Robert Sawyer - Fossil Hunter

“You’re the undertaker?” said the Emperor.

Gathgol bowed rapidly. “Yes, umm, Your, Your…”

“Luminance,” said Dybo absently.

“Yes, Your Luminance. I cast a shadow in your presence.”

“Do you know Sal-Afsan, a savant and my advisor?”

“By reputation, of course,” stammered Gathgol. He tipped his body toward the blind one, then after a moment said, “I’m, uh, bowing at you.” Afsan’s muzzle swiveled toward him, but that was his only response. Gathgol felt like a fool.

“And you?” said Dybo.

Gathgol was now completely confused. “I’m, uh, the undertaker. I’m sorry. I thought you wanted—”

Dybo made an exasperated sound. “I know what you do. What’s your name?”

“Oh. Gathgol. Var-Gathgol.”

Dybo nodded. “How exactly did Haldan die?”

Gathgol gestured at the table. “Her throat was cut open by a jagged piece of mirror.”

Afsan’s head snapped up. “Mirror? Is that what it is?”

Gathgol nodded. “Yes, mirror. That’s, um, glass with a silvered backing. You can, ah, see your reflection in it.”

Afsan’s tone was neutral, perhaps that of one accustomed to such gaffes. “I appreciate your explanation, Gathgol, but I’ve not been blind my whole life. I know what a mirror is.”

“My apologies,” Gathgol said.

“How could a mirror cut one’s neck open?” asked Afsan.

“Well, the glass is broken,” said Gathgol. “The pieces have a sharp edge—beveled, almost. A large section was drawn across her neck, quite rapidly, I should think.”

“I don’t understand,” said Afsan. “Did she trip somehow? I’ve felt with my walking stick for an obstacle but can’t find one.”

“Trip, savant? No, she didn’t trip. She was probably seated on that stool when it happened.”

“Did the mirror fall off the wall, then? Had it been mounted poorly? Was there a little landquake today?”

Gathgol shook his head. “A piece of art hangs on the wall above the table, savant. It’s still there now. A still life of some sort.”

“A still life.” Afsan nodded. “But then how did the accident happen?”

Gathgol felt his nictitating membranes fluttering. “It was not an accident, savant.”

“What do you mean?”

Could a genius of Afsan’s rank be so thick? “Good Sal-Afsan, Haldan was killed. Deliberately. By an intruder, most likely.”

“Killed,” said Afsan slowly, as if he’d never heard the word, moving it around inside his mouth like an odd-tasting piece of meat. “You mean murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Murdered. Somebody took her life?”

“Yes, savant.”

“But surely it was dagamant , then—a territorial challenge of some sort, an instinctive reaction.”

Gathgol shook his head. “No. This was planned, savant. We’ve gathered up all the shards of the mirror. They don’t form a complete rectangle. Somebody brought a large jagged piece of mirrored glass here, probably approached Haldan from behind, and, with a quick movement, slit her throat. The mirror was still partly in a wooden frame, and that gave it rigidity, as well as something for the assailant to hold on to without risking cutting his or her hands.”

“Murder,” said Dybo, who was looking quite queasy. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“I haven’t heard of one in modern times,” said Gathgol, “but when I was apprenticing to be an undertaker, my master taught me a little about such things. Of course, she said I would never need to know this, that the knowledge was only for historical overview, but… yes, there are stories of murder from the past. Myths about the Lubalites and so on.”

“Murder,” said Afsan softly. And then, a few beats later: “But how? Surely the demon responsible, whoever it was, couldn’t have opened the door and sneaked up on Haldan. She doubtless would have heard the approach and turned to face her attacker.”

“It is puzzling,” said Gathgol. “But I’m sure of the cause of death. I mean, it’s obvious.”

“Well,” said Dybo, “what do we do now?”

“We find the person who did this,” said Afsan flatly.

Dybo nodded slowly. “But how? I don’t know anyone who has experience with such matters.” He turned toward Gathgol. “Do you know how to do it, undertaker?”

“Me? I don’t have the slightest idea.”

Afsan spoke softly. “I’ll do it.”

Dybo’s voice was equally soft. “My friend, even you—”

Afsan’s claws peeked out. “I will do it. She was my daughter, Dybo. If not me, who?”

“But Afsan, friend, you are… without sight. I will assign another to the task.”

“To another, it would be exactly that: a task. I—I can’t explain my feelings in this matter. We were related, she and I. I’ve never known what import, if any, that had, whether she and I would have been friends regardless of the odd circumstances that led to her knowing that I was indeed her father, she in truth my daughter. But I feel it now, Dybo, a—a special obligation to her.”

Dybo nodded; Gathgol saw that he and the savant were old friends, that Dybo knew when to give up arguing with Afsan. “Very well,” said the Emperor. “I know that once you sink your teeth into a problem, you do not let go.”

Afsan took the comment easily, Gathgol saw—a simple statement of fact, something both Afsan and Dybo knew to be true. But then the savant’s face hardened. “I swear,” he said, “I will not give up until I have found her killer.”

Rockscape at sunset. Pal-Cadool, straddling one of the ancient boulders, his long legs dangling to the ground, loved the sight: it was one of the rare times when he still pitied Afsan. The sun was no longer a tiny blazingly white disk; it had swollen and grown purple. From here amongst the ancient boulders the sun would set behind the Ch’mar volcanoes to the west. Their caps, some pointed, some ragged calderas, were stained dark blue. Above the sun, along the ecliptic—a word Afsan had taught Cadool—three crescent moons were visible, their illuminated limbs curving up like drinking bowls.

The lizard Gork needed no more cue than this that night was coming. It had already curled up at Afsan’s feet, sleeping, its body pressed against the savant’s legs so that he would know where the lizard was. Afsan was perched on his usual rock, his face, coincidentally, turned toward the glorious sunset spectacle that he could not see. It would soon be time for him to go back indoors.

“I don’t understand,” said Afsan slowly, interrupting Cadool’s reverie.

Something Afsan didn’t understand? Surely, Cadool thought, there was nothing he could do to help in such a circumstance. Still, he asked, “What is it?”

Afsan’s head was tilted at an odd angle. “Who,” he said at last, “would want to kill Haldan?”

Cadool wished Afsan would let go of this problem. It pained him to see Afsan so distraught. “I don’t know who would want to kill anyone,” said Cadool, spreading his arms. “I mean, I get angry from time to time, angry at other people. But the hunt is supposed to purge those emotions. It certainly does that for me.”

“Indeed,” said Afsan. “But someone had enough fury to kill my daughter.”

The darkness was gathering rapidly, as it always did. Stars were becoming visible overhead.

“I’ve never known anyone who has killed,” said Cadool.

“Yes, you do.”

“Who?”

“Me,” said Afsan softly. “I killed a person once. Nor-Gampar was his name. He was crazed, in full dagamant . It happened sixteen kilodays ago, during my pilgrimage voyage aboard the Dasheter .”

“ Dagamant doesn’t count,” said Cadool quickly. “You had no choice.”