Novato put her charcoal drawing stick in a pouch on her sash. "Oh?"

"Yes," said Garios, his long muzzle tipped down at her. "You are now thirty-six kilodays old."

Novato clicked her teeth. "Aye, and these old bones are feeling every bit of it."

"We’ve known each other for a long time," said Garios. He paused. "Indeed, we’ve known each other well for eighteen

kilodays." He paused again. "A year."

"Yes," said Novato.

"And now you are two years old."

"Yes," she said again.

"Soon," said Garios, "you will call for a mate."

"I imagine so," she said, "although I feel no stirrings yet."

"Eighteen kilodays ago, when you were completing your first year of life, you called for a mate, as well." He paused.

"And I responded."

Novato’s voice seemed a little wary. "You did, yes."

"Normally," said Garios, "that would have been your first mating."

"Normally," repeated Novato.

"But you had mated once before, a couple of kilodays prior to your normal time."

"It’s not all that unusual," said Novato, a defensive note in her voice.

"Of course not. Of course not. But you mated with Afsan."

"Yes."

"It is not, ah, out of the ordinary for a female to mate twice with the same individual."

"It is the female’s choice," said Novato. "Some do it one way, some another."

"Indeed. But now that you are coming into receptivity again, I, ah, I’ve been wondering if you will mate with one of

your previous partners."

"The thought has crossed my mind," said Novato.

"Normally, at this stage in your life, I would have been your only previous partner."

"That’s true."

"But you have had, ah, two previous partners: Afsan and myself."

"Yes."

"You laid clutches of eggs by both of us."

"Yes."

"You know who your children by Afsan were; they were spared the culling of the bloodpriest."

Novato nodded.

"And after your second clutch was culled, one of the egglings went on to be a member of Capital Pack; that person

would be a young adult now. Of course, we don’t know which one of the Pack members he or she is."

Novato looked as though she were about to say something, but checked herself. A moment later, her tone devoid of

emotion, she simply repeated the old saw "Children are the children of the Pack."

"Oh, I know," said Garios. "Forgive me, I’m just rambling. Anyway, when you mate again, good Novato, you, ah, have

three choices, no? You could call for Afsan, call for me, or call for someone new. I know it is premature, and it’s wrong

for me to ask regardless, but the thought plagues me. Whom will you call for?" He wrinkled his long muzzle. "I, ah, I

hope it will be me."

"Garios, we have worked together for a long time. We are friends. My thoughts toward you are always warm."

"But?"

"But nothing. I don’t yet feel the stirrings, although I imagine they will start soon. Who knows how I’ll feel then? I

honestly don’t know whom I’ll call for."

"But I’m in the running?"

"You are intelligent and strong and good of heart. Of course you are in the running."

"Thank you," said Garios. "Thank you very much."

The Other with the black armbands took Toroca to one of the octagonal buildings. As soon as he got inside, Toroca

understood how they could safely use wood as a building material; the roof was made of glass, letting in light from

outside. Since there was never total darkness here beneath the Face of God, there was no need for open-flame lamps.

Toroca had to wait a long time. An Other brought flagons of water and a pink transparent liquid with bubbles in it.

He’d had his fill of water on the swim over and was reluctant to try the pink liquid, afraid it might be some kind of

plant juice. The Other also brought a platter covered with small pieces of meat. At first glance, Toroca thought the

meat was dried — he was used to such fare — but then he realized it had been ruined by exposure to heat. And yet the

Other waiting with him had no compunctions about eating the stuff. Toroca decided to be sociable and tried a small

piece. It was still warm, but not with the warmth of a freshly killed body. Toroca changed his mind about the water,

downing a massive gulp.

Finally, whoever they’d been waiting for arrived. Toroca tried to imagine who would have greeted a stranger who swam

up to the docks on Land. Emperor Dybo? Surely not at first. The imperial guards? Maybe. He’d now gathered that all

those wearing black armbands — this particular octagon was full of them — were the equivalent of that. Toroca

remembered when a huge tentacled mollusk had washed up after a big storm many kilodays ago, its shell a good four

paces across. It was a savant who was summoned, old Osfik, the Arbiter of the Sequence. Perhaps this new arrival

was likewise a respected thinker, come to puzzle out the nature of the green apparition that had appeared in their

midst.

The newcomer was about Toroca’s size; meaning, given the overall smallness of the Others, that he or she was

probably quite old. There were pheromones coming off the Other, but Toroca couldn’t interpret them; he wished he

knew how to differentiate the sexes. The newcomer looked at him with an intensity Toroca found uncomfortable. The

golden eyes made clear exactly where it was looking; such staring would be considered a challenge display amongst

Quintaglios. The newcomer spoke briefly with the fellow with black armbands, then turned to Toroca and uttered a few

words.

Toroca shrugged his shoulders and said, "I don’t understand."

The Other savant looked fascinated. It spoke again, and the arm-banded fellow looked up sharply. Toroca guessed

that the oldster had said something incendiary as a test to see if Toroca was faking not knowing their language.

Toroca shrugged again and said, amusing himself, "May a thousand wingfingers fly up your anus."

Satisfied, apparently, that there really was a language barrier, the savant pointed at his own chest and said, "Jawn."

Ah, thought Toroca. Now we’re getting somewhere.

The savant gestured at Toroca, his hand extended in a loose fist.

Toroca opened his mouth to reply, then realized that he didn’t know what the reply should be. Was Jawn the savant’s

own name, or the name of his people? Toroca pointed at the fellow wearing the black armbands.

The savant seemed disappointed to not have his question answered, but after a moment, he pointed at the security

fellow as well and said, "Morb." He then indicated a copper tag he was wearing on a chain around his neck. Large

geometric characters were embossed into it. "Jawn," he said.

Jawn’s cartouche, thought Toroca. Or at least, some representation of his name. He pointed at his own chest, and

said, ’Toroca," and then, more slowly, "Toe-roe-ka."

Jawn pointed at himself and said "Jawn" again, then he pointed at Toroca and said "Toroca."

Toroca clicked his teeth and pointed at Morb. "Morb," he said.

It was a start.