A few opaque objects were visible within the beetle’s walls, but basically from the inside it seemed to be made of glass while from the outside its appearance was that of burnished metal. Novato had spent a lot of time working with various materials in her studies of optics, but she’d never encountered anything with properties like this. She pulled her head out of the doorway and extended a fingerclaw. The beetle wasn’t made of harder-than-diamond stuff, anyway: she had little trouble scratching its metal outer hull.

Garios was leaning back on his tail, his long muzzle looking up. "You were right," he said softly.

Novato looked at him. "What?"

"You were right. Emergency equipment, that’s what it was — emergency equipment for the ark-makers." He pointed at the silver beetle. "There it is — a lifeboat to take them back to space." He paused. "Only one of the three emergency kits was still … still viable after millions of kilodays. Perhaps the second would have built a flying machine to take the ark-makers back home, and the third … well, God only knows what the third would have built. But this one, the one that survived, has made some sort of lifeboat."

Novato realized in an instant that Garios was correct. And she also realized a more wondrous, a more terrifying, thought: that soon she herself would have to take a ride aboard this lifeboat.

*12*

Back aboard the Dasheter, old Biltog tended to Toroca’s injuries. There was nothing major. Toroca was irritated by the glee his shipmates took in his story of the attack by the fish-lizard, but, after enduring his disdain for the hunt for so long, they were entitled to some fun at his expense now that he’d single-handedly killed a formidable predator.

And, of course, everyone was interested in the Others.

"Tell us, Toroca," demanded Keenir, "what were they like?"

Toroca, still exhausted, supported himself by leaning against the foremast. "They are good people," he said. "I hope that, despite our differences, there is some way that we can become friends."

Keenir looked out over the water, perhaps thinking of the slaughter he’d been part of back on the Others’ island. He made no reply.

"Tell me more about the murders of your two children," said Mokleb.

Afsan shifted uncomfortably on his rock. "Both of them were killed the same way," he said. "Their throats were slit."

"Slit? With a knife?"

"No, with a broken piece of mirror."

"Broken mirror," said Mokleb. "And they were killed by their brother, Drawtood, correct?"

Afsan clicked his teeth, but it was a forced gesture, with little humor behind it. "Yes. Even I saw the symbolism in that, Mokleb. Broken mirrors, distorted reflections of oneself."

"Where did the killings take place?"

"In their apartments. The killings occurred several days apart. Haldan was murdered first. Drawtood snuck up on each of them, or otherwise was able to approach them closely, and then he did the deed."

"Snuck up on them?"

"So I presume, yes."

"Fascinating," said Mokleb, and then: "You discovered one of the bodies."

"Yes." A long pause. "I found Haldan. If anything should have given me nightmares, that should have been it. In fact, I can’t think of a more terrifying scenario for a blind person than slowly coming to realize that the room he’s in isn’t empty but rather contains a horribly murdered body."

"And you say Drawtood snuck up on his victims?"

"Well, he was doubtless let into the apartments by them. They did know him, after all. But to manage the close approach, yes, I presume he did that by stealth."

"Fascinating," said Mokleb once more. She wrote furiously on her notepad.

It was the end of the day. Novato was ambling back toward the camp, located a few hundred paces from the base of the blue pyramid supporting the tower. Garios had caught up with her and was now walking about ten paces to her left.

There was some small talk, then Garios asked, in a tone of forced casualness, "What will happen to your eight egglings if you mate with Afsan? Will they be spared the culling of the bloodpriest again?"

Novato turned her muzzle sideways, making clear that her gaze was on Garios. She held it just long enough to convey that she felt he was stepping into her territory. "I doubt it," she said at last. "I mean, there are a lot fewer people who think Afsan is The One today than there were twenty kilodays ago."

"Ah," said Garios, again with a tone that would have been offhand where it not for the slight quaver underlying the words, "so you’ve been contemplating the question."

"Not really, no."

"But you didn’t hesitate before answering," he said.

"I’m a bright person." Novato clicked her teeth. "I can answer questions without meditating on them for daytenths on end."

"Oh, then you haven’t been contemplating this issue."

"Not directly."

"Afsan already has four children."

"He had eight," said Novato, a little sadly. "Four survive."

"Still, I’ve had but one."

"Well, if this is a contest, I win," said Novato gently. "I’ve had nine, five of whom still live. I’m the mother to more adult Quintaglios than anyone else alive."

"Granted," said Garios. The sky overhead was rapidly growing darker; a few stars already pierced the firmament. "But I’m talking about just Afsan and me. He’s had four. I’ve only had one." He held up a hand. "Yes, there are those who would argue that Afsan is a great person, that our species is enriched by having more of his offspring. Still," he said, and then, a little later, "still…"

"I’m not the only female around," said Novato. "Delplas will be in heat in another two kilodays."

"Oh, I know, but…"

"In fact, there are many tens of females who might choose you at some point during the remainder of your life. You’re a male; you can breed whenever called upon to do so. Me, I’ve got one or maybe two more opportunities to lay eggs."

"True," said Garios.

"I’m hardly your only chance."

"Oh, I know. Still…" he said again.

"I am flattered by your interest," said Novato. "But as to whom I’ll call for, even I don’t know. Believe me, though, it’ll be either you or Afsan; I have no doubt about that."

"You do have four children already by him," Garios said again.

"I know."

"And, after all, those children weren’t necessarily that great. Oh, yes, one became a hunt leader and another directs the Geological Survey, but, well, one was a murderer, too."

"Eat plants, Garios."

"I only meant — no, forgive me! I’m sorry! I just — I didn’t intend to say that. Oh, Novato, forgive me! Roots, your pheromones are everywhere. I, ah, I’m just going to go away now, go for a little walk. I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry."

"You know, Mokleb," said Afsan, his voice sharp, "you remind me of my old teaching master." Mokleb lifted her muzzle.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Tak-Saleed. Not as I came to know him at the very end, but as I first knew him."

"Indeed."

"‘Indeed.’ He’d talk just like that, too. You’d never know what he was thinking. Only one thing was clear. He was judging you. He was evaluating you. Every day, every moment, he was watching your every move. I wasn’t his first apprentice, you know. He’d had many others before me."

"But you were the one that survived," said Mokleb.

"He sent all the others back, dispatching them home."

"Dispatching."

"You know — sending."

"The word has no other connotations for you."

"What word? ’Dispatching’? No."

"It’s the euphemism used by bloodpriests for what they do: in order to keep the size of the population in check, seven infants are killed. But the process is referred to as ’dispatching,’ not killing."