“Oh, indeed, my friend. You are one such for me; I trust you with my life. And I know you likewise trust Cadool, and I like to think myself as well. But, forgive me, old friend, you are, well, particularly blind in matters of trust. You’ve speculated that the killer approached the victims with stealth, but you’ve missed the most obvious interpretation.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. The most obvious interpretation is that Haldan and Yabool knew their killer, and trusted him or her enough to allow the killer to approach them closely.” Afsan looked shocked, but whether at the content of Dybo’s suggestion or at the realization that he’d foolishly failed to consider this possibility himself, the Emperor couldn’t say. Dybo pressed on. “They both apparently let the killer into their homes. They obviously felt no fear in that person’s presence; indeed, felt little territoriality even.”
“Whom would they trust thus?” said Afsan.
“Ah, now, that’s my point!” said Dybo. “Haldan and Yabool might each trust certain of their colleagues. But they had different professions, so there would be no overlap there. They might trust certain of their neighbors. But they lived in different parts of Capital City, so, again, no overlap. But they did both trust their parents, you and Novato.”
Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he said, “And each other.”
“Eh?”
“And they would have trusted each other, Yabool and Haldan. Indeed, all my children would have trusted each other. They were creche-mates, after all. Creche-mates are as one. But why would one relative want to kill another?”
“My brother,” said Dybo, “wants to kill me.”
Afsan was silent again.
“But there you have it. As much as it pains me to suggest it, in addition to bloodpriest Maliden and the other names that have been put forth, you must consider Wab-Novato and your remaining children as suspects.”
“You force me to agree to that which is uncomfortable,” said Afsan.
Dybo clicked his teeth. “Then our roles are reversed, friend, for you once forced me, and all Quintaglios, to agree that the Face of God was not the actual deity.”
There was another silence. Finally, from Afsan: “I’ll consider your suggestion, Dybo, but I prefer still the idea that the killer sneaked up on my children.”
“Of course,” said Dybo, deciding not to push the matter. “Of course.” A pause while he worried a piece of meat from the bone, and then an attempt to change the subject: “By the way, Afsan, did you know that your daughter Dynax is back in Capital City?”
Afsan lifted his head. “No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“Yes, she’s here. Awfully fast trip from Chu’toolar; she must have made very good time.”
“Chu’toolar,” repeated Afsan.
“Wake up, my friend. That’s where Dynax lives, remember?”
“I know that,” said Afsan. “It’s just that mirrors that were used to kill Haldan and Yabool were manufactured in Chu’toolar. And now you say Dynax is here.”
“Yes. To pay respects to her dead siblings.”
“But here so quickly? I wonder just exactly how long she has been in town…”
Toroca was no longer startled when he felt the ground rumble. He, and just about everyone else at the palace, had gotten used to Dybo’s exercising. As the Emperor thundered near, Toroca noticed that there was a much greater gap between the ground and Dybo’s belly than there used to be. He called out, “How many laps today?”
Dybo’s voice came back, ragged with exertion. “Five.” Toroca’s eyelids fluttered. He doubted he could do that many himself.
“Cadool,” said Afsan as they walked down one of the cobblestone streets of Capital City, adobe buildings to their left and right, “you know my daughter Galpook.”
“Yes, indeed. A great hunter! The way her team captured that blackdeath—wonderful.”
“Indeed. You have seen her hunt, then?”
“Oh, yes. I was fortunate enough to go on a hunt with her about a kiloday ago. She has many of your moves, Afsan, and much of the same skill.”
“How is she at tracking?”
“Excellent. She spotted the signs of our quarry long before I did.”
“And in the tracking, did she ever alert the prey?”
“No. She tracks silently.”
“With stealth,” said Afsan.
“Pardon me?”
“With stealth. That’s the word Gathgol used to describe the way in which the murderer might have sneaked up on Yabool. With stealth.”
“Yes, but—” Cadool came to a halt at an intersection. “We’d better not go that way,” he said.
Afsan stopped at once, his walking stick swinging in a slow arc across the paving stones in front of him. “Why not? What’s wrong?”
“It’s too crowded. There must be eight or ten adolescents down there.”
“Children?” said Afsan. “I like children.”
“But so many!” said Cadool. “They’re growing fast; they’re up to my waist already.”
“Children don’t have much scent,” said Afsan. “I could probably pass through such a crowd without difficulty.”
Cadool was unusually edgy. “But I cannot, Afsan. I can see them. And now three other adults have stopped at the next intersection. They, too, don’t know which way to go.” Cadool slapped his tail against the paving stones. “Roots! This congestion is getting unbearable!”
*33*
Toroca tried to maintain a relationship with each of his siblings. Some of them seemed more interested in acknowledging kinship than others. He never forced the issue, but he did enjoy spending time with those who didn’t seem to mind.
There was an exception, though. His brother Drawtood appeared to be uncomfortable around people. In some strange way, that made Toroca even more interested in seeing him, for Drawtood seemed as lonely as Toroca. Toroca’s loneliness came from no one sharing his desire for intimacy. Drawtood’s, on the other hand, seemed self-imposed, as if he went to special lengths to distance himself from the rest of society.
Beyond that, though, there was another reason for the separation between them. Toroca was a geologist. His sister Dynax, a doctor. Brother Kelboon was an authority on mathematics. But Drawtood had never done well academically. He worked on the docks of Capital City, helping to load and unload boats. If it hadn’t been for their shared blood, their lives would probably not intersect at all. Still, each time he came to the Capital, Toroca visited several of his siblings, including, always, Drawtood.
Drawtood’s home was so close to the harbor that the sounds of ship’s bells and drums and the high-pitched calls of wingfingers circling above the docks were a constant background. Toroca entered the vestibule of the adobe building and drummed his claws on the copper signaling plate. Drawtood answered, expressionless as always, and swung the door aside to let Toroca in.
“I brought you a small gift,” said Toroca, fishing in the hip pouch of his sash. “Here.”
The proper way to give a gift was to set it on a tabletop or some other piece of furniture, then to back away so that the recipient could easily fetch it. But Toroca simply held the object out in his palm. He did demand a small price for his presents, and that was that the recipient actually take them from his hand. Drawtood shuffled forward, took the object, his fingers briefly touching Toroca’s hand as he did so, and then scurried to the opposite side of the room.
It was a gemstone polished in a cabochon shape. The material was golden brown and seemed to have a white four-pointed star embedded in its center. The stone was quite lovely, thought Toroca, and although common at traders’ tables in western Land, it was rare here. For Afsan and Novato and his other siblings, he usually brought something that was interesting—a curiosity of some sort, an unusual crystal or intriguing fossil. But Toroca reckoned that such things would hold little appeal for Drawtood, although the laborer did seem to enjoy pretty rocks.