Foreigner

*23*

Afsan came at once to the ruling room. The Emperor read the leather strip containing Toroca’ s message to him. Afsan had Dybo repeat the text twice. Finally, he shook his head. “We don’t stand a chance.”

“Why not?” said Dybo. “My imperial guards are well trained; our hunters have great prowess. Granted, victory will be difficult, but I don’t see why it should be impossible. Besides, if these… these Others are coming here, we have the advantage of fighting on terrain familiar to us.”

“That’s irrelevant.” Afsan’s tail swished. “Consider this: our people are constrained by territoriality. Toroca says the Others are not. We might be able to bring ten or fifteen hunters together, but they can bring a hundred or even a thousand.”

“They’re only bringing forty boats,” said Dybo. “Even a big ship like the Dasheter carries less than twenty people.”

“That’s territoriality again,” said Afsan. “The Dasheter could carry a hundred people if they could be crowded together in multi-bunk rooms like those aboard the alien ark. Those forty ships could contain more people than in all of Capital City. If what Toroca says is correct, they could swarm over us, like insects over dead meat. We will be hopelessly outnumbered.”

“Ah, but we are still true hunters, Afsan. Toroca says these Others need tools to kill animals. We kill with claws and teeth. We don’t need tools.”

Afsan nodded as if Dybo had just made his point for him. “The First Edict of Lubal: ‘A Quintaglio kills with tooth and claw; only such killing makes us strong and pure.’ ”

“That’s right,” said Dybo.

“Don’t you see, though? The use of tools gives the Others advantages. We have to physically connect with our prey, putting ourselves at risk. They may have God knows what to aid them. Pointed sticks launched through the air, perhaps—when I was battling Kal-ta-goot aboard the Dasheter, I wished for such a thing. Or perhaps they use knives not just to strip and cut hides but actually to perform the kill.”

“I’ve never heard of such things,” said Dybo.

“No. Our religion forbids them. But they may use them. And these tools and weapons could amplify their individual abilities, too.”

“We must learn to do the same, then.”

“Easier said than done. Recall the twenty-third scroll: ‘Take not a weapon with you on the hunt, for that is the coward’s way.’ Your brave imperial guards will find it difficult to adopt what they’ve always been taught is a craven approach.”

“So they will outnumber us and be better—what is the word?—equipped?” Dybo looked at Afsan. “Is there nothing in our advantage?”

Afsan leaned back on his tail, thinking. “Well, in his polemic on battles, Keladax once said that the most important thing you on have on your side is moral rectitude: being right in the eyes of God. But even that, I’m afraid, falls to the Others. If I understand Toroca’s note properly, we attacked them first, and—”

“Nothing supersedes my people’s right to survive,” snapped Dybo. “I’d be a poor leader if I didn’t hold that as a sacred truth.” The Emperor’s tail moved left and right. “We are killers to our very core, Afsan. That’s our biggest advantage. That’s why we will be victorious. We kill gladly. We kill easily. We kill for fun. The Others, judging by Toroca’s missive, do not have that trait.” Dybo had a faraway expression, as if visualizing the coming battle. “It’s not often that I can say this, but you are wrong, good Afsan—totally and completely wrong. I know the Quintaglio people.” His voice was determined. “The Others won’t know what hit them.”

Peace. Incredible peace. Calmness, like a still lake. Novato felt no pain, no angst, no guilt, no fear. Just tranquillity, a sense of halcyon simplicity.

And then an image. Like the space tower, with the sun at the top, but not quite. Something similar, yet different. A—a tunnel, with a pure white light at its end, purer and whiter and brighter than the sun itself, but visible without squinting, without pain.

Drifting, as she had within the lifeboat, without weight. Effortless movement. Drifting toward the light, the beautiful, perfect light.

She wasn’t alone; Novato knew that. There were others here, others whom she knew. Familiar presences. Lub-Kaden, the hunt leader from her home Pack of Gelbo. And Irb-Falpom, first director of the Geological Survey of Land. And, and, why, yes, it was! Haldan. Dear sweet Haldan, one of her children by Afsan. And there, a youngster… why, could it be?

And then it came to her, softly, gently, a thought surprising, but not really, a thought that should have been disturbing, but wasn’t disturbing at all.

Lub-Kaden had died on the hunt.

Irb-Falpom, huge and ancient, had passed peacefully in her sleep.

And Haldan—Haldan’s passage had been hastened by her insane brother.

And the child… surely this was little Helbark. Helbark, who had died of fever. Dead.

All of them. Dead.

Just like me.

But then another form appeared, a familiar form. Why, it was Karshirl, her daughter by Garios. She was all but lost in the glare of the strange white light. Ah, then this was a dream, surely, for Karshirl was still alive, was waiting for her down at the base of the tower. Strange, though, the way the younger female stood there, as if now, at last, she wanted to talk, to spend time with Novato, to know her mother.

Such beautiful light.

The dream didn’t frighten Novato. Nothing, she thought, could frighten her so long as she was in the presence of that hypnotic, wondrous light.

The light’s edges were diffuse and yet she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could discern a shape in that light, a form in the illumination.

A Quintaglio. A giant Quintaglio, bigger than the biggest thunderbeast. Maybe, just maybe… It was in profile now, this glowing Quintaglio. It had no arms. It was God.

But then the periphery of the light shifted, shimmered, and whatever form she’d thought she’d seen there was gone, lost in the glorious whiteness.

She wanted to approach closer, to be with the light, but new images were crowding her mind, a cascade of images, images blowing in the wind.

Her first pilgrimage voyage. The Face of God at the zenith, a magnificent banded crescent…

Getting her hunter’s tattoo, holding her jaw firmly shut, determined not to yelp as the metal lance repeatedly pierced the skin on the side of her head…

She and her creche-mate, Daldar, running through the forest together…

A culling—surely not her own! One she must have seen at some other point. A group of eight hatchlings half-running, half-stumbling across the birthing sands, while a giant male Quintaglio—a bloodpriest—gave chase, his purple robes billowing about him. One after another, hatchlings were caught in his gaping maw and then slid down his distended throat…

A happier sight: her first meeting with gruff old Var-Keenir, when the master mariner had sought her out to acquire one of ner far-seers. She’d beamed with pride at that, and all of Pack Gelbo had treated her with new respect…

The sight of Kevpel through the big far-seer she’d set up at the summit of the dormant Osbkay volcano. Kevpel’s glorious rings, its retinue of moons, its beautiful banded cloud tops…

That first glorious time she’d beat her teaching master at a game of lastoontal…

Being there, aboard the Dasheter, to see her first clutch of eggs hatch, the eight babies using their little birthing horns to break through their shells, then tumbling out onto the wooden deck of tbe ship…

Soaring through the air during that incredible first flight aboard the Tak-Saleed…

And that time, long ago, with Afsan. Dear, wonderful Afsan. He’d seemed so awkward and gawky—just a skinny adolescent, really—when he’d shown up at her workplace in the old temple of Hoog. But what a mind he had! And what wonderful and startling truths they’d found by pooling their observations. And that night, when she suddenly found herself receptive, suddenly found herself with him inside her. That wonderful night—

Mokleb had co-opted Pettit, Afsan’s apprentice, to do some research for her. Pettit knew what time Afsan’s usual appointment with Mokleb was, and so she waited for Mokleb along the path that led to Rockscape. The young apprentice stood in plain sight, in the middle of the path, so that Mokleb would be sure to see her well in advance. After ritual greetings were exchanged, Pettit spoke: “I have that information you requested.”

“Ah, good,” said Mokleb. “Tell me.”

“Empress Sar-Sardon arrived in Pack Carno on the nineteenth day of Dargo in kiloday 7096.”

Mokleb’s inner eyelids fluttered. “The nineteenth? Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes,” said Pettit. “There’s a commemorative stone in Carno’s territory. There’s a fine etching of it in the archives here; the date was easy to read.”

“There’s no chance that the Empress’s arrival was delayed, so that the date was wrong?”

“None. They tell me the date was carved in the presence of the Empress, and that the Empress then added her own cartouche, chiseled with the aid of a stencil. I checked with Porgon, who’s in charge of palace protocol. Of course, it was his master’s master who handled such things back then, but he said that’s the way it’s always done: the date not carved until the Empress was actually there.”

“And how long did Empress Sardon stay with Pack Carno?”

“Less than a day. Indeed, I spoke to one oldster who used to be with Carno but now lives here who remembers Sardon’s visit well. She said the Empress was there for only the better part of an afternoon.”

“Incredible,” said Mokleb, shaking her head. “Did you also check the creche records, as I asked?”

“Yes. The originals are still with Carno, but copies are kept here in the Capital. I found the duplicate record of Afsan’s hatching. The date is exactly as Afsan had said.”

Mokleb stood their, shaking her head. “And the sequence of hatchings?” she said.

“Six clutches were laid that season in Carno; Afsan’s was the second last to hatch.”

“You’re sure?”

“That’s what the documents say. Allow me to approach closer; I’ve copied out the birth records for you.”

“Hahat dan.”

Pettit moved close, handed over a limp piece of writing leather, then backed off.

Mokleb was silent for a long time, staring at the sheet. After a while, Pettit said, “Um, will that be all?”

“Hmm? My apologies. Yes. Yes, it will. Thank you very much.”

Pettit bowed. “I hope the information is of some use.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mokleb. “Yes, indeed.”

Suddenly, Novato was awake.

Breathing.

Alive.

She opened her eyes.

The strip of black along the edge of the door was gone. The outer door of the double-doored room had closed; either she had pulled the handle or perhaps it had slid shut of its own volition.

She was floating again.

And there was air all around her.

Air and, drifting about, rounded globs of blood.

Novato ached all over, especially her eyes, which felt as if they’d been under great strain.

She touched her left earhole. It was caked with dried blood. Her right earhole was the same. She brought her palms together in a loud clap. She could still hear, thank God.

God.

She’d been dying. Dying. And she’d come back.

It had been so peaceful, so inviting.

And all those memories, those wonderful memories. Every moment of her life.

But it wasn’t her time. Not yet. There was still work to be oone.

She had to go back. Kicking gently off the outer door, she propelled herself back into the corridor. Further kicks pushed her through the cubic room with the wall of nine windows and out into the staging area. She found her lifeboat, got in, and touched the panel that made the door disappear. The lifeboat began its long trek down to the ground. Although her entire body ached, Novato floated serenely in midair, absolutely at peace with herself.