Fra’toolar
Toroca looked up at the night sky.
He reflected that he was a child of the new universe, conceived by Afsan and Novato in the very moment at which the two of them, pooling what they had learned through her far-seers, came realize the shape of space, the structure of the cosmos.
Before then, the Face of God was an object of veneration, not merely a planet, and the other planets were just points in the night, not distinct spheres. Before then, the moons were something unto themselves, instead of more examples of what the world was — globes spinning around the Face of God. Before then, the rings around the planets Kevpel and Bripel were unknown. Before then, the sky river was thought to be the reflection of the great body of water that Land was said to float upon, instead of, as Toroca himself had seen through lenses, countless stars.
Before then, too, the world was simpler, for it was Afsan’s work, and the work of his master, the great Tak-Saleed, that had demonstrated that the world was doomed, its orbit about the Face too close to be stable.
But now the universe was even more complex, for other beings apparently lived on one of the objects in the night sky, strangers who had visited this world once, long ago, leaving behind one of their ships and, apparently, their cargo of plants and animals.
Did the strangers live on one of the other moons of the Face of God? On Swift Runner? Slowpoke? The Guardian? The thirteen other moons had been observed now for kilodays through the finest far-seers from the tops of the tallest mountains. None seemed to have liquid seas or fertile land.
Could the strangers have come from another planet? It seemed clear that the closer one moved toward the sun, that brilliant white point that lit the world, the hotter it would be. Likewise, moving farther away would plunge a world into cold, more bitter than even that of the ice caps. No, the inner planets, Carpel. Patpel, and Davpel, were surely barren and scorched, and distant Gefpel, seeming almost unmoving in the night sky, must be chilled beyond all imagining. Perhaps Kevpel, next closest to the sun from here. Or perhaps Bripel, one planet farther out. Or perhaps one of their moons, those tiny points that could be seen to accompany them through a far-seer.
Or perhaps from somewhere else, somewhere much farther away.
The sun was tiny but hot, showing a barely perceptible disk.
There were those who said the other stars were also suns, just farther away.
And if those suns had planets…
And if those planets had moons…
The strangers could have come from any one of them.
From one with a longer day…
A longer day! Quintaglios slept every other day because they’d originated on a world with a day perhaps twice as long, and, despite all the time that they’d been on this world, they’d somehow been unable to acclimatize to sleeping more frequently…
And yet … the once-a-year mating cycle had adapted to the rhythms of this world, apparently.
They’d been here long enough to become attuned to this world in most ways, but still, deep within their beings, there were ties to whatever crucible they’d originally formed in.
Toroca stared up at the firmament, at the wide awe and wonder of the night.
One of those points of light, perhaps, was that crucible. He wondered if they would ever discover which one.
*44*
The arena
The compartments in Capital City’s stadium had been designed to each hold a single spectator. But one compartment had had its dayslab removed so that it could accommodate both Afsan and his assistant, Pal-Cadool, sitting on small stools. Cadool’s territoriality was not aroused by Afsan; the blind Quintaglio had always been a special case to him.
"Describe everything for me, please," said Afsan.
Cadool craned his neck to look up and out of the compartment’s opening. "There are a few clouds in the sky — the tubular, twisty kind that look like spilled entrails." Cadool paused, clicked his teeth. "Say, that’s appropriate, isn’t it?" His words were drawn out, protracted along the same stretched lines as his whole wiry frame. "The sky itself is bright mauve today. The sun is still rising, of course. It’s passing behind a cloud just now. There are three, no, four moons visible in the sky, two showing crescent faces, the other two gibbous."
Afsan nodded. "That would be Big One, Gray Orb, Dancer, and Slowpoke."
"Yes."
"What about the crowd?"
"Because of the way the compartments are laid out, no one else is directly visible from here. But I’m told every compartment is filled today."
"Good. What’s about to happen must be widely seen if it is to have any meaning."
"Don’t worry. I understand every newsrider from Capital province is in attendance, as well as many from the outlying areas."
"How does the field look?" asked Afsan.
"The grass covering it is a mixture of brown and green, but it’s quite even — they’ve done a good job of fixing it up for this event. There aren’t any exposed patches of dirt anymore. You know the field is diamond shaped? Orange powder has been laid down, marking the east-west and north-south axes, so the diamond is split into four triangular quadrants." Cadool was quiet for a moment, then: "Afsan, will Dybo win?"
"I’m not an astrologer anymore, Cadool. Never really was one. My master died before he taught me the interpretation of omens."
"But you have a plan?"
"Even a plan requires much luck."
A steady drumbeat began from down below. "Ah," said Cadool, "here come the contestants."
"Describe them, please."
"They’re entering from almost directly beneath us — there’s a door into the arena at ground level there, right at the mid-point of the diamond. Dybo is leading the procession. He’s got on a very thick red belt, but no sash. I guess sashes would be too dangerous. Anyway, the belt makes it easy to tell it’s him. The other seven are following him, each about five paces behind. Each one’s wearing a similar belt, with the color of his or her home province."
Cheers went up, spectators from each province rooting for their champion. The cheers for Dybo were the loudest.
"It’s been kilodays since I’ve had to worry about things such as memorizing provincial colors," said Afsan above the hubbub. "I don’t remember the scheme."
"Of course," said Cadool. "Dybo is wearing imperial red. Kroy, from Arj’toolar, is wearing white. Spenress, from Chu’toolar, has donned light green. Wendest, from Fra’toolar, sports black — or maybe it’s dark blue, hard to tell. Dedprod, from Kev’toolar, is wearing light blue. Emteem — he’s from Jam’toolar — has a belt of gold. The belt of Nesster, from Mar’toolar, is pink. And Rodlox, from Edz’toolar, who started all this, wears brown." Cadool had one of Novato’s best handheld far-seers with him. He brought it up to his left eye. "Dybo looks nervous, Afsan."
"I’m glad to hear that," said Afsan. "A great hunter once said to me, ’Fear is the counselor.’ Cockiness will get him killed. He’s wise to be afraid."
"The blackdeath will be hungry," said Cadool. "They’ve starved it for twenty days. It may eat every one of them as it is."
"Perhaps," said Afsan softly.
A gong sounded below. Everyone turned their heads toward the entrance at the north end of the playing field, except for Afsan, who turned his head perpendicular to the noise, the better to hear it.
"They’re opening the beast gate now," said Cadool. This door led directly to the stone-walled pen the great hunter had been kept in for several hundred days, awaiting the arrival of all the challengers.
Afsan nodded. "I can hear the ratcheting of the mechanism."
"And here comes the blackdeath…"
A hush fell over the arena, except for some wingfingers who had been circling, wondering what was going on. They shrieked at the sight of the great carnivore coming slowly through the gateway.