’ve personally found bird fossils?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, impressed. “They’re the rarest find of all. No one knows exactly what birds were.”
“Indeed,” said the female.
“But you know no geology?” said Toroca.
“I know what I’ve taught myself. And I can read, Toroca—I’m one of the very few from my Pack that can make that claim. I’m willing to learn, but I’ve already got skills that your project can use.”
Toroca considered. At the very least, they could use another pair of hands. “What’s your name?”
“Babnol. Wab-Babnol.”
Toroca bowed. “I cast a shadow in your presence, Babnol. You have the same praenomen as—” He stopped himself before he said my mother. “As a good friend of mine, Wab-Novato.”
But Babnol apparently already knew the story. “She’s your mother, isn’t she? A great Quintaglio.”
Toroca nodded. “That she is.” He looked up at the purple sky. “We work in rough conditions, Babnol. And we’re about to head south—”
“I’ve heard all about it,” she said. “Forgool was so looking forward to it. A voyage to the south pole!”
“The work is not at all glamorous. You’ll be expected to labor hard, to do repetitive and meticulous tasks.”
“I’m prepared for all of that, good Toroca. Please: there’s nothing for me in Pack Vando. I know you need someone, and it will take many dekadays for any other geologist to get here. Let me join your team. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
Toroca considered, looking her up and down. She was in fine physical shape: well muscled; her belly so light green as to be almost yellow, her shoulders and arms a darker shade freckled with brown; her eyes, solid black, wide and intelligent.
And the horn.
Bizarre. Bright in the sunlight.
She held her head high, almost haughtily, Toroca thought, but she didn’t seem haughty in any other part of her manner. Indeed, she seemed to have a commendable enthusiasm.