Babnol turned her head away from the wall and faced Toroca. Her teeth were clicking.
“Why are you amused?” asked Toroca.
“Well, it’s a good story, my friend,” she said. “But it can’t be true. An animal cannot change from one thing into something else. What nonsense!”
“I am coming to believe that an animal can change,” said Toroca.
“How? I’ve never seen an animal change. Well, yes, I’ve seen tadpoles change into frogs, and larvae into adult insects, but that’s not the kind of change you’re talking about.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You’re talking about changing completely, from one…one…”
“One species.”
“From one species into another.”
“That’s right.”
Babnol’s teeth clicked again. “But how could that happen? A wingfinger can no more decide that it will grow swimming paddles than I can decide that I’ll grow wings. A thing is what it is.”
Toroca’s voice was soft. “Forgive me, dear Babnol, but have you looked at yourself in a mirror?”
Babnol’s tone suddenly grew as frosty as the air. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, you have a horn growing from your muzzle.”
Defensive: “Yes. So?”
“Have you wondered how it got there?”
Babnol sighed. “Many times.”
“It’s a change, a novelty, something that’s never before existed. You have a characteristic that your parents lacked.”
“It was God’s will,” said Babnol, her muzzle, as usual, tilted haughtily up. “I do my best to accept it.”
Toroca thought about telling her how fascinating, how appealing, how attractive the growth was, but was afraid of what her reaction might be. Instead: “Don’t be angry, Babnol, but I think perhaps it has nothing to do with God. I have begun to suspect that changes can occur spontaneously. Usually such a change would be of no value one way or another: your retention of the birthing horn is neither a hindrance nor a help to you. It just is. Sometimes, though, a change might be undesirable. For instance, your horn could have completely obscured your vision. That would have been a terrible disadvantage. On the other hand, rarely, a change might be advantageous. If your horn were longer and perhaps placed slightly differently, it might make a formidable hunting aid.”
“It is just what it is,” said Babnol, still defensive. “No more, no less. You are making me uncomfortable talking about my deformity.” She turned back to face the wall.
Toroca instantly regretted using her as an example. “I’m sorry,” he said, wanting to reach out, to touch her, to soothe her hurt. “Let’s—let’s talk only of wingfingers, then. Consider one that arrived here, but had a thicker coat of fur than its companions. It would have an advantage over them. Likewise, a wingfinger with thick stubby wings—perhaps of little use for flying—might find they made very serviceable swimming paddles.”
Still facing the wall: “I suppose.”
“So you can see that the creatures here might have arisen from normal wingfingers.”
“Or,” said Babnol, “perhaps God just made them this way from the start.”
“But why on the body plan of a wingfinger?” asked Toroca.
“Why not?”
“Well, because it’s not efficient.”
Babnol’s tone showed she was still upset. “Using a tried-and-true design seems efficient to me. Our shipwrights do that, for instance.”
“But the wingfinger design is not efficient for anything except flying. Look at the paddles of a diver; they’re not nearly as effective as, say, the fins of a fish.”
Babnol had brought a hand up to cover her horn. “The handiwork of God is perfection—by definition.”
“But the creatures here are not perfect,” said Toroca. “It’s in the imperfections, the making-do with what’s available, that we see evidence for a mechanism of creating new species other than God’s own hand.”
Babnol turned now to face him, the ship swaying back and forth beneath her. “Changing from one thing to something else?” she said. “Toroca, all my life I’ve tried to fit in, despite this deformity.” Her voice was edged like a hunter’s claw. “And now you’re saying it means I’m less of a Quintaglio than you are.”
Toroca immediately rose to his feet. “No, I’m not saying that at all—”
But it was too late.
Babnol stormed out the cabin door.
Capital City: The Hall of Worship
The new Hall of Worship was different from its predecessor. The old one had reflected Larsk’s worldview. It was bisected by a channel of water, representing what was once thought to be a vast river down which the rocky island of Land floated, and its roof was a high dome, painted in roiling bands, representing the Face of God.
That Hall had been damaged beyond repair in the last great landquake. This one, at the order of Dybo, had been built with no reference to the outdated view of creation. It was vital that everyone accept and understand that the world was a water-covered moon, companion to a giant, gas-shrouded planet. Henceforth, Halls of Worship would not contradict that truth.
Fortunately there was much more to Quintaglio religion than just the relatively recent prophecies of Larsk. This new Hall resurrected much of the ancient imagery. Central was a giant sculpture of God Herself, a pre-Larskian rendition, looking every bit like a regal and serene Quintaglio. God’s arms were gone, chewed off between the shoulder and the elbow.
The circular chamber had ten niches built into its perimeter, and each niche contained a sculpture of one of the ten original Quintaglios, hunters alternating with mates. No direct worship of the original five hunters was practiced here, but they, and the five males that came after them, were still revered as the first children of God, born from her very fingers. The niches were just out of touch, for a channel of water ran around the circumference of the room. Ceremonies involving marching through water still figured prominently in Quintaglio worship, but the water was no longer thought of as a representation of the great mythical river.
Afsan entered through the secondary doorway, an arch outlined with polished agate tiles, between the niches holding the statue of the hunter Katoon and that of the first-crafter, Jostark.
“Det-Bogkash?” Afsan called into the chamber. The name echoed off the stone walls.
A moment later, from the far side of the circular room, Priest Bogkash appeared. He entered through a hidden doorway, sculpted to look like part of the ornate bas-relief that covered the curving walls, a portal to his inner sanctum nestled between the statues of Mekt, hunter and original bloodpriest, and Detoon the Righteous, first member of the clergy.
“Permission to enter your territory?” called Afsan.
“Hahat dan.” said Bogkash, peering in Afsan’s direction. “Is that you, Sal-Afsan? I can barely see you in this light.”
“You still have me at an advantage,” said Afsan, teeth clicking in forced good humor as he stepped farther into the room. “Yes, it’s me.”
Bogkash closed the gap between them, but only slightly—a gesture of peace that did not arouse territoriality. “It’s rare to see the palace’s chief savant at the Hall of Worship.”
Afsan accepted the gibe stoically.
“You need perhaps some comforting?” offered Bogkash. “I heard, of course, about Haldan and Yabool. I didn’t know them well, but I understand they were friends of yours.”
“They were my children,” said Afsan simply.
“So it is said. Frankly, I don’t know what that means. I don’t understand these matters at all. But I do know what it is to lose a friend, and I take it, child or not, that Haldan and Yabool were indeed your friends.”
“Yes. Yes, they were.”
“Then accept my condolences. I’ve been to Prath for Haldan, and plan to make it out there again to say a prayer over Yabool’s body.”
“That would be most welcome,” said Afsan. “They had eac
h taken both rites of passage, but, well, the circumstances of their deaths were not normal—”
“Oh, their acceptance into heaven is not in danger, Afsan, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But, no, that’s not what’s worrying me, not exactly.”
“Well?” Bogkash said.
“I’ve come to ask you if you know anything about the disappearance of Mek-Maliden.”
“Afsan, I am a priest in the order of Detoon the Righteous. Maliden is a bloodpriest in the order of Mekt. These are entirely different categories of the ministry.”
“Maliden is imperial bloodpriest,” said Afsan, “and you are Master of the Faith, and, therefore, primary priest to the Emperor. Surely you and Maliden must have interacted often and known each other well.”
“Afsan, you were training to be an astrologer; that was a science. Do you therefore automatically know Pas-Harnal, a metallurgist who lives in this city? He is a scientist, too. All holy people no more make up a single community than do all savants.”
“In point of fact, I do know Harnal, although not well.” Afsan’s tail swished. “Surely you must know something of the bloodpriest?”
“Yes, of course, I know Maliden, but we rarely had contact, and no, I do not know where he’s gone, although I must say that if I had done what he is accused of—tampering with imperial succession—I’d have left town, too.”
“We have reason to suspect that Maliden has not left town.”
“What? Why?”
In the flickering light, Afsan couldn’t avoid a direct question. “We think he may have had something to do with the murders.”
Bogkash’s teeth clicked derisively. “Maliden? A murderer? Afsan, first, he’s very, very old. Second, he’s gentle to a fault.”
“Well,” said Afsan, “I’m open to other suggestions. Do you know anything that might help identify the killer or killers? Anything you might have learned in your professional capacity?”
There was a moment’s silence. Perhaps Bogkash was thinking. “Why, no, Afsan, not a thing.”
Pal-Cadool moved out of the shadows.
“He’s lying.”
Suddenly the priest wheeled, his white robe flowing around him, claws glinting in the wan torchlight. “What is this impudence?” said Bogkash.
“Forgive me,” said Afsan, “but my associate says you are not telling the truth.”
“I am. He’s the one who is lying.”
“Cadool would not lie to me.”
“Cadool, is it? A butcher? You take the word of a butcher over a priest?”
“Cadool is no longer a butcher. He is my assistant. And I take his word over anyone’s.”
“But I’m telling the truth,” said Bogkash.
“You thought to lie to me,” said Afsan simply. “A blind person can’t see if you are lying. But Cadool is my eyes in these matters. Now, I ask you again, do you have any knowledge of the death of my daughter and my son?”
Bogkash looked at Afsan, then Cadool. “Surely what happens here, in the Hall of Worship, is private.”
“Is it? Whenever I had to do penance here as an apprentice, your predecessor, Det-Yenalb, would later discuss it with my master, Tak-Saleed.”
“Saleed and Yenalb died ages ago. You must have been just child then.”
“Shy of my first hunt. That makes a difference?”
“Well, of course.”
“Haldan is—was—little older now than I was then. She’d only taken her pilgrimage three kilodays ago. And Yabool, of course, was the same age as Haldan.” A pause. “Regardless, I have imperial authority for this investigation.” Afsan had no need of a document bearing Dybo’s cartouche to assert this; his muzzle declared that the stated authority was genuine. “Answer my questions.”
Bogkash appeared to consider. At last he said, “About Haldan and Yabool, I know little. But another of your children—the one who works on the docks…”
“Drawtood.”
“Yes, Drawtood. He has been here often of late, walking the sinner’s march, circling the Hall over and over again.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
“An unburdening of guilt must be freely offered. I note which individuals enter and leave the Hall at times other than normal services, but I don’t normally engage them in conversation. Even here, the rules of territoriality apply most of the time.”
“But you know nothing about Haldan or Yabool, only Drawtood?”
“That’s right.”
“Why bring it up, then?” asked Afsan. “What’s he got to do with them?”
Bogkash shrugged. “You tell me.”
Chapter 30
The Dasheter
The surveying of the polar cap required sailing right around it. Fortunately it was quite small, so its circumnavigation only took a few dekadays.
Still, sailing east meant that the Dasheter was soon on the side of the world that looked upon the Face of God.
Everybody aboard had seen the Face at least once, when they took their pilgrimage voyage at the passage into adulthood. But the spectacle from here at the bottom of the world was shockingly different from the one they had beheld in equatorial waters.
At the equator, the Face went through phases from top to bottom. Here it waxed from side to side. On pilgrimage voyages, the yellow and brown and white bands of cloud striped the Face vertically. Here they roiled across it horizontally. When seen from warm waters, the Face was squished so that it appeared taller than it was wide. Here, in the Antarctic, it was oblate, apparently compressed vertically.
It all made sense when one looked at that newest of fads—a globe of the world—for a Quintaglio standing at the south pole was indeed perpendicular to one at the equator, therefore rotating the frame of reference through a quarter of a circle. Indeed, after seeing the Face both ways—waxing like a winking eye at the latitudes of Land; waning like a rounded door down here at the southern ice cap—one could no longer doubt that the world was indeed a sphere.
From this far south, though, much of the Face was always below the horizon, because, as Toroca understood, the plane of the world’s orbit around the Face was through the world’s equator, so that here, near the pole, they were looking down upon the Face from a height equal to the radius of their world. It meant that when the Face was crescent, it appeared as a great curving horn rising up from the horizon, stretching toward the zenith, as though some great beast lurked just beyond the edge of the world.
But when the curtains of aurora danced around it, nothing was more beautiful than the Face of God. Toroca, who’d been anxious to leave, to get back to warmer climes, and to speak to other scholars about his theory, could have tarried here forever, drinking in the sight of that wonderful, spellbinding planet.
The Dasheter had begun its long voyage home. The ice had disappeared over the southern horizon, and each night more of the old familiar stars became visible. Toroca took note of the position of the constellation of the Hunter—known for a time, but no more, as the constellation of the Prophet. It was hugging the northern horizon, but as the Dasheter pressed on toward Land, it would move higher and higher with each passing night.
Toroca and Babnol were supposed to still be on opposite sleeping schedules, but he had stayed up tonight to speak with her. She had come up on deck after sunset to enjoy the stars. Temperatures still plummeted too much at night to be on deck for more than about a daytenth after the sun had slipped below the waves. Toroca saw her, leaning against the railing that ran around the edge of the ship’s aft diamond-shaped hull. He moved over to her, the splashing of waves against the ship masking his footsteps.
“I’m sorry,” he said at once, before any ritual exchange of greetings, before she had a chance to get away.
She looked up, startled. She was wearing her snowsuit but had the hood unstrapped, so he could clearly see her black, intelligent eyes; her graceful, almost tapered muzzle; and her horn, the yellowish-white cone that had hurt them bot
h.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said at last. He moved over to the railing and leaned on it as well. Together, they watched the beauty of the night, the air somehow not seeming cold at all.
There was a shout from the lookout bucket.
Surely not land so soon? Toroca looked up. Biltog, who seemed to be making a career of sitting in the bucket atop the foremast, was scrambling frantically out of that bucket and down the web of ropes. He was yelling something, but Toroca couldn’t make it—
“—deck!” shouted Biltog. “Clear the deck!”
Toroca spun around and looked over the little railing around the edge of the Dasheter’s foredeck. He couldn’t see—oh, God…
A giant wave was barreling toward the Dasheter, its crest a wild, roiling white, its body a wall of blue-gray fury.
“Clear the deck!” shouted Biltog again. “Get below!”
Toroca needed no further prodding. He ran for the nearest accessway leading down. Others were doing the same. Crew members were furiously locking down the hatches over the entrances—
And then it hit.
The ship rolled far to starboard. Toroca, on the little step-ladder just below deck, held on for his life, his claws digging into the wood. Little lizards went skittering across the floor—he’d heard that the Dasheter, like most ships, had a degree of lizard infestation, but this was the first he’d seen of them. The ship’s timbers groaned in agony. Toroca felt his stomach turning inside out. Down below, he could see Babnol, prone on the floor.
The Dasheter continued to list, farther and farther. One of the boards making up the stepladder splintered in two. The ladder was almost horizontal now, the whole ship practically knocked on its side.
And then—
Swinging back the other way, rolling to port, back, back, farther, Toroca spraining his arm as he tried to hold on, the ship’s lumber moaning under the stress.
And then, at last, the ship stabilized.
Captain Keenir was moving up and down the corridors. “That should be it for a few moments,” he called in his gravelly voice. “But get to your quarters and lie down on the floor. There’ll likely be two or three more.”