"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."

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."