"You have four surviving children, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you know them all personally?"

"Yes."

"Remarkable," said Mokleb. "Tell me about them."

"Well, there are my two sons, Af-Kelboon and Kee-Toroca. Kelboon is a mathematician; Toroca is leader of the Geological Survey of Land. Then…"

"Did you say Af-Kelboon?"

"Yes."

"Is his praenomen syllable in honor of you?"

Afsan sighed. "Yes."

"How does that make you feel?"

Afsan’s tail moved. "It embarrasses me a bit. It had never crossed my mind that anyone would take that praenomen."

"Interesting," said Mokleb. "And what about your daughters?"

"Well, there’s Nov-Dynax, a healer…"

"Nov, in honor of her mother, Novato?"

"Yes."

"Fascinating. Forgive me for interrupting."

Afsan tipped his head in mild concession. "And, lastly, Lub-Galpook, the imperial hunt leader."

"Galpook is your daughter?"

"Yes. There were many in my youth who said I should become a full-time hunter. Well, Galpook has done just that. And let me tell you, she’s a much better hunter than I ever was."

"How did it happen that she entered that profession?"

"The usual way."

"The usual way for average citizens — through vocational exams? Or the usual way for hunt leaders?"

Afsan turned his head slightly away. "The latter."

"So she is perpetually in heat? She doesn’t have a set mating time?"

"That is correct."

"I should like to meet her."

Afsan clicked his teeth lightly. "A few males have said that over the kilodays. I’m surprised to hear it from a female."

Mokleb let that pass. "Do you see her often?"

Afsan’s voice was a bit wistful. "That would not be … prudent."

"Why not?"

"I should think that would be obvious."

"Oh?"

"It would not be appropriate. I’m her father, for God’s sake."

"Yes?"

"Look: there are no other fathers in this world — fathers who know who their children are, that is. Emperor Dybo knew his father, of course, but Ter-Reegree had been killed long before I came to the Capital. And Dybo himself has yet to have offspring. I understand that, I think: after his right to rule was challenged by Dy-Rodlox, Dybo had agreed to let his own clutch, the imperial hatchlings, undergo the culling of the bloodpriest. But I suspect that he’s chosen an even simpler path: not to be responsible for any eggs at all." Afsan paused. "So, without any models to follow I’ve had to make up this fatherhood business as I go along. And mating with one whom I know to be my daughter does not seem appropriate."

"Oh?"

"Oh, indeed. And since she’s perpetually giving off signs of receptivity, I, I prefer not to spend much time with her."

"But those who are constantly in heat do make exceptional hunt leaders," said Mokleb. "They have an energizing effect on the members of the pack."

"I am blind, Mokleb. I cannot hunt anymore."

"But you could mate."

"Of course."

"Have you recently?"

"No. No, not in a long time. A male normally has to be in the presence of a female in heat to become aroused, after all." He clicked his teeth. "I don’t get around as much as I used to."

The wind continued to blow across Afsan from behind.

"It’s an interesting occupation, I should imagine," said Mokleb. "Being a hunt leader."

"I’m sure it is," said Afsan.

Mokleb was quiet for a time. "I once toyed with the idea of that profession, but I developed knee problems in my early adolescence. I cannot run fast. They tried hacking off my leg when I was young, to see if it would grow back without the impediment, but it did not."

"Ah," said Afsan. "I’m sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," said Mokleb, with finality. "If the problem had been solved, I wouldn’t have been allowed to pursue my studies. They would have made me become a hunt leader."

"Nonsense," said Afsan. "Why, they wouldn’t have done that unless…"

She got off the boulder she’d been sitting on and walked around to the other side of Afsan’s rock, letting the wind blow over her and onto him. Afsan’s nostrils flared slightly. "Oh, my," he said.

"Beautiful day," said Garios.

Novato, who had been making more sketches of the pyramid and the strange tower growing up out of its apex, looked up at the sky. Clouds covered most of it. "Looks like rain," she said.

"Oh, perhaps, perhaps. Still, beautiful day."

"Since when is rain beautiful? Especially here, where we get more of it than we need."

"Oh, maybe the weather isn’t great. I guess I’m just in a good mood."

"Ah," said Novato, noncommittal.

At this point, Delplas ambled by about thirty paces away — far enough that normally no territorial gesture was required. But Garios waved at Delplas anyway with a wide sweep of his arm. "Beautiful day!" he called.

Delplas shook her head. "You’re crazy," she said good-naturedly, but then she splayed her fingers in a conspiratorial gesture aimed at Novato.

Novato sighed. She’d felt the first tinglings herself this morning, but hadn’t expected anyone else to be able to detect her new pheromones yet. It’d still be a few hundred days before she was fully receptive; given that receptivity came only once every eighteen thousand days, it took its time coming into full bloom.

"Beautiful day," said Garios again, to no one in particular.

Males, thought Novato.

*11*

The twenty days on the island of the Others passed quickly, and now it was time for Toroca to check in with the Dasheter. Jawn offered a boat and rowers to take Toroca out, but Toroca repeated what he’d tried to make clear over and over, although his speech was more fluent now: "Do not come near the Dasheter," he said in the Other language. "To do so would be bad."

"I still do not understand," said Jawn. "I am curious about your sailing ship."

"Accept my words," said Toroca. "I will return soon. I am sorry you cannot see my sailing ship."

Jawn didn’t seem satisfied, but he let it go. "Swim safely."

"I will," said Toroca, and, with that, he climbed down the rope ladder and entered the water. It was a long swim out to the Dasheter, but the weather was good. His tail propelled him along.

Toroca’s mind was full of thoughts as he swam. The Others were so unlike Quintaglios. Cooked food; "cooked" being a word Jawn had taught him. No territoriality; even to Toroca, the open displays of physical contact the Others exhibited were distasteful. And they used tools to kill animals; Toroca had seen many of those metal fire sticks. Toroca shuddered as he swam along: he hadn’t realized just what had happened that first day. Someone had shot at him as he’d approached the shore. Jawn had apologized later; the person on the pier had mistaken Toroca for an alligator.

An alligator! Oh, the ignominy!

Toroca continued to slice through the waves, occasionally using his feet to steer in the direction he wanted to go. With the giant Face of God hanging stationary overhead, navigation was easy. The Face was waning gibbous now, its unilluminated limb looking dark purple against the lighter violet of early morning sky. The water was still cooler than Toroca would have liked. Part of him was sad to be leaving the Others, even though he fully intended to return, but it would be good to see faces that were green instead of yellow. He’d missed Keenir’s gravelly voice, and Babnol’s gentle clicking of teeth, and even old Biltog’s endless stories about days gone by. Why, soon he’d…

What was that?

Something big was coming toward him, wave tops churning in its wake. Toroca went below the surface and saw it front-on: a body circular in cross section, thicker than Toroca’s own torso, with three equally spaced tapered projections, one on top and two at the lower sides. He kicked sideways to get another angle on the animal.