"You should. For I am your downfall personified. I will push and push and push until I am in your place."

"I could have you banished."

"To where? Edz’toolar?" Rodlox clicked his teeth. "I am lord of Edz’toolar already."

"I could have you executed."

"And violate the ancient laws? I think not. There are those who would not stand for that; you would destroy what’s left of your own authority if you flouted our laws so. No, Dybo, you have only three choices. One" — and here Rodlox raised a finger, claw extended — "you can accept my challenge. Two" — a second finger erect, its claw likewise unsheathed — "you can abdicate your role, acknowledge my claim, and let me assume the Emperorship. I will allow you to live. Or, three" — and a third clawed finger was held up — "you can take the coward’s route and wait until the people force you to respond to my challenge."

Dybo regarded Rodlox’s raised hand. The ticking off of points with clawed fingers was so like his mother’s way. For the first time, Dybo realized that, without a doubt, this was his brother. It was a tragedy, this conflict, for surely in cooperation they could accomplish so much more than they individually would through a rivalry.

Dybo shook his head. "You are wrong, Rodlox. There is a fourth alternative, and one that is more appropriate than any of your choices. Hear me describe it, and then we shall see which of us is the coward."

A Quintaglio’s Diary

I wish I didn ’t have siblings. I try not to compare myself to them, but it’s futile. I can’t help myself. Am I as proficient as they? As keen of mind? Is my pilgrimage tattoo as intricate and well-balanced as that sported by Yabool? And which of us does Novato and Afsan favor? Surely they’ve thought that, if things had gone differently, only one of their children would have lived. Which would they have preferred it to be?

I was thinking these thoughts today as I ate in one of the communal dining halls when Haldan walked in. She passed nowhere near me on her way to fetch a piece of meat, so she didn’t bother to bow concession in my direction. She simply settled herself in at a bench on the opposite side of the room and began to gnaw at her meal.

I watched her. Of course I was careful not to swing my muzzle in her direction; she couldn’t tell where I was looking. But it came to me, as I worried out the final bits of meat adhering to the bone in front of me, that I couldn’t tell where she was looking, either. Her eyes, solid black, could have been focused on the flesh in front of her.

Or they could have been focused on me.

On me.

We’d often thought the same thoughts before; I’d seen it in her expression.

Were we thinking the same thing now?

And suddenly I realized exactly what it was that I was thinking at that moment, a ripple that wouldn’t die down, a thought dark and dangerous and persistent.

I wished she was dead.

I stopped picking over my meat and, at the same moment, she stopped picking over hers.

I wondered if she was thinking the same thing about me.

The Dasheter

Toroca was up on deck. On board a sailing ship, everyone had chores to perform, and Babnol knew she could count on him being occupied for at least a couple of daytenths. She went down the ramp, its timbers groaning not under her weight but rather under the buffeting of the ship, and came to Toroca’s cabin.

She paused briefly to reread the plaque about Afsan and to admire the carving of the five hunters in the dark wood of the door. There was a copper signaling plate adjacent to the doorjamb, but she didn’t drum her claws against it. Instead, she stole a furtive glance over her shoulder, then opened the door, the squeaking of its hinges making her even more nervous. As soon as she was inside Toroca’s cabin, she swung the door shut.

Her claws were exposed. Invading another’s territory was uncomfortable. Although she knew Toroca wouldn’t be back for some time, she couldn’t tarry here. It was too upsetting.

Although there was a desk with a small bench in front of it — space aboard a sailing ship was at too much of a premium to allow for a dayslab — Toroca had wisely placed all fragile objects directly on the floor, lest the pitching of waves knock them off the desk. No lamps were lit, of course; it was far too dangerous to leave a flame unattended. But the leather curtain was drawn back from the porthole, and, indeed, the little window had been swung open, letting the cold, salty air from outside pour in. In the harsh sunlight coming from the porthole, she could see the hinged wooden case that held the far-seer Afsan had given to Toroca. But that was not what she had come for, nor was the object of her quest plainly visible.

Even more distasteful: she would have to rummage through Toroca’s things. Such a breach of protocol! Still, it had to be done. She moved over to the storage trough and gingerly picked up sashes and backpacks and pieces of the specially designed arctic clothing, carefully stacking each piece on the floor so that she could put them back exactly the way they had been. There were several books amongst Toroca’s effects, including one written by his father and, to her surprise, a well-thumbed copy of the book of Lubalite prayer.

At last she found what she was looking for: the object, the strange blue hemisphere with the vexing six-fingered handle attached. She picked it up and, cradling it in both hands, held it in front of her. She was always surprised by its weight and the way the material warmed so quickly in her hands. She looked at the strange geometric carvings — little strings of symbols — at several places on its lower surface, and wondered for the thousandth time what they meant.

The object’s color bespoke evil. Blue. An unholy color; the color of lies, of deceit.

No Quintaglio made this object, of that she was sure. The strange material — harder than diamond! — couldn’t be worked by any tool, and that grip wasn’t made for a hunter’s hand.

But if not a Quintaglio, then who?

Quintaglios had five fingers.

God had five fingers.

The sixth fingerhole made this an unholy device. Not of Quintaglio. Not of God.

There was goodness in God, goodness in God’s creations.

This — thing — lacked goodness. And, therefore, it was dangerous. She had seen how Toroca had spent endless daytenths staring at it, turning it over and over again in his hands, clicking the rings up and down, up and down…

Six fingers.

And yet — perhaps the user of this device had been like her: different from most. A facial horn; a sixth finger. Did one or the other make you lack goodness?

Of course not.

But this was an ancient artifact, dating from the very beginning of life.

Things do occasionally hatch from eggs that are so horrible, so deformed, that the bloodpriests dispatch them immediately, without waiting for the formal culling.

There were no bloodpriests at the beginning, none until God bit off Her own arms, and Mekt formed from one of Her fingers.

So a horrible thing that hatched from one of the eggs of creation wouldn’t have been dispatched, since there was no one to do the dispatching.

She turned the device over in her hands.

It lacked goodness. She was convinced of that.

It had been dead and buried for thousands of kilodays, sealed in a tomb of solid rock. It was only by sheer accident that Toroca had released it.

Time, now, to correct that.

She walked over to the porthole, felt the chill wind on her muzzle, heard the slapping of waves against the hull, the snapping of sails, the calls of distant wingfingers.

Toroca would hate her for this.