Toroca waited for that to sink in.

"Lifeforms?" said Novato and Afsan simultaneously, and, a moment later, "Lifeforms?" said Dybo.

"Yes."

"What kind of lifeforms?" asked Novato.

"Wingfingers," said Toroca. "Except that these wingfingers don’t fly."

Dybo, no savant himself, took a certain pleasure in catching his intellectuals in errors. "Then they can’t be wingfingers," he said. "By definition, wingfingers fly."

"Umm, forgive me, Your Luminance," said Toroca, "but that’s not the definition set out by the Arbiter of the Sequence. A wingfinger is a type of animal, basically reptilian, as we are, but also as we are, warm-blooded, and, unlike us, with bodies covered with hair. But the diagnostic characteristic — the one thing that determines whether an animal is or is not a wingfinger — is the structure of the hand. If the four bones of the last finger are enormously elongated, as if to support a membrane, then the creature is a wingfinger."

"All right," said Dybo, sounding a little disappointed at Toroca’s recovery, "so they are wingfingers. But if they can’t fly, how did get to the south pole?"

"That’s a very perceptive question, Your Luminance. How indeed? My guess is that they used to be able to fly."

"You mean," said Dybo, "that the wingfingers you found are old and feeble?"

"No, no, no. I mean their ancestors used to fly, but, over generations, they lost the ability to do so, and instead used their gated fingers for other functions."

Afsan, rapt, was no longer leaning back on his tail. "Changed over time, you say?"

"Aye," said Toroca.

The blind savant’s voice was a whisper. "Fascinating."

Dybo, ever pragmatic, said, "But how does this aid the exodus?"

"It doesn’t," said Toroca, "at least not directly. But I’ve brought back many specimens of the lifeforms from down there. The variations in wing architecture and design should help Novato in her studies of flight."

"I’m sure they will," said Novato. "And, I must say, this is all very intriguing."

"Indeed," said Afsan.

"Wait a beat," said Dybo, at last catching up to the meaning of what Toroca had said earlier. "You’re saying one kind of animal changed into another?"

"Yes, sir," said Toroca.

"That’s not possible."

"Forgive me, Your Luminance, but I believe that it is."

"But that’s sacrilege."

Toroca opened his mouth as if to speak, apparently thought better, closed it, and was then silent for several moments. At last, looking at the floor, he said, "Whatever you say, Your Luminance."

Afsan stepped closer. "Don’t be afraid, Toroca. Dybo has learned from the past. Haven’t you, Dybo? He would not punish one simply for engaging in an intellectual inquiry."

"What?" said Dybo, and then, "Umm, no, of course not. I only suggest you not speak such thoughts around the priests, Toroca."

Toroca was looking now at his blind father, who had lost his eyes at Dybo’s order all those kilodays ago. "I’ll gladly heed that advice," he said softly.

After the briefing with Toroca, Afsan and Dybo headed off to the dining hall. There was never much meat on the pieces Afsan ordered for his meals with Dybo — at least, not much by Dybo’s standards. Today they ate hornface rump, not the best flesh, but not bad, either. Afsan had said it was important that Dybo learn to think of food simply as nutrition and not a sensual experience.

Although perhaps it wasn’t the best choice of mealtime topics, their conversation turned, as it often did, to the murders of Haldan and Yabool.

"You have to acknowledge the pattern," said Dybo.

"That both murder victims are children of mine?" said Afsan.

"It can’t be coincidence."

"No, I suppose not. Although they’re both savants, both…"

"It’s possible," said Dybo, "that they were killed by someone wanting to get at you."

Afsan’s shriveled eyelids made a strange beating, the closest he could get to the fluttering of nictitating membranes that normally denoted surprise. "At me?"

"You have enemies. More than I have, I daresay. You took God out of the sky. You started the exodus, something not everyone is in favor of. Some Lubalites still see you as The One, but others consider you as false a figure as Larsk."

"I’m a blind person. If someone wanted me dead, it would not be difficult."

"Perhaps. Perhaps someone merely wants to frighten you."

"They’ve succeeded."

"Or perhaps it has nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps Novato is the key. They are her children as well, and she now leads the exodus project."

"That’s true."

Dybo was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, "How well do you really know Novato?"

Afsan’s claws extended. "I do not like the tone of that question, Dybo."

"No doubt you don’t, my friend. But it’s something I must ask. As you said so eloquently, a leader rarely has any choice in what he or she must do. I ask again, how well do you know Novato?"

"Very well. I do not suspect her of the murders. Not at all."

Dybo shrugged. "I don’t suspect her in particular, either," he said. "But that means, I think, that I must suspect everyone in general. Certainly she has a connection — indeed, a relationship — to the victims."

"She is beyond reproach. You might as well ask me whether I was responsible for the crimes."

Dybo spoke softly. "Afsan, if I thought that you were capable — physically, I mean, not emotionally, for who really knows what another thinks? — of such violence, yes, I would ask you, too. I do not underestimate you; I know your hunting prowess. Even now, even as I train to face the blackdeath, I would not favor myself in a contest with you. But you are indeed blind. The method employed in these killings was not one a blind person could successfully manage."

"There is such a thing as trust, Dybo. There are individuals whom you do not question, whom you believe in implicitly."

"Oh, indeed, my friend. You are one such for me; I trust you with my life. And I know you likewise trust Cadool, and I like to think myself as well. But, forgive me, old friend, you are, well, particularly blind in matters of trust. You’ve speculated that the killer approached the victims with stealth, but you’ve missed the most obvious interpretation."

"Oh?"

"Indeed. The most obvious interpretation is that Haldan and Yabool knew their killer, and trusted him or her enough to allow the killer to approach them closely." Afsan looked shocked, but whether at the content of Dybo’s suggestion or at the realization that he’d foolishly failed to consider this possibility himself, the Emperor couldn’t say. Dybo pressed on. "They both apparently let the killer into their homes. They obviously felt no fear in that person’s presence; indeed, felt little territoriality even."

"Whom would they trust thus?" said Afsan.

"Ah, now, that’s my point!" said Dybo. "Haldan and Yabool might each trust certain of their colleagues. But they had different professions, so there would be no overlap there. They might trust certain of their neighbors. But they lived in different parts of Capital City, so, again, no overlap. But they did both trust their parents, you and Novato."

Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he said, "And each other."

"Eh?"

"And they would have trusted each other, Yabool and Haldan. Indeed, all my children would have trusted each other. They were creche-mates, after all. Creche-mates are as one. But why would one relative want to kill another?"

"My brother," said Dybo, "wants to kill me."

Afsan was silent again.

"But there you have it. As much as it pains me to suggest it, in addition to bloodpriest Maliden and the other names that have been put forth, you must consider Wab-Novato and your remaining children as suspects."

"You force me to agree to that which is uncomfortable," said Afsan.