Foreigner

  The Dasheter was finally close enough to Land that Keenir felt he could risk pulling away from the Other ships, confident that they’d follow the same course the rest of the way in. He unfurled the Dasheter’s two remaining sails, and his ship leapt ahead of the armada, letting the Quintaglios arrive back at Land five days before the Others would get there.

  As soon as the Dasheter had docked, Toroca and Keenir hurried to an audience with Emperor Dybo.

  Garios had immediately told Novato of Dybo’s summons for her to return to Capital City. Garios, of course, wasn’t about to let Novato go back alone to where Afsan was, so they boarded a fast ship and headed out together. But once back in the Capital, Novato had left Garios and gone to see Afsan anyway. When Garios next saw her, she was walking with the blind sage, who was accompanied by his large lizard.

  “Hello, Garios,” said Novato as they drew nearer. “May we enter your territory?”

  Garios looked up, his long muzzle swinging from Novato to Afsan, then back again. “Hahat dan.”

  “It’s a pleasure to be with you again, Garios,” said Afsan.

  “Afsan,” said Garios, somewhat curtly. Then, perhaps regretting his tone, he added, “I cast a shadow in your presence.”

  “And I in yours,” said Afsan.

  There was a protracted silence.

  “I’ve made my choice,” said Novato.

  Garios’s voice betrayed his hope. “Yes?”

  Novato’s tone was soft. “I’m sorry, Garios, but it has to be Afsan again.”

  Garios’s tail swished. “I see.”

  “I know you were hoping otherwise,” said Novato. “Please understand, I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “No,” said Garios. “No, of course not.”

  Afsan’s toeclaws were churning the soil. “However,” he said, “it would be a loss to our species to not have more offspring from one so gifted as you.”

  “That’s kind of you to say,” said Garios, his tone neutral.

  “Will you walk with us?” said Afsan. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Someone I’ve, ah, grown quite close to myself.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Her name is Mokleb,” said Afsan. “Nav-Mokleb.”

  “Oh?” A pause. “May I be so bold to ask how old she is?”

  Afsan shrugged. “I really don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”

  “Oh. I thought perhaps you were getting at…Never mind.”

  “But I think you will find her quite, ah, open to new acquaintances,” said Afsan. “I’ve had a certain amount of trouble resisting her myself. Come along, Garios. She really is a fascinating person.”

  Despite territoriality, Quintaglios in Capital City favored apartment blocks over individual dwellings because they withstood landquakes better and were easier to repair. Novato had been pleased to find her own apartment just as she’d left it when she’d departed the Capital for the Fra’toolar dig; of course, she’d taken all the usual precautions, such as moving breakables off shelves and placing them on the floor before departing on her long trip.

  But all those objects had now been put back up on the shelves, leaving a wide open expanse of floor—an expanse of floor that was just right for what was about to come. She and Afsan lay together on it. The windows were closed, letting Novato’s pheromones build up in the room. They lay there, five paces been them, talking about things that were important to them, about experiences they’d shared together, joys they’d known, and some sorrows, too, talking softly, warmly, intimately, as Novato’s pheromones wafted over them.

  They talked for daytenths on end, teeth clicking freely at fondly remembered times they’d spent together. Finally, intoxicated by the pheromones, his dewlap puffing, Afsan pushed off the floor and, despite his blindness, moved unerringly toward Novato. He placed his hand on her shoulder, touching her, feeling the warmth of her skin. His claws remained sheathed; so did hers. He stroked her shoulder lightly, back and forth, feeling the appealing roughness of her hide. Novato moaned softly.

  And, at last, more than twenty kilodays after the first time, Afsan moved even closer to her still. The two of them savored every moment.

  The next morning, Afsan and Novato woke slowly, their tails overlapping, the euphoria of the night before still upon them. Afsan was expected back at what was now called the war room in the palace office building; final tests of his designs were to be conducted today. He could not touch Novato again, but there was a warmth in her voice that thrilled every part of him. He bade her good day, and called for Cork to lead him on his way. But as they were walking along, Afsan heard the sound of feet approaching. “Who’s there?” he called out.

  “Hello, Afsan. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Toroca!” Afsan’s voice was warm as he reigned Gork in. “Hahat dan, boy, hahat dan. It’s good to hear your voice again.”

  “And yours, Afsan.” Toroca, taking advantage of Afsan’s blindness, allowed himself the luxury of approaching within four paces of the older Quintaglio. Cork padded over to Toroca, tasting the air with a forked tongue.

  “This is a time for reunions,” said Afsan. “Novato is back, too.”

  “I haven’t seen her yet,” said Toroca, “but I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I take it the Dasheter is safely docked, then?” Afsan said, leaning back on his tail.

  “Yes, late last evening. I’ve spent most of the night briefing Dybo.”

  “And did Dybo tell you what we’ve got planned?”

  “Planned—no, I did all the talking. We tried to summon you to join us, but you weren’t at either Rockscape or your apartment.”

  Afsan looked away. “This message you sent by wingfinger—what news about that?”

  Toroca looked his father up and down. It was so very good to see him again. “The Dasheter had no trouble outrunning the Other ships, but they are indeed in hot pursuit. They will be here in four or five days, Keenir estimates.”

  “We will be ready for them,” said Afsan, his voice uncharacteristically hard.

  Toroca’s tail moved nervously. “That’s what I came to speak to you about.”

  Afsan waited.

  “This whole thing, Afsan: it’s our fault. We were the aggressors.”

  “So your missive indicated.” Afsan scrunched his muzzle. “But there’s nothing to be done about that now.”

  “I can’t agree with that,” said Toroca. “I feel an obligation to try to prevent the coming battle.”

  Afsan tilted his head. “Is that possible?”

  “I can interact with the Others, Afsan. My—my lack of territoriality, I guess…it lets me be with them. But so far, I’m the only one they’ve had direct contact with.”

  “If I understand this correctly, you’re the only one they could have contact with.”

  “I don’t think that’s completely true, Afsan. It’s not pheromones that trigger the violent response; when Keenir and I first encountered an Other, she was downwind of us. No, it’s a reaction to the appearance of the Others. The appearance doesn’t affect me, because of the way I am. And, good Afsan, you are blind: it could not affect you.”

  Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he spoke. “Come over here, so you are downwind of me.” Toroca obeyed. “There are not many people I can say such things to, but come closer. Come stand right by me.”

  Toroca moved nearer. “Yes?”

  Afsan turned his muzzle to face his son, then lifted his eyelids.

  “My…God,” said Toroca. “Are they—are they glass?”

  Afsan clicked his teeth lightly at the unexpected suggestion. “No. No, they’re real.”

  “But eyes don’t regenerate, and…and, anyway, it’s been ages since you were blinded.”

  “I had an accident while you were away. I was kicked in the head by a hornface. There was substantial tissue damage. Healer Dar-Mondark thinks that may have something to do with it.”

  Toroca nodded. “Miraculous. I’m sorry;
forgive me, Afsan. I should be jubilant for you. It’s just that I was sure that if you could talk to the Others, you could help me prevent a slaughter. With the world coming to an end, there are more important matters than fighting. But now that you can see again…”

  Afsan’s voice was soft. “I cannot see, Toroca.”

  “But your eyes…”

  “Do not work.”

  “That’s…that’s…”

  “The phrase ‘that’s a kick in the head’ comes to mind,” said Afsan gently. “Unfortunately, the particular kick I got seemed to do only half a job.”

  “I assume there’s something wrong with the way they regenerated, no?” Toroca stared intently into Afsan’s dark orbs, as if trying to see their inner workings. “It has been such a long time, after all.”

  “No. As far as Dar-Mondark can tell, they regenerated perfectly. The problem, he suspects, is in my mind.”

  “Is there nothing that can be done?”

  “I am, ah, undergoing therapy. There’s a chance my sight will return.”

  “How long has this therapy been going on?”

  “Forever, it seems.”

  “What are the chances of the therapy being successful in the next five days?”

  “We’ve had, ah, a major breakthrough. But I still cannot see.”

  “Then perhaps you will risk coming with me to try to meet with the Others.”

  “What could I do?”

  “Your whole life has been devoted to championing reason over emotion. It is irrational for us to be at war. There is an old proverb: only a fool fights in a building that’s on fire. By working with the Others, we can perhaps save both our peoples. I have some vague ideas about how some of their technology could be adapted to spaceflight. But by wasting time on a conflict with them, none of us may get off this world. If they see that more Quintaglios than just myself want peace, perhaps we can convince them to turn back.”

  “And you think these…these Others will be receptive to an envoy of peace?”

  “I don’t know for sure. There is one Other who would be—Jawn is his name—but I’m not even sure if he’s on board one of the boats coming this way. I thought I caught a glimpse of him once through your far-seer, but I can’t be sure.”

  “And what will happen to us if the Others are not receptive?”

  Toroca’s voice did not waver. “They may kill us.”

  “You have never had much stomach for killing, my son,” said Afsan. “I, on the other hand, have been revered as a great hunter.”

  “Of animals, Afsan. The Others are not animals.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t share my view that peace is the way. Dolgar said it: ‘The intelligent person must abhor violence.’ If there’s any chance for peace, I must pursue it.”

  Afsan was quiet for a time. “What do you propose?”

  Toroca’s tail swished. “That we take a small boat out to meet the Others. If my friend Jawn is among them, he will come to talk with us. I know it.”

  “The chances of success are slim,” said Afsan.

  “I know that, too. But I must pursue the possibility.”

  “Nav-Mokleb, the savant helping me with my therapy, believes that anyone who did not undergo the culling of the bloodpriests might be able to interact with Others without falling into dagamant. That would mean your siblings, as well as the Emperor, and his sister Spenress, could have contact with them, too.”

  “What?” said Toroca. Then: “Hmm, an interesting suggestion. But we can’t risk testing it aboard a boat. I’m positive you will be immune because you are blind. And besides, none of those people you mentioned could convince the Others of the danger facing the world. You’ve convinced the Quintaglio population of this; surely you can convince them, too.”

  “All right,” said Afsan slowly. “All right. I will go with you.”

  Toroca had an urge to surge forward and touch Afsan. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Father.”

  Chapter 27

  After his meeting with Toroca, Afsan went to find Pal-Cadool, who, much to Afsan’s surprise, was just returning from his own meeting with Emperor Dybo. Afsan asked Cadool to take him to the Hall of Worship.

  “You? To the Hall of Worship?” Cadool was incredulous.

  “Yes,” said Afsan. “I, ah, have need of a priest.”

  It was quite a distance to the Holy Quarter, and Afsan, as always, walked slowly, feeling his way with his stick. At last they entered the small antechamber of the temple, Gork waiting outside.

  Det-Bogkash, the old Master of the Faith, had been fired by Dy-Dybo in 7128: as part of restoring order after the scandal involving the bloodpriests, Dybo had dismissed all senior clergy serving in the capital. Standing in the antechamber, Afsan called out the name of Bogkash’s successor. “Edklark! Det-Edklark!”

  A heavy, jovial priest, clad in plain white robes, came through a small doorway to greet them. “Do my eyes deceive me,” said Edklark, “or has a miracle occurred right here in my Hall? Has Afsan come to church?”

  Afsan ignored that. “Twenty kilodays ago,” he said, “when I was held prisoner in the palace basement, I was visited by Det-Yenalb, who was Master of the Faith back then.”

  Edklark still seemed bemused. “Yes?”

  “He strongly implied something that shocked me, something I’d never suspected.”

  “And what was that?” said Edklark.

  “Yenalb implied that some priests, including himself, could lie in the light of day—that their muzzles did not flush blue with the liar’s tint.”

  Edklark looked startled. “Yenalb said that?”

  “Not in so many words, but, yes, he did imply it. I still remember exactly what he said: ‘Not every person can be a priest. It takes a special disposition, special talents, special ways.’”

  “And did you believe him?” said Edklark.

  “At the time, my immediate reaction was that he was trying to frighten me, but now I must know the truth about this. Tell me, Edklark, can you lie openly?”

  “Why, no, Afsan. Of course not.”

  “Cadool?”

  “His muzzle remains green,” said Cadool.

  “Unfortunately, that proves nothing, since if you were capable of lying, you could be lying now.”

  Edklark clicked his teeth in what seemed to Afsan to be forced laughter. “Well, then you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “That is the one thing I cannot do,” said Afsan. “Tell me a lie.”

  “Oh, be serious, Afsan. I—”

  “Tell me a lie.”

  “Afsan, I cannot lie inside the Hall of Worship. That would be sacrilege.”

  “Then step outside.”

  “It would be sacrilege there, too, I’m afraid. Once ordained, a priest promises never to speak anything but God’s own truth, even in the depths of night.”

  Afsan pushed his claws out of their sheaths and held his hand in plain sight. “Tell me a lie, you worthless plant, or I will rip your throat out.”

  Cadool’s jaw dropped. “Afsan…”

  “Shut up, Cadool. Priest, I will hear you lie. Don’t provoke me further; three of us here in this confined space is enough to drive anyone to dagamant.”

  “Afsan,” said Edklark, “I cannot lie…”

  Afsan tipped forward from the waist and bobbed his torso, slowly, deliberately. It was clearly a mockery of the instinctual movements, but it was also well known that such play-acting often erupted into the real thing without warning.

  “Lie, priest. The very future of our people is at stake.”

  “You have no authority to give me orders,” said Edklark.

  “I have all the authority I need,” said Afsan, stepping closer to the priest. “You will do as I say.”

  The part of Edklark’s tail visible beyond the hem of his robe was swishing in naked fear. “I have every wish to cooperate,” he said.

  “Then lie, animal dropping! Tell me—tell me th
at you are the Emperor.”

  “His Luminance Dy-Dybo is Emperor,” said Edklark. “It is my honor to serve—”

  Afsan stepped forward again, encroaching further on the priest’s territory. “Claim,” he said, “to be the Emperor yourself.” Afsan left his mouth open after speaking the words, showing serrated teeth.

  “Afsan, I…”

  “Claim it! Claim it right now or die!”

  “I—” Edklark’s voice was attenuated by fear. “I am the Emperor,” he said tremulously.

  “Say it forcefully. Assert it loudly.”

  Edklark swallowed. “I, Det-Edklark, am the Emperor.”

  “Again! With full titles!”

  “I, Det-Edklark, am the Emperor of all the Fifty Packs and the eight provinces of Land.”

  Afsan swung around. “Cadool?”

  Cadool’s voice was full of wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

  “What happened?” demanded Afsan. “Exactly what happened?”

  “Nothing,” said Cadool. “His muzzle didn’t show even a hint of blush. It’s as green as yours or mine.”

  Afsan slapped his tail hard against the marble floor, releasing pent-up energy through the blow, the sound of the impact reverberating throughout the antechamber. “Excellent! Edklark, come with us. There’s a job only you can do!”

  Later that day, Toroca caught sight of Cadool in the Plaza of Belkom, Cadool’s long legs carrying him quickly over the paving stones. “Ho, Cadool!”

  Cadool turned. “Toroca!” He gave a little bow. “Hahat dan. It is good to see you again.”

  Toroca closed some of the distance between them, but left a large—for him—territorial buffer. “And you. Good Cadool, ah, it is said that there is nothing you will not do for Afsan.”

  “It is my honor to be his assistant.”

  “And you know that I am his son.”

  “One of his sons, yes.”

  “I, ah, I know I have no right to ask this, but I wonder if any of your sense of duty to Afsan carries over to me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you are a good and loyal friend to my father, and I would like to think that perhaps I, too, can count on you.”

  “I don’t understand.”