*18*

The eggling Others presented a problem.

Traditionally, shortly after a clutch of Quintaglio babies had opened their eyes, a bloodpriest would be summoned to visit the creche. The priest would meditate for daytenths, drink a sacred potion, don the purple halpataars robe, and enter the creche chamber. And then, by the flickering light of the heating fires, he’d let loose a loud roar and break into a run, sending the hatchlings scurrying to get away. One by one, he’d pounce on the egglings, slurping them down his gullet, devouring them until only one, the fastest, was left.

But in kiloday 7126, the bloodpriests had been banished from most Packs for collusion in allowing The Family’s hatchlings to forego the culling. The bloodpriests had eventually been reinstated, but Dybo had decreed that a new selection criterion — something other than physical strength — would be used in future. Toroca, originator of the theory of evolution, was charged with finding an appropriate criterion.

Toroca hadn’t done that yet, arguing that such a monumental change required considerable thought, and so, at least temporarily, the bloodpriests were culling hatchlings in the traditional way again.

And now Toroca had three baby Others in his care.

In a Quintaglio clutch, only one would be allowed to live. Should the same hold true for these Others? Toroca had seen what had happened when the bloodpriests had been banished from their Packs, when, for a time, every hatchling had been allowed to live. The population had swollen, youngsters were underfoot everywhere, and mass dagamant had gripped all of Land.

The people had been willing to accept the bloodpriests so long as they thought every clutch was subjected to their culling. But once an exception had been found, the people rose up in anger, banishing or even killing the halpataars.

And now into their midst had come a special clutch. Granted, there were only three hatchlings in it instead of the Quintaglio norm of eight. Still…

Toroca leaned on his tail, deep in thought. To risk once again to be seen playing favorites, to be killing seven out of every eight babies from Quintaglio clutches, but to let all of these offspring live … The public would be incensed, especially so soon after the scandal involving Dybo and his brothers and sisters.

And to make matters worse, Toroca was, in effect, leader of the bloodpriests until such time as he had developed a new culling criterion. For what amounted to the head bloodpriest to be seen again to be flouting the customs of the people…

And yet, these were not Quintaglio hatchlings. Their mother had been killed by a Quintaglio, the eggs had been taken, albeit accidentally, from their native land. Surely a dispensation could be made in this case, surely all three could be allowed to live…

Surely…

No.

The risk was too great. Quintaglio population controls had to be kept in place, and that meant nothing could be allowed to discredit the bloodpriests.

Toroca hated himself for what he did next, but he had no choice. At least, since the babies were only a few daytenths old, their eyes weren’t yet open; Quintaglio egglings opened their eyes about a day after leaving their shells.

Toroca swallowed one of the hatchlings, the squirming form moving down his gullet. It took a while for him to regain his nerve, but when he did he swallowed a second hatchling, leaving only one alive.

Afsan and Mokleb’s next session was held at Rockscape. The ground had not completely dried from the downpour of two days ago. Mokleb’s feet were covered with mud and her legs were soaked after making her way through tall grasses to the rock that she used, downwind of Afsan’s rock.

"You mentioned in our last session," she said, "that the first time you’d experienced dagamant was kilodays ago, aboard the Dasheter."

"That’s right," said Afsan, stretching out on his boulder. "We were sailing on beyond the Face of God, something no ship had ever done before. Emperor Dybo — he was Prince Dybo back then — and I were sunning ourselves on deck when a sailor named Nor-Gampar came charging between us, in full bloodlust. Bobbing up and down from the waist, glazed eyes, claws exposed — the whole thing."

"You were with Dybo, you say?"

"Yes."

"But it was you who killed this Gampar?"

"Yes."

"So you saved Dybo’s life."

"I never thought about it that way, but, yes, I suppose I did."

"Dybo did not repay you well."

A few moments of quiet. "No, he did not."

"But you killed Gampar so that the prince could live."

"Yes."

"Surely this went beyond simple territoriality," said Mokleb. "You weren’t just responding to the fact that Gampar was threatening you and Dybo. There was a larger issue at stake: the need to know. You’d convinced Captain Keenir to sail around the world, something no one had ever done. Gampar objected to that."

"Yes."

"He stood in the way of that knowledge."

"Yes."

"He stood in the way of a better life for Quintaglios."

"Yes."

"And, well, if a few people die now and then for the good of society as a whole, that’s all right, isn’t it?"

"No."

"Strides are never made without sacrifices. People will always die so others can live better lives."

"No."

"Don’t you believe that?"

"No. No, there should be alternatives. Death shouldn’t be necessary."

"Sometimes it is," said Mokleb.

"Not like that," said Afsan. "Not because of bloody instinct. Living our lives should not require killing others of our own kind."

"But it does," said Mokleb.

"But it shouldn’t," said Afsan. "By the very Egg of God, Mokleb, it shouldn’t!"

On the fifth day after Novato had left, the land in Fra’toolar began to shake. Wingfingers took flight, and the calls of animals split the air. Tails flying behind them, Garios and Karshirl ran along the heaving sands. They were a good distance south of the blue pyramid, but the base of a cliff was the last place one wanted to be during a landquake. Farther along, though, the cliff face gave way to more gentle slopes. On their right, layers of rock were shattering, sending a rain of fragments down onto them. On their left — Garios looked out at the waters and his muzzle dropped open in a silent scream. A wall of water was lifting from the waves. Garios tried to run faster, the ground shifting beneath his feet.

The giant wave was barreling in. Garios risked climbing the rocky slope. He panted out the words of a prayer. In places, debris showered down heavily, but he found a pathway up that was shielded by an overhanging rock layer. Garios had lost track of Karshirl. He hoped she was finding a comparatively safe hiding place, too.

A slab of rock tumbled toward Garios, bouncing sideways under the overhanging ledge. He didn’t get his right leg out of the way in time. The impact was excruciating.

Garios looked out again and screamed in terror. The incoming wall of water was higher — much higher — than the height he’d climbed to. It would…

He was slammed against the cliff by the wave’s impact. Agony sliced through his battered leg. He felt as though his abdomen was tearing open, forced against sharp rocks.

The water was bitterly cold, as if it had welled up from far below the surface. Submerged, Garios kept his eyes tightly shut. His lungs were bursting, desperate for air. Somehow he managed to hold on to the rocks. A boulder bounced against his back and tail, but its movements were slowed enough by the churning water to keep it from doing much damage.

Garios’s lungs ached unbearably. Darkness was gripping him. His consciousness began slipping away…

But then the wave subsided. His maw gaped wide, taking in gulps of air as if they were bolts torn from a carcass. The