" ’Babnol.’ An unusual name. It means ’loner,’ doesn’t it?"

Toroca was surprised. "Does it? I’ve never encountered the name before."

"Yes, I’m sure — ’loner.’ Or maybe outcast. Funny name for the creche masters to have given her."

"In a way," said Toroca, "it’s fitting."

Drawtood nodded politely, not understanding.

"You’d like her," said Toroca.

"I’m sure I would," replied Drawtood. "How old is she?"

Toroca felt a slight tinge of embarrassment. "Eighteen kilodays."

Drawtood clicked his teeth. He understood the significance of the figure. "I see."

Toroca thought to feign shock, to take mock offense at the innuendo, but then, after a moment, he clicked his teeth also. "You know me well, Drawtood."

The dockworker nodded. "Of course," he said simply. "We’re brothers."

Capital City

Toroca hadn’t seen Babnol for several days. At last, though, he caught sight of her on the grounds of the palace. He jogged over to catch up with her, the late afternoon sun beating down from above. The grass here in the courtyard was kept short by a couple of armorbacks that roamed freely within its confines.

"Babnol!" called Toroca.

She looked up, but the expression on her face was not the one Toroca had hoped to see. "Greetings," she said softly.

"I’ve been wondering where you’ve been," he said. "It’s as though you’ve been avoiding me." He clicked his teeth to show the remark was intended as a jest.

"I’m sorry," said Babnol. "Very sorry."

"Well, it’s good to see you now," said Toroca. "Are you packed? The Dasheter sets sail for Fra’toolar tomorrow."

Babnol turned away and was quiet for several moments. Finally: "I can’t go back there with you."

Toroca’s voice was full of concern. "Is something wrong?"

A hint of blue on Babnol’s muzzle. "It’s nothing." She looked away. "Nothing at all."

Toroca longed to move closer to her, to bridge the gap between them, but he stood fast. "It’s not because we’ll be searching for artifacts again, is it? I thought we now agreed on that…"

"It’s nothing to do with that, Toroca," she said, and there was no hint of a blush this time. "It’s just … just something I prefer not to discuss."

Toroca’s tail swished; he was slightly hurt. "Well," he said, "if there’s anything I can do — you know I’m not completely without influence."

She bowed slightly. "Indeed. But even Dy-Dybo himself — or whoever succeeds him in this mad challenge — couldn’t do anything about what’s troubling me, I’m afraid. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine." No blue; Toroca relaxed somewhat. "It’s just that I have to be on my own for a bit."

"Where are you going?"

A direct question. Babnol was silent for a few moments, then said, "I don’t know. Perhaps the Shanpin foothills."

"The foothills! No Pack roams there; it’s all scorched ground and basalt."

"That’s right."

"You’ll be all alone."

"That’s right, too."

"I don’t understand," said Toroca faintly.

"No," she said after a few heartbeats. "No, I suppose you don’t." She turned and walked away, tail swishing sadly.

When Afsan and Novato had first met, Novato had worked in a small room in the ruins of an ancient temple to the hunter Hoog. Although Var-Keenir and a few other mariners prized her far-seers, her work had largely been considered unimportant. Novato’s home Pack of Gelbo, in distant Fra’toolar, had tolerated her labors, for although her far-seers brought little in trade, the visits from mariners meant great ships came to the tiny port, making available goods that otherwise would have been rare.

Now, though, she lived in the Capital. Here she was director of the exodus, a minister of the throne, and confidante to the Emperor. Instead of one room, she had an entire building and the largest staff of any ministry, a staggering eighteen people.

When she’d become a member of Dybo’s court, Novato had been given a new cartouche. It was carved in intricate detail on the door to her workshop. The upper part showed a far-seer tube in profile. Beneath that was a diagram showing the truth about the universe, with Land a single continent on the far side of a moon of a giant planet that was covered with bands of cloud. And beneath that, a sailing ship, with double-diamond hulls, moving freely through space. A cartouche was normally carved with a raised oval lip around it, but for Novato’s the artist had left gaps in the border, indicating that Novato’s work was not constrained by the traditional borders of the world.

It was bad form to arrive at any confined area in a group. Such an intrusion might trigger the territorial reflex. Afsan therefore went up to Novato’s office door alone, scratched on the signaling plate, and was granted permission to enter.

"Greetings, Afsan," said Novato, pushing off her dayslab to stand up.

"Hello, Novato."

On her desk were sketches of wingfinger and insect wings. Little model wingfingers made of wood and bits of leather were everywhere; some seemed quite sophisticated, others, perhaps older attempts, were being used simply as paperweights. One wall was covered with intricate charcoal sketches of fossil birds. On tabletops around the office were mounted specimens and skeletons of the fauna Toroca had brought from the Antarctic.

Novato hurried to move a pile of books that had been sitting in the middle of the floor, lest Afsan trip over them. "What brings you here?" she said, her voice warm. "It’s always a pleasure, of course, but I didn’t expect you."

Afsan’s tone was neutral, perhaps even timid. "I have a question to ask."

"Of course. Anything."

"Cadool must join us."

"Cadly is here, too?" "Cadly" was Novato’s nickname for Cadool. "Cadool" meant "hunter of runningbeasts," but "Cadly" meant "long of leg," something Cadool definitely was. "I’ve missed him. By all means, bring him in."

Afsan went to the door and called for Cadool. A few moments later, he appeared.

"Cadly!" declared Novato.

Cadool nodded concession. "It is good to see you, Novato."

"I’m so glad the two of you have come," said Novato. "Coordinating the exodus keeps me very busy, I’m afraid. I’m sorry I haven’t called on either of you lately."

"It is good to see you," said Afsan.

"I’m sorry, Afsan," said Novato. "I’ve been babbling. You said you had a question for me?"

"That’s right."

There was silence for a time. Novato’s teeth touched in laughter. "That silence you’re hearing is me looking at you expectantly, my dear."

"I’m sorry. The question is…" Afsan hesitated, his tail swishing back and forth nervously. "The question is, did you kill Yabool or Haldan?"

"And this silence," said Novato, no levity in her tone at all, "is me glaring at you. What moves you to ask such a thing?"

"What always moves me," said Afsan. "The need to expose the truth."

"And what is Cadool" — no friendly sobriquets now — "doing here?"

Afsan’s voice was small. "He is here to see whether you are lying."

Novato’s voice had a tone Afsan had never heard in it, the sharp edge of anger. "Why are you doing this?"

Afsan thought. Finally: "I do it out of … out of affection for our children."

"And what about affection for me?"

Afsan’s voice carried a note of surprise. "That is a given."

"A given? Then why treat me this way?"

Afsan paused. "Cadool, perhaps you would leave us?"

"No," said Novato sarcastically. "Stay. It’s obvious why you’ve brought him along, Afsan: to assure you that my words are honest."

Afsan nodded, then swiveled his muzzle toward his assistant. "Stay, Cadool. But not for that reason. Rather, stay because we agreed that friends should share. I make no secret of my feelings for Novato." He paused, as if seeking the right words, then turned back toward where he’d heard Novato’s voice coming from. "Novato, I abjure pity, but I suspect you know it’s not easy being blind." His tail swished back and forth slowly. "Falling asleep is — is strange for me." He gestured in her direction. "For you, and for Cadool, it’s a slipping from light into darkness; you close your eyes, shut out the world, and drift into unconsciousness."