"And how long did Empress Sardon stay with Pack Carno?"

"Less than a day. Indeed, I spoke to one oldster who used to be with Carno but now lives here who remembers Sardon’s visit well. She said the Empress was there for only the better part of an afternoon."

"Incredible," said Mokleb, shaking her head. "Did you also check the creche records, as I asked?"

"Yes. The originals are still with Carno, but copies are kept here in the Capital. I found the duplicate record of Afsan’s hatching. The date is exactly as Afsan had said."

Mokleb stood their, shaking her head. "And the sequence of hatchings?" she said.

"Six clutches were laid that season in Carno; Afsan’s was the second last to hatch."

"You’re sure?"

"That’s what the documents say. Allow me to approach closer; I’ve copied out the birth records for you."

"Hahat dan."

Pettit moved close, handed over a limp piece of writing leather, then backed off.

Mokleb was silent for a long time, staring at the sheet. After a while, Pettit said, "Um, will that be all?"

"Hmm? My apologies. Yes. Yes, it will. Thank you very much."

Pettit bowed. "I hope the information is of some use."

"Oh, yes," said Mokleb. "Yes, indeed."

Suddenly, Novato was awake.

Breathing.

Alive.

She opened her eyes.

The strip of black along the edge of the door was gone. The outer door of the double-doored room had closed; either she had pulled the handle or perhaps it had slid shut of its own volition.

She was floating again.

And there was air all around her.

Air and, drifting about, rounded globs of blood.

Novato ached all over, especially her eyes, which felt as if they’d been under great strain.

She touched her left earhole. It was caked with dried blood. Her right earhole was the same. She brought her palms together in a loud clap. She could still hear, thank God.

God.

She’d been dying. Dying. And she’d come back.

It had been so peaceful, so inviting.

And all those memories, those wonderful memories. Every moment of her life.

But it wasn’t her time. Not yet. There was still work to be oone.

She had to go back. Kicking gently off the outer door, she propelled herself back into the corridor. Further kicks pushed her through the cubic room with the wall of nine windows and out into the staging area. She found her lifeboat, got in, and touched the panel that made the door disappear. The lifeboat began its long trek down to the ground. Although her entire body ached, Novato floated serenely in midair, absolutely at peace with herself.

Afsan spent most of his days now in consultation with Dybo and members of the imperial staff, preparing for the arrival of the Others. They had developed a plan for defending Capital Harbor, and the engineers and chemists were now hard at work devising the equipment needed. Still, Mokleb had impressed upon Afsan that the talking cure could not be interrupted, so every second day, for one daytenth, Afsan left the palace office building and came out to Rockscape.

"Remember one of our early sessions in which you discussed your childhood with Pack Carno?" asked Mokleb.

"No," said Afsan. Then, "Wait — yes. Yes, I remember that. Goodness, that was ages ago."

"Very early in the therapy, yes. Remember you said you had wished there had been other people like you, others who would have accepted you."

"I suppose I said that."

"You did. I keep verbatim notes." A rustling of paper. "Afsan: ’It didn’t seem fair, that’s all. It seemed that somewhere there should have been people more like me, people who shared my interests, people to whom my mathematical skill was nothing special.’

"Mokleb: ’But there was no one like that in Carno.’

"Afsan: ’No. Except perhaps …"

"Mokleb: ’Yes?’

"Afsan: ’Nothing.’

"Mokleb: ’You must share your thoughts.’

"Afsan: ’It’s gone now. I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.’"

Afsan shifted uncomfortably on his rock. "Yes, I recall that exchange."

"Well, I know whom you were thinking of, Afsan. I know precisely whom you were thinking of."

"Oh?"

"In a much later session, you mentioned the visit of Empress Sar-Sardon to your home Pack of Carno."

"That’s right. I didn’t know it was Sardon at the time — guess I was too young to understand such things — but later I learned that it had been her. But, Mokleb, I can assure you that Sardon wasn’t whom I was thinking of."

"No, of course not. Now, this is crucial: are you sure it was Sardon?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely sure? There’s no chance that you witnessed the visit of some other dignitary? The provincial governor, perhaps? Or a lesser palace official?"

"No, I’m sure it was Sardon. I remember the blood-red sash; only members of The Family wear those. Why do you ask?"

"Do you know what kiloday that was?"

"I haven’t a clue."

"It was 7196."

"Really? Then I would have been…"

"Less than a kiloday old. Much less, in fact, for, according to palace records, Empress Sardon visited Carno on a tour through Arj’toolar in the sixth tenth of that kiloday."

"Fascinating."

"Do you remember anything of your life before that?"

"It’s hard to tell. I’ve got lots of memories, but as to which : first, I can’t say."

"Do you remember the creche?"

"Of course."

"Do you remember clutches of eggs in the creche?"

"You mean while I was still living in the egg chamber? Goodness, that was a long time ago. Other clutches of eggs? No. No, I can’t say that I — wait a beat. Wait a beat. Yes, I — now that you mention it, I do remember one other clutch. Eight eggs, laid in a circle."

Mokleb shook her head. "That’s incredible."

"Oh?"

"You were part of the second-last clutch to hatch during that hatching season, were you aware of that?"

"No."

"Well, it’s true. The bloodpriests keep meticulous records, copies of which eventually end up in the census bureau here in Capital City. There was one other clutch that hatched after yours."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. And it hatched eight days after your own clutch did."

"Eight days? But that would mean…"

"That would mean you have a memory from when you were just eight days old — maybe earlier, even."

"Is that normal?"

"Who can say? No one has really studied early memories before."

"Eight days, you say. It seems incredible, but I’m sure I remember those eggs. Not well, you understand — the memory is dim. But I’m sure of it nonetheless."

"Do you remember anything before that?"

"Like what?" Afsan clicked his teeth. "Like breaking out of my eggshell?"

"Yes. Do you remember that?"

"Oh, be serious, Mokleb."

"I am. Do you remember that?"

"I — no. I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve seen eggs hatch before. In the very creche I was born in, for that matter, when I paid a return visit to Carno kilodays ago. So, yes, I have mental pictures of eggs cracking open in that creche, of little birthing horns piercing shells. But of my own hatching? No, no memories that I’m aware of."

"And what about the culling?"

"The culling by the bloodpriest?" Afsan shuddered. "No. No, I do not remember that."

"Are you sure?"

"That’s something I wouldn’t be likely to forget." Afsan seemed shaken. "I saw a culling once, you know. During that same trip back to Carno. I came through the wrong door into the creche. Most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen. Babies running across the sands, and a bloodpriest, his purple robe swirling around him, chasing them down, swallowing them whole, his gullet distending as each one slid into his stomach." Afsan shook his head.

"Did you say purple robe?"

"Yes — that’s the color bloodpriests wear, at least in Arj’toolar, and I’d assume elsewhere, too."