Robert Sawyer - Fossil Hunter

“And how many are there?” asked Bon-Cartark, standing on Garsub’s right, massive green arms crossed over his torso.

“How many?” Lastoon repeated. “Why, six—one from each clutch of eggs laid this kiloday.”

“And how many were there?” said hunt leader Garsub.

“How many were there when?” asked Lastoon.

“How many were there originally? How many children stumbled out of eggs onto the birthing sands?”

Lastoon dipped his head in puzzlement. “One does not speak of those who were dispatched, Garsub. The Eighteenth Scroll says—”

“I know what the scrolls say, priest.” Garsub brought her right hand into plain view. Her claws were unsheathed.

Lastoon was silent for a moment, watching the polished talons glint in the morning sun. “There were six clutches of eight eggs apiece,” he said at last. “One of the eggs never hatched; that’s not an uncommon occurrence. So, there were forty-seven hatchlings originally.”

“And now there are six,” said Garsub.

“Now there are six.”

“What happened to the other forty-one?”

“Why, what always happens,” said Lastoon. “I dispatched them.”

“You ate them.”

Lastoon did not like Garsub’s tone. “Good hunter, you use such a harsh turn of phrase. Perhaps next time the chief provincial priest visits our Pack, you can discuss the theology with her. I think she’s due back in less than a kiloday—”

“You ate them,” Garsub said again.

Lastoon turned his head so that all would know that he was looking away. “That is the prescribed rite, yes.”

“You ate forty-one of the Pack’s children.”

“Hatchlings are not children of the Pack until after the culling; I dispatched the excess spawn.” He paused briefly. “It’s my job.”

“You dispatch seven out of every eight hatchlings?” said Garsub.

“Of course.”

“And in all of the Fifty Packs there are bloodpriests such as yourself.”

“One per Pack, yes, plus one apprentice to take my place when I am gone.” Lastoon looked up. “I haven’t seen Cafeed yet this morning. He’s usually not this late.”

“Young Cafeed will not be coming to the creche today,” said one of the others, Cat-Madool, his voice soft, almost a hiss.

“Oh?” said Lastoon.

“You dispatch seven out of every eight,” repeated Garsub.

“That’s right.”

“Your counterparts do the same elsewhere.”

“Indeed. In each of the Fifty Packs, across all eight provinces of Land.”

“There are no exceptions?” asked Garsub, her voice talon-sharp.

“Of course not.”

“ No exceptions?”

“Good Garsub, I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“Who is governor of this province?” asked Garsub.

“Why, Dy-Rodlox, of course,” said Lastoon.

“And who is his brother?” demanded Garsub.

Lastoon felt a tingling in his muzzle. “I don’t—”

“Who is his brother?”

“Why would I know the answer to such a question?”

“But you do know,” said Garsub. “Answer!”

“I don’t…”

“ Answer! Answer, or feel my claws!”

“Good Garsub, surely you wouldn’t strike a member of your own Pack?”

Garsub surged closer. “Answer! Who is Rodlox’s brother?”

The bloodpriest was silent.

Garsub raised his hand. “ Answer!”

Lastoon looked from face to face, seeking a way out. At last, his voice very small indeed, he said, “He doesn’t have a brother.”

Cartark pointed directly at Lastoon, fingerclaw extended. “His muzzle flushes blue.”

“You’re lying,” said Garsub.

“Please, hunt leader, there are some things best left unknown. Surely you appreciate that—”

“Who is Governor Rodlox’s brother?”

Lastoon crossed his arms over his chest, robes dangling from them. “I cannot answer that.”

“It is Emperor Dybo,” said Garsub. “Isn’t it?”

“Garsub, please—”

“If it is not true, bloodpriest, then deny it, here and now. Deny it while the sun shines on your muzzle. Deny it .”

It was pointless, of course. His muzzle would show the liar’s tint if he tried to do as Garsub asked. He looked at the ground, damp soil compacted by his own footprints and swept by his own tail.

“Forty-one babies killed this kiloday by you,” said Garsub. “Perhaps as many last kiloday. And as many again the kiloday before that.”

“It’s necessary,” said Lastoon softly. “The population must be kept in check. It is the sacred role of the bloodpriest. My holy order—”

“Your order is corrupt!” snapped Garsub. “You swallow our children whole, but you all have complicity in a fraud against our entire race. The Emperor’s children live, do they not?”

“Where did you hear this?”

“A newsrider from Capital City,” said Garsub. “She brought news of governor Rodlox having declared this for all to hear. You bloodpriests deceive us common people. You enshrine the power of The Family. But the truth is out now. Dy-Rodlox here in Edz’toolar, and the apprentice governors in all the other provinces, are brothers and sisters to fat Dybo, who lies in the Capital on the ruling throne, a throne he did not earn, a throne he does not deserve.”

Cartark spoke again: “Why should all the children of The Family live when our own do not?”

“You’re mistaken, Cartark. It’s just that—”

“Your muzzle betrays you, priest.”

“No, please, you don’t understand. Mine is a holy duty.”

“Yours is a lie,” said Garsub, “an attempt to keep the Fifty Packs under control, control that dates back to the false prophet Larsk, control that should be in the hands of the people.”

“But the population—it must be kept in check.”

“Then,” said Garsub, her voice a hiss, “we shall start by eliminating one worthless mouth to feed.”

It was all a blur. Garsub sprang forward, but Lastoon was already in motion, running as fast as his legs could carry him. He was much older than the hunt leader, perhaps half again her bulk. It was a lot more mass to move, but he had a correspondingly longer stride. Still, Garsub and her hunting parties brought down thunderbeasts and hornfaces and armorbacks and shovelmouths. His greater speed would postpone the inevitable, nothing more.

The creche was in the center of the tiny town; Lastoon bolted for the town’s northern periphery, hoping to make it into the galamaja forest.

The others gave chase. They started as a wall of eight Quintaglios, but it was only a matter of heartbeats before they fell into a single file behind Lastoon, arranged in descending order of age/size/stride. Lastoon felt his heart pounding as he ran on.

It had rained the previous night, and the ground was still dotted with puddles. Lastoon’s feet made great sucking sounds as they pulled out of the mud. Behind him, he could hear the others splashing along. The footing was treacherous. Lastoon’s robe was ruined, sodden at its base, the purple cloth now dappled brown with muck.

Where were the others? Granted, it was still early, and last night had been odd-night, when most people slept, but some Quintaglios should have been up and about by now. Or had Garsub and the rest kept them away, just as they’d kept his apprentice Cafeed away?

Lastoon rounded a bend, his thundering, splashing arrival startling a small clutch of wingfingers into flight, their chorus of screams a substitute for the ones Lastoon would have made if he could have caught the breath to do so.

Footfalls pounding the ground, mud flying everywhere, the trees still fifty paces or so away—

—and then—

—stumbling, falling, flailing in the filth, a great splash of water, the underside of his muzzle plowing a swath—