Fossil Hunter

  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.

  Capital City

  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.

  “That’s right,” said Gathgol. “As I’d suspected.”

  Cadool, Gathgol, and Dybo scoured the scene for further clues, while Afsan stood by, listening intently to their running commentaries.

  “This one would be a lot harder to pull off than the last,” said Gathgol.

  “How do you mean?” said Afsan.

  “Well, Haldan had been seated on a stool, facing a wall, her back to the room. It would not have been too difficult to approach her from the rear. But this dayslab is quite central in the room, and so Yabool would have had quite a wide field of view. Either he was very absorbed in what he was writing—his left middle claw is covered with ink, so that is doubtless what he was doing—or else his assailant approached with great stealth.”

  “What had Yabool been writing?” asked Afsan.

  “I’m afraid we may never know,” said Gathgol. “His piece of writing leather was completely covered with blood, and, as if that weren’t bad enough, his pots of ink and solvent have been knocked over and spilled upon the sheet. He might have been quite intent on the work, but there’s no way to tell.”

  “And if he was not intent, then the killer approached—”

  “With stealth,” said Gathgol. “You know, like a hunter.”

  “A hunter,” repeated Afsan.

  “That’s right.”

  “I can’t imagine a hunter committing murder,” said Cadool. “The hunt purges feelings of violence and aggression.”

  “Usually,” said Afsan, perhaps remembering his own few, spectacular hunts. He looked in the direction of Gathgol’s voice. “A hunter, you say?”

  Gathgol nodded. “It’s a possibility.”

  “A hunter,” Afsan said again, filing away the idea in a corner of his mind.
“Any other possibilities?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “He’s—” began Cadool.

  “Yes, I was lying,” said Gathgol. “I’m sorry, it’s just that, well, I’m afraid to mention this suggestion out loud.” He looked nervously in the direction of Dybo, who was leaning back on his tale, listening intently.

  “What you say will go no farther than this room,” said Afsan, “and, believe me, I’m the last person who would punish someone for expressing an unpopular thought.”

  “Well,” said Gathgol, “have you considered the possibility that the murderer might be a disgruntled bloodpriest?”

  “No,” said Afsan, “I have not. What makes you think that?”

  “Well, forgive me,” said Gathgol, “but, umm, I’ve heard the tale of how your eight children came to be allowed to live. The bloodpriests thought you were The One foretold by Lubal. Perhaps now, ah, some bloodpriest feels that judgment was a mistake, and a renegade may have tried to set the matter straight, so to speak.”

  “And kill my children?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “A disgruntled bloodpriest,” said Afsan, thinking. “But the current imperial bloodpriest is missing—”

  “In the historical records, murderers often disappear,” said Gathgol. “The imperial bloodpriest is Mek-Maliden, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Dybo from across the room. “But Maliden is out of town.”

  “Oh. You’ve sent him away on a mission, then?”

  “No,” said Dybo. “It’s just that his bags are missing.”

  Gathgol nodded. “Forgive me, Your Luminance, but, ah, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s left Capital City. Perhaps he only wants to give the appearance of having done so.”

  Dybo turned to Afsan. “Maliden is a criminal once already, in many people’s eyes,” he said, “if he in fact was responsible for a deception involving the hatching of myself and the other imperial egglings. If he’s committed one crime, why not another?”

  Afsan appeared to consider this. “Mek-Maliden,” he said softly. “Perhaps.” He looked at Gathgol. “Any other thoughts?”

  “No,” said the undertaker.

  “Your muzzle…” said Cadool.

  “I cannot speak this one,” said Gathgol.

  “Come on,” said Dybo. “Whatever it is, go ahead.”

  Gathgol shook his head.

  “You have nothing to fear simply by stating an idea,” said Afsan. “Speak up.”

  “I can’t. Not with…”

  “Not with what?” said Afsan. “Not with—not with the Emperor here, is that it?”

  “You can say anything you like in front of me, Gathgol,” said Dybo. “I give you leave to do so.”

  “But you will be angry…”

  “Perhaps. But I will not punish you for your words.”

  “It’s all right,” said Afsan. “Tell us.”

  Gathgol swallowed. His tail swished back and forth. “Well, until your children came along, Afsan, The Family was the only group that knew who its relatives were.”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me, Your Luminance, but that was a very special privilege. Perhaps some member of The Family objected to the same privilege being accorded to someone else.” He looked briefly at Dybo, then dropped his head.

  “That’s all right, undertaker,” said Dybo. “It’s a valid thought.” The Emperor turned to face Cadool and Afsan. “I did not commit the murders,” he said out loud, and turned his head from side to side so that all of them could see his muzzle. “What about those who are said to be my siblings?”

  “They’ve been showing up for the challenge battle with the blackdeath,” said Afsan. “Several have already arrived.”

  Dybo nodded. “They don’t have to be here until the 666th day of this kiloday, but, yes, Dedprod and Spenress are already here.”

  “Spenress,” said Afsan. “She’s the apprentice governor from Chu’toolar, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Dybo.

  “And the mirror used for the killings came from Chu’toolar.”

  “Indeed,” said Cadool. “But, of course, Chu’toolar is very close to Capital province, especially if she came by boat. It’s not surprising that she’s arrived early.”

  “None of the others are here yet?” said Afsan.

  “Well, Rodlox, of course,” said Dybo, “who started all this challenge nonsense.”

  “Yes,” said Afsan. “He certainly has enough anger in him.”

  “And he has flouted our laws already in defying the Emperor,” said Cadool.

  “Yes,” said Afsan. He was silent for a time. “First Haldan, then Yabool,” he said.

  “That suggests,” said Gathgol slowly, “that, whoever the killer might be, your other children are perhaps at risk.”

  “I’ll order imperial guards to accompany them,” said Dybo.

  Afsan nodded. “Thank you.”

  Cadool’s tail swished. “It’s all so insane.”

  “Yes,” said Afsan. “Insane.”

  Chapter 29

  The Dasheter

  She had come to his quarters—come of her own volition, come without him having to seek her out.

  Unlike other Quintaglios, Toroca was never startled by the sounds of claws on a signaling plate, and the little ticking noises from outside his cabin door this morning were no exception. Still, his heart did leap slightly. There were so few possibilities of who it might be. One of the other surveyors, perhaps, yes. Maybe Keenir. Maybe Biltog.

  Maybe Babnol.

  He called out, “Hahat dan”—a little too eagerly, a little too loudly.

  But it was she.

  The door swung open, the squeaking hinges a counterpoint for the creaking of the ship’s wooden hull. “Good morning, Toroca,” she said.

  “And good morning to you, Babnol. Did you sleep well?”

  “No. I was up half the night, thinking.”

  “About?”

  “About the creatures we’ve found here. The divers and shawls and stilts.”

  Toroca was beaming. “We’re two of a kind, then, good Babnol. I have spent the last several nights—and days—thinking about the very same things.” He gestured at the sketches and notes that covered his desk.

  She came a pace into the room, turned, closed the door behind her, and leaned back on her tail. “They’re all wingfingers,” she said.

  Toroca nodded.

  “And yet—I’m not a savant, Toroca. Explain it to me. Why should they all be wingfingers? Why are there no other kinds of animal here?” It was fairly cramped in this room that used to be Afsan’s quarters. Babnol had been standing as far away from Toroca as possible. Indeed, after a moment, she turned away, a common response to a feeling of crowding. She looked at the knotty planks making up the cabin wall.

  “All right,” said Toroca, “I’ll try—but I’m not yet completely sure myself. Consider this: our world has one landmass, Land. It happens to be on the equator, which is the warmest part of the world. Most of the lifeforms that live there, regardless of whether they are warm-blooded or cold-blooded, have either scales or naked skin. In other words, next to no bodily insulation.”

  “Insulation?”

  “An external covering to keep heat in or the cold out. Like the thick snowsuits we wear here. But, of course, we don’t really need insulation back on Land. The climate there is always warm, and most of the warm-blooded animals are quite large.”

  “I’m not following you, Toroca.”

  “The larger you are, the less skin you have per unit volume. Since it’s through the skin that an animal can lose heat, large size is a good thing to have if you are an uninsulated warm-blooded animal. Body volume increases with the cube; skin surface area increases with the square.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Sorry.” Toroca clicked his teeth. “I forget not everyone had my father for a teacher. The physics is not important; simply accept that large animals—and even
we Quintaglios are large, compared to lizards and snakes—have less of a need for insulation. The mere fact of our bulk helps us keep a constant body temperature.”

  “All right.”

  “But wingfingers tend to be small. Yes, they may have huge wingspans, but the actual wingfinger torso is quite tiny. And wings, because they are almost all surface area and have practically no bulk, radiate heat at a great rate. Although wingfingers are warm-blooded, like us, they’d lose all their heat if they didn’t have insulation.”

  “Fur!”

  “Exactly. A wingfinger’s fur helps it retain its body heat. Now, consider this. Here at the south pole, it is cold—”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Indeed, it’s so cold that no amphibians or lizards or snakes are found here at all. The only cold-blooded animals are insects and fish in the waters. On the ice cap itself, there is not one single cold-blooded vertebrate. There cannot be, for cold-blooded vertebrates require heat from the sun, of which, as we’ve observed, there is precious little here.”

  “I get it!” said Babnol. “Wingfingers have both the means to get from Land to here—by flying—and they have their furry body coverings to keep them warm!”

  “Exactly. Only wingfingers could survive here. No cold-blooded vertebrate has a chance. No walking vertebrate could get here, and, even if one could, without insulation, it would die from exposure. Of all the animals in the world, only wingfingers are suited for this place.”

  “But the creatures we’ve found here aren’t simple wingfingers.”

  “No, they’re not.” Toroca gestured at the notes on his desk. “This is the part that I’m having difficulty with. The wingfingers that did fly here, no doubt countless kilodays ago—countless years ago—found an environment in which no other large animals lived. They had no predators here. Some were able to give up flying altogether and take up life on the ice surface. Others went further and learned to dive into the waters. What must have started out as standard flying wingfingers ended up as the wide range of animals we see here. Roles that would have been played by runningbeasts or blackdeaths back on land were unfilled here on the southern ice. Wingfingers seized the opportunities and took over those vacant roles, becoming lords not only of the air but of the ground and the waters as well.”