"Don’t you want to ask me questions?" said Novato.

"Well, as an engineer, I’ve long wondered where you got the inspiration for the far-seer."

"Not that kind of question. Questions about myself. About you. About us."

"Questions, ma’am? Nothing comes to mind."

"I’m your mother," Novato said again as if that said it all.

Karshirl’s tail swished expansively. "I guess it’s interesting to know. I’m sure some people idly wonder about who their parents were, but I never have myself."

"Never?"

"Not really, no."

Novato sighed, air whistling out between her pointed teeth. "I suppose I should have expected this. Before I left Pack Gelbo, I never knew who my mother was, either. Now that I’ve been gone for twenty kilodays, I wonder about it a lot. I try to recall the females who were eighteen, thirty-six, or fifty-four kilodays older than me, to see if any of them resemble me. But the memories are dim; I keep hoping for an excuse for a trip back to Gelbo. I’d like to see her, whoever she is." She paused. "As I thought you might like to see me."

"I see you often already, Novato. Forgive me — I’m not normally this dense, but I don’t seem to be getting the point of all this."

"We’re a family," said Novato.

"‘Family,’" repeated Karshirl. "And ’mother.’ I’m sure you’re using these words correctly, although I’ve never heard them applied thus. Oh. I’ve heard of ’The Family,’ of course — Dy-Dybo and his ancestors. And the term ’creche mother’ is sometimes used. But the way you’re using them…"

Novato leaned on her tail. "Don’t you see? I know my other children."

"Yes?"

"Know them in special ways."

"That’s very strange."

"I want to know you."

"You do know me."

"I mean, I want to know you as my daughter."

"Now, that’s a word I don’t know at all."

"Daughter: female child."

Karshirl spread her hands. "We can’t know each other any better than we already do. You have your territory and I have mine."

"But there’s so much I could tell you. About what it’s like at ages you haven’t yet reached."

"I’ve always thought that discovering those things for oneself to part of the joy of growing up."

"Yes, but you’ll be calling for a mate soon."

Karshirl nodded. "Probably, although I haven’t felt the stir yet."

"I can tell you about that."

Karshirl’s eyelids blinked. "I don’t want to be told about it."

"I’m your mother," said Novato again.

Karshirl spread her hands. "I accept that."

Novato sighed once more. "But that’s all, isn’t it?"

"What else could there be?"

"Nothing," said Novato, growing angry. "Nothing at all."

Karshirl said, "I’m sorry if I’ve upset you somehow."

"Just go," said Novato. "Go away. Leave me alone."

Karshirl turned around and walked down the beach, her tail swishing in open bewilderment.

*16*

Wingfinger fanciers had long been thrilled by the ability of certain of the flying reptiles to find their way home no matter how far away one took them. Over time, using such wingfingers to carry messages had become common.

The Dasheter originally had two large homing wingfingers in its cargo holds, swooping over the wooden crates. One

of them had been used earlier to send a list of needed provisions.

The supply ship had been carrying a replacement wingfinger for the Dasheter, but it had died en route.

Still, there was one wingfinger left. It had been raised at the maritime rookery north of Capital City and would return there if set free. A fish-eater, it would have no trouble feeding itself on the long journey home.

Toroca wrote the following on a small strip of leather, which Keenir affixed to the animal’s left leg:

From Kee-Toroca to Dy-Dybo, urgent.

Found chain of islands at 25 percent north latitude, 75 percent back-side longitude. Inhabited by beings similar to Quintaglios but smaller in stature. Mere sight of them triggers dagamant in all of us except me; by contrast, they seem to have no overt sense of territoriality at all. We killed many of them and now 40 of their ships are pursuing Dasheter back to Land. We are traveling under only two sails, luring them toward Capital City. Will arrive around 7131/03/81. The Others use tools to kill and can lie. Prepare defense.

Keenir strapped a padded rest onto his arm. The wingfinger perched on it, its claws tearing tufts out of the padding. Toroca and Keenir headed up on deck. The wingfinger’s inner and outer eyelids snapped up and down; it wasn’t used to the daylight. The captain lifted his arm and the flyer took to the air. It rose above the Dasheter’s masts, circled the ship as if getting its bearings, then headed west at precisely the right angle.

"Let’s hope it gets there," said Keenir.

Toroca watched the animal fly away with leisurely flaps of its wing membranes. He made no reply.

Although worship of the original five hunters no longer had to be practiced secretly, it still wasn’t something one paraded in public. After all, anyone associating with it now had likely been a secret practitioner earlier, and to have been involved with cabals and deceit would not do one credit. Still, some were open in their current or past worship of the original five. Among them was Afsan’s aide, Pal-Cadool. Perhaps he could answer Mokleb’s questions.

Cadool was easy to spot. Tall, thin, ungainly, he stood head and shoulders above Quintaglios tens of kilodays older than himself. Mokleb found him making his way down the Avenue of Traders, one of Capital City’s main streets. She had met Cadool a few times but had only previously seen him walking with Afsan, taking small steps beside the blind sage. But here, out on his own, Cadool’s spider-like legs and brisk pace carried him down the paving stones at an amazing rate. Mokleb risked jogging up behind him. She came within five paces, knowing that by the time he reacted, he’d have put another few between them. "Pal-Cadool!"

Cadool came to a halt, his long body swaying like a ship’s mast as if eager to get back into motion. He turned. "Yes?"

"It’s me, Nav-Mokleb. I need to talk to you."

Cadool nodded, but there was no warmth in his voice. "Hahat dan."

"Your tone is harsh," said Mokleb. "Have I done something to offend you?"

Cadool’s muzzle was angled away from Mokleb, making clear that his black eyes were not looking at her. "You’ve been spending much time with Afsan."

"Yes."

"His work is backing up. His students are not getting enough time with him."

"I’m trying to cure him of his bad dreams."

"He’s been seeing you for hundreds of days now and his dreams are no better. Indeed, they might even be worse. He looks haggard. His lack of sleep is obvious."

"A cure takes time."

Cadool did swing his muzzle to face her now. "And to cure someone as famous as Afsan would be a boon to your career."

"Doubtless so," said Mokleb. "But I’m not deliberately protracting the therapy."

"I’ve looked into your work," said Cadool. "I can’t read myself, but Pettit — Afsan’s apprentice — was kind enough to read a book about your techniques to me. You believe we do not always consciously know what we are doing."

"Just so."

"So you could be stretching out your dealings with Afsan; that you consciously claim not to be is irrelevant. After all, the more difficult you make it appear to cure Afsan, the greater the glory you get."

Mokleb’s nictitating membranes beat up and down. She clicked her teeth. "Why, Cadool, that observation is positively worthy of me! But I’m afraid it does take a long time to find the underlying causes of problems. Nothing would make me happier than to have Afsan cured. I remain detached during our sessions — it’s important that he reveal himself directly, rather than simply react to a tone I set- — but I do care about him, and it pains me to see him continuing to hurt."