Robert Sawyer - Foreigner

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.”

Cadool seemed unmollified. “You ask him a lot of questions.”

“Yes.”

“And he tells you many things.”

“Ah,” said Mokleb. “That’s it, isn’t it? Prior to my arrival, you were Afsan’s confidant. It bothers you that he now shares the intimate details of his life with me.”

Cadool lifted a hand so that Mokleb could see the pointed tips of his claws peeking out of their sheaths. “Not everyone,” he said slowly, “wishes to be analyzed by you.”

Mokleb took a step back, conceding territory. “Of course. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“If that’s all you wish to say, then please excuse me. I have business to attend to.”

“No, wait. I did seek you out for a purpose. I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Yes. I need some information.”

Cadool’s voice was firm. “I will not betray Afsan’s confidences. Not to you or anyone.”

“I’m not looking for that kind of information. I want to know about the five original hunters. You are a Lubalite.”

“Yes.”

“I need to know about Mekt.”

Cadool sounded intrigued despite himself. “Why?”

“To help me with my work with Afsan.”

“Afsan has mentioned Mekt to you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

Mokleb decided there’d be little harm in telling Cadool. “Whenever Afsan discusses the Original Five, he mentions Mekt last.”

“Afsan has an orderly mind,” said Cadool. “It doesn’t surprise me that he recites lists in the same sequence each time.”

“Ah, but that’s just it. He recites the other four names in no particular order at all, but Mekt is always last. Indeed, sometimes he hesitates before mentioning her name.”

“And this is significant?”

“Yes, indeed. It’s through such things that we can catch glimpses of the forces that move us.”

Cadool looked unconvinced. “Whatever you say, Mokleb.” He paused for a moment, then: “Like the other original hunters, Mekt was formed from one of the five fingers of God’s severed left arm. Some scholars—ones like you, who emphasize the order in which things are said—suggest that she was the second hunter formed, after Lubal, since her name is mentioned second in the first sacred scroll. Mekt was a great hunter and is probably best remembered for killing an armorback, as told in the fourth scroll. When the original five hunters and original five mates began laying claims to specific territories, legend has it that Mekt took much of what is now Capital province’s northern coast and part of eastern Chu’toolar.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really, except the famous part, but surely you already know that.”

“Know what?”

“Why, that Mekt was the first bloodpriest.”

“She was?”

“Goodness, Mokleb, surely you know at least the first sacred scroll? ‘The ten who had been the fingers of God came together and produced five clutches of eight eggs. But God said soon all of Land would be overrun with Quintaglios if all those egglings were allowed to live. Therefore, She charged Mekt with devouring seven out of every eight hatchlings, and Mekt was thus the first bloodpriest.’ ”

“I thought bloodpriests were all male.”

“They are now. The seventeenth scroll is all about that.” Cadool shook his head. “I’m surprised, Mokleb: I can’t read, and even I know these things.”

“What does the seventeenth scroll say?”

“That Mekt refused to continue being the bloodpriest. She said it was inappropriate for one who lays eggs to be involved in the devouring of hatchlings. By that time, there were many more Quintaglios than just the original ten, and Detoon the Righteous—you do know who he was, I hope—established a secondary priestly order, exclusively male, to look after culling the infants.”

“Fascinating,” said Mokleb.

Cadool shook his head again. “You know, Mokleb, given that you can read, you really should do it more often.”

Mokleb, her mind racing, bowed concession. “That I should.”

Novato and Garios finished loading the lifeboat with supplies: dried meat and fish, amphoras full of water, books in case the journey up the tower proved boring, paper for making notes and sketches in case it did not, leather blankets in case it got cold, and. of course, one of Novato’s best far-seers.

Although from the outside the lifeboat’s hull was rounded, the interior was all a simple rectangular hollow. As she loaded her!ast carton of meat, Novato shuddered. The lifeboat had seemed roomy when empty, and now, filled with provisions, it perhaps could be described as cozy, but twenty days within might make her mad with claustrophobia. Still, that was the round-trip value: after ten days, the lifeboat should reach the summit of the tower. Perhaps she’d be able to get out then and walk around.

Finally, it was time to go. Garios and Karshirl stood just outside the lifeboat’s open doorway, ready to say goodbye. Novato bowed to them, then said simply, “See you later.”

But Garios was not one to let such a moment pass without something more. He handed a small object to Novato. It was a traveler’s crystal, six-sided and ruby red. “Good luck,” he said, then, bowing deeply, he quoted the Song of Belbar: “ ‘If beasts confront you, slay them. If the elements conspire against you, overcome. And if God should call you to heaven before you return, then heaven will be the richer for it, and those you leave behind will honor you and mourn your passing.’ ” He paused. “Travel well, my friend.”

Novato bowed once more, then leaned back on her tail and touched the part of the wall that controlled the door. From the inside, the lifeboat’s walls grew momentarily foggy, and she knew that from the outside they would have appeared to liquefy. When the walls cleared again a moment later, not even a faint etching on the transparent hull material marked where the door had been.