Dybo said, “There are others who should be informed directly. His supervisor, for instance.”
“Of course,” said Withool. “I’ll attend to that.”
“And his parents.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“His parents, Afsan and Novato.”
“Oh, he’s one of those, was he?” said Withool. “Well, I’ll attend to that, too, Emperor.”
“No. I’ll do it myself.”
Withool bowed. “Surely the Emperor should be spared such a task.”
“I said I’ll do it.” Dybo looked up at the statue of Lends standing on the far side of the room. “I’m the only one who understands what it’s like to lose a member of your… family.”
The divers and stilts weren’t the only vertebrates down here at the bottom of the world. Toroca and Babnol managed to collect many specimens as the days went on.
They were all different.
But they all had one thing in common.
They were all—every last one of them—based on the wingfinger body plan.
It was even-night; the night Toroca was supposed to be awake. But it was far, far too cold to go on deck after dark. He sat in his cabin, lamp spluttering, going over his notes and the intricate sketches he’d made.
Scooters had all but lost their wings. They shot around the ice surface, using their powerful hind feet to propel themselves.
Shawls were tall and thin and stood like trees rooted in the ice, wrapping their bodies in cloaks made of their thick rubbery wings.
Skimmers used their wings to glide over the ice. They never rose more than a tiny distance off its surface, but carried by the wind they managed to cover huge distances, their broad mouths hanging wide open, gulping down insects that hopped along the snow.
Lancers had only the incredibly elongated fingers, with no wing membranes attached. The final finger bone was tapered to a sharp point. In lightning movements, lancers used these to spear fish swimming near the surface. Toroca had even seen one lancer simultaneously spear separate fish on both its left and right fingers, then nibble the still-thrashing meals off the skewers, alternating bites between them.
Anchors—so named because their beaks and skull crests gave them the appearance of a sailing ship’s holdfast—had lost their arms altogether but still had the breastbones that betrayed their wingfinger affinities.
Wingfingers. Every single one.
How they got here was obvious… unless you thought about it.
After all, wingfingers could fly, so they’d simply come here from Land, perhaps thousands of kilodays ago.
Except.
Except that many of these wingfingers could not fly. Anchors had no wings; divers had flippers instead of wings; stilts and shawls and scooters had forelimbs useless for flight.
All right, then. They swam here from Land.
But the stilts couldn’t do that; as far as Toroca could tell, they could barely swim at all. And, besides, if these creatures could swim that great distance, why did none of them ever come back to Land? Why was every one of these animals completely unknown?
They must have flown here.
They must have.
And then—
Changed.
Changed!
Toroca shook his head. Madness! An animal cannot change from one thing to another…
And yet. And yet. And yet.
Apparently they had.
It baffled him, but he would figure it out. He would.
He looked out the single porthole, patterns of frost crisscrossing its surface, the leather curtain folded back like a flying reptile’s wing.
A new day was dawning.
Dybo found himself making the hike out to Rockscape for the second time recently. It was a warm day, insects buzzing, wingfingers wheeling overhead, a silvery haze turning the sky almost blue. As he approached the arrayed boulders, Dybo’s claws leapt out.
Afsan, Cadool, and even Gork were prone on the ground. For one horrible moment, Dybo thought that they, too, had been murdered, but at last Gork, ever vigilant, lifted its head and tasted the air with its forked tongue. Cadool awoke a moment later, with a yawn. He clamped the side of his muzzle to indicate silence, and walked with his loping gate to join the Emperor, several tens of paces from where Afsan lay.
“He’s sleeping,” whispered Cadool. “It’s the first time in many days that he’s slept so soundly.”
Dybo bent his neck to look up at the lanky Cadool. “There’s been another murder,” he said simply.
Cadool’s tail swished. “Who?”
“Yabool.”
“I’ll wake him,” said Cadool.
“No, perhaps he should sleep. There’s nothing he can do.”
Cadool shook his head. “Forgive me, Your Luminance, but it’s like the hunt. The quarry will get away if the trail grows cold. I know Afsan will be angry if he’s not told at once.”
It was not wise to be too close to one who was waking up. Standing where he was, Cadool shouted out, “Afsan!”
A threat, a challenge. Even from here, Dybo and Cadool could see Afsan’s claws leap out. The savant lifted his head, opened his jaws to show sharp teeth. And then it passed. Claws slid back into their sheaths. “Cadool?”
“Afsan, Emperor Dy-Dybo is here. He needs to speak to you.”
Afsan pushed up off the ground. Still slightly groggy, he leaned back on his tail for a moment to steady himself, then walked in the direction he’d thought Cadool’s voice had come from. Normally, Afsan had impeccable hearing, but having just awoken he was heading at a tangent to the course he should have taken. Cadool and Dybo walked over to intercept him, although, of course, each came no closer than about five paces from the other.
“Ho, Afsan,” said Dybo. “I cast a shadow in your presence.”
“And I in yours. You need to see me?”
“Yes, my friend. Lean back on your tail, please.”
Afsan did so, a stable tripod stance.
“Afsan, there’s been another murder. Your son Yabool is dead.”
Afsan did stagger visibly, but his tail held him upright. “Yabool…” he said. “The same way?”
Dybo nodded. “The same.”
“I must examine the place where it occurred.”
“Of course,” said Dybo. “Are you ready?”
“I’ll never be ready,” said Afsan softly. “But this must be done.”
The three of them walked silently back to the city, Cork padding along behind.
The details differed, of course, but the overall picture was the same. Yabool had been lying on a dayslab, the angled piece of marble overhanging a worktable. The slab had supported his torso as he’d worked, but his neck and head had extended past the end of the stone pallet. His neck had been cut from the side, and a deluge of blood had completely covered the top of the desk. The mirror fragment was smaller this time, but although it had cracked, it was still in one piece, lying on the tabletop, fused to it by a crust of dried, flaking blood. A piece of wooden frame ran along two adjacent sides of the fragment. The wood, as before, looked like hamadaja.
Yabool had been killed some time ago—perhaps yesterday, perhaps even the day before. The crust of blood on the floor showed a couple of footprints, but they’d been badly distorted by the swishing of a tail through the mess.
On the way to Yabool’s apartment, Afsan, Cadool, and Dybo had had to pass near Gathgol’s establishment, so they had brought him along as well.
Gathgol used his claws to pry the mirror out of the crust of blood. “We’re in luck,” he said, holding the mirror up to a lamp flame. “There is a maker’s mark this time. ‘Hoo-Noltith, Chu.’ ”
“Chu’toolar,” said Afsan.