Gathgol was used to solitude. After all, he was an undertaker. People didn’t fear death — not exactly — but neither did they like to contemplate it. Being undertaker was a pretty good job. There were only seven thousand Quintaglios in all of Capital province, fully half of them here in Capital City. Gathgol’s services were rarely called for, although he did travel to wherever a death had occurred. More often than not, a death would happen on the hunt — a pack had foolishly gone after a meat-eater instead of a herbivore, or attacked a hornface from the front instead of the rear. In those cases, assuming the surviving hunters had been successful, Gathgol would get to dine on fresh meat before he bundled up the body for the trip to Prath.
These days, though, Gathgol was not getting much solitude. Since the murder of Haldan, he had had many visitors to his small establishment in the holy quarter of town. Today, Sal-Afsan himself had come, along with his assistant, the lanky Pal-Cadool.
"I believe we can determine several things about the person who did the killing," said Afsan without preamble. He groped for a stool. "For instance, to cut Haldan’s neck at the angle he or she did, he or she would have to be of a certain height. Isn’t that right, Gathgol?"
There was no response.
"Gathgol? Are you still here?"
The undertaker found his voice. "Forgive me, Sal-Afsan. Yes, I’m still here. I’m sorry, it’s just I’m flabbergasted that a savant such as yourself would ask questions of me."
Afsan waved a hand in the direction Gathgol’s voice had come from. "You are the expert in matters of death, Gathgol. I am no savant in this area."
"Yes. No. I mean…"
Afsan held up his palm. "Just answer the question as if it were posed by a child, a student. And call me ’Afsan,’ please. The formal name is just adding to your discomfort, I’m sure."
" ’Afsan.’ But that’s what your intimates call you."
"Some of them call me ’fathead,’ " said Afsan, with a disarming wrinkle of his muzzle, "but the ones who like me call me ’Afsan,’ yes."
"Afsan," said Gathgol, trying the name on for size. Then, again, "Afsan." There was wonder in Gathgol’s voice; evidently the undertaker had never expected such informality.
"Yes, Gathgol. Now, if you could perhaps answer my question?"
"I’m sorry. Of course. No one could do this while balancing on tippy-toe. Assuming the mirror was held like this…"
"I can’t see you, Gathgol. Please describe what you mean."
"Sorry. I assume the mirror was held in both hands, outstretched. Doubtless the murderer was holding it by the intact part of the wooden frame, one hand on either side. The mirror was a heavy piece, and one hand would have been inadequate to steady it. The murderer must have lifted it over Haldan’s head, the broken, sharp edge facing in, then brought it down below her muzzle and sliced up into the neck. To do all that, and carve at the angle that was used, the murderer would have to be at least one hundred and eighty centipaces tall."
"At least sixteen kilodays old, then."
"Yes, although perhaps a kiloday older if a female. Don’t put too much credence on that, though — these are rough estimates."
"Sixteen kilodays is pretty young."
"It’s a pretty young age to die at, too," said Gathgol, but he instantly regretted speaking the observation out loud. "I’m sorry, forgive me. But that was Haldan’s age, wasn’t it?"
"Yes."
"A young adult," said Gathgol. "More than old enough to have taken the pilgrimage, though."
"Would someone that age have enough arm reach to bring the glass over Haldan’s head?" asked Afsan.
"Arm reach varies from individual to individual, of course. Um, if you’ll forgive my impudence of making an example of you, good Cadool, I’ll point out that you have a much greater reach than is normal for one your age. Your limbs are quite long. Could a person one hundred eighty centipaces tall have managed it if he or she was of average build? Yes, but there wouldn’t have been much clearance. Still, I found no cuts on the upper surface of Haldan’s muzzle, so it must have happened cleanly. And, of course, the killer could have been taller than one hundred eighty centipaces, and, therefore, older. One-eighty is simply the bottom end of the range."
"Wouldn’t Haldan have seen the glass passing in front of her eyes?" asked Afsan.
"Of course," said Gathgol. "And she probably swung her head around to look at the murderer. In fact, the swinging of her head, as much as the murderer’s swiping, would have been what carved the neck open. But as she was dying, Haldan would have seen the person who killed her."
They were silent for a moment.
"What about the glass?" said Afsan.
"As I said before, it was a mirror. Not a great one — the optical qualities weren’t all that good, judging by the fragments, and the metallic backing was uneven. Still, they don’t make mirrors here in Capital City; too much basalt, not enough quartz-rich sand. One that big would have likely been made in Chu’toolar, but merchants distribute many of them each kiloday."
"There’s no way to be more specific about where it came from?"
"Not really," said Gathgol. "At least, I can’t think of a way. The frame is unadorned; just plain wood."
"What kind of wood?"
"It looks like hamadaja to me."
"Thunderbeast fodder," observed Afsan. "Found in all eight provinces."
"Exactly."
"What about a manufacturer’s mark?"
"If there was one on the glass or the frame, it’s not on any of the fragments we have."
"Perhaps Novato will have an idea," offered Cadool. He turned to Gathgol and added, "She used to deal with glassworkers in making her far-seers."
"Of course," said Gathgol. "The mirror was incomplete. A large hunk was used to do the killing, and after the deed was done it was dropped on the tabletop, and shattered, but the whole thing wasn’t brought to Haldan’s apartment."
"And no one heard the sound of breaking glass?" asked Afsan.
"The walls of Haldan’s apartment were thick, of course," said Gathgol. "You couldn’t have noise leaking from one apartment to the next without creating territorial tensions. Forgive me, but even your own calls for help wouldn’t have been heard if you hadn’t left the main door open behind you. And, of course, the crime took place during the middle of the day; very few people would have been home then, I’d warrant."
Afsan nodded. "Do you know how much of the mirror is missing?"
"Well, if it were just squared off, not that much. But most household mirrors are twice as tall as they are long. I’d suspect there’s at least as much missing as we have here. The wooden frame was cut with a saw, but the glass was broken more roughly."
"All we have to do, then, is find a person who remembers seeing someone carrying a mirror that day," said Cadool. "Or better yet, half a mirror."
"I wish it were that simple," said Gathgol. "But we also found a leather drop-sheet in Haldan’s apartment. It’s creased and scored in such a way that it’s pretty clear that the mirror was wrapped in it when brought into the apartment. The sight of someone carrying something wrapped in dark leather is not at all uncommon, I’m afraid. I’d doubt if anyone would have noticed."
"That is unfortunate," said Afsan.
They were all silent for a time.
"Afsan," said Gathgol at last, still sounding a bit uncomfortable with the short name.
"Yes?"
"Forgive me, but it seems the most likely method for finding the murderer is to figure out who would want to kill Haldan."
"Indeed," said Afsan. "But why would anyone kill another person?"
"You really don’t know, do you?" said Gathgol.
"No, I don’t."
"There have been murders in the past," said Gathgol. "They’re not common, not at all, but they do happen. And the killer always has a reason."
"What sort of reason?"
"Well, in the old accounts, the reasons are usually pretty much the same. One kills another to possess
something the other has, to prevent the other from revealing something the first one wants to remain secret, or out of fear."
"Fear?"
"Yes," said Gathgol. "One kills someone because one is afraid of that someone; afraid that that someone might kill or otherwise harm them."
Afsan’s tail swished left and right. "Who could possibly fear my daughter?"
"Who indeed?" said Gathgol.
*27*
The south pole
Two shore boats were lowered from the side of the Dasheter and rowed in toward the ice. One carried Delplas, Biltog, and giant Var-Keenir; the other, Babnol, Spalton, and Toroca. Although Toroca wasn’t actually going to take part in the hunt, he had decided to come along to observe whatever animal the others tracked down.
Between the first excursion onto the cap and this one, special anchors had been fashioned for the shore boats: metal hooks on long tethers that could be sunk into the ice. The ships were anchored and the six Quintaglios disembarked.
The temperature was about fourteen degrees below zero, according to Keenir. The snow covering the ice was hard and crisp. No one quite knew how snow was formed. It melted into what seemed to be ordinary water if you held it in your hands, but it was different in texture from the clear ice that underlay it, and, in places, it was loose enough to blow like powder in the air.
All six were wearing their stuffed leather jackets and snow pants, plus wide-soled shoes. Captain Keenir himself was going to lead the hunt. In the hunter’s sign language, each finger represented a different member of the team. So that he could communicate with his pack, Keenir took off his left mitten and tossed it into a shore boat, bobbing in the chilled gray water.
They’d waited until late afternoon before coming here. The sun was low enough that the glare of its light off the snow wasn’t quite blinding now.
Keenir gestured with his naked hand and the six of them began walking in from the shore. Where the ground was covered with snow, traction was reasonably good, although the going was slow because here their feet sank in. But where the ground was icy, walking was treacherous, and Toroca found his legs going out from underneath him on several occasions.
The white ground undulated — not so much so that one would refer to the terrain as having hills and valleys, but enough that whatever was up ahead was often invisible until they were almost upon it. The pack came across a hole in the ice, with perhaps a hundred divers languishing around it. The sight of the hole, with water visible through it, gave Toroca pause. There wasn’t solid ground beneath them, just a layer of ice that varied wildly in thickness from place to place. Here it was perhaps thick enough to support the weight of divers, but possibly not strong enough in all places to hold up adult Quintaglios. Although the air itself wasn’t devastatingly cold, the water was so icy as to be dangerous indeed. Two days before, Spalton had slipped when getting into a shore boat and fallen into the water. He’d turned white from head to tail; Toroca had thought he was going to die.
The divers had apparently learned something from their previous encounter with Quintaglios. They immediately began slipping into the water — it apparently wasn’t too cold for them — their rounded silver bodies looking like drops of mercury running down a drain.
The wind had a bite to it. They continued on. Toroca could see the irritation in Keenir’s movements, the impatience. There must be something worth killing, his body language seemed to scream. There must be.
And then they suddenly came upon it in a small valley: a giant creature flopped on the ice. It was unlike anything Toroca had ever seen: three or four times the size of a middle-aged Quintaglio, with a great rounded torso covered in white fur. Short legs were splayed out behind it, and it had very long, almost delicate arms resting against its sides. Its rounded head, ending in a fleshy muzzle, was lying on the ice.
The whistling wind was loud enough that the creature hadn’t heard them approach, and Toroca found his sense of smell all but gone in the frozen air, the membranes inside his nostrils seemingly deadened by the cold. Perhaps the creature had the same handicap, for it seemed completely oblivious to the hunters, even though it was downwind of them.
In fact, for one brief moment, Toroca thought this was a corpse, but then, through the glare of reflected sunlight, he noticed its bone-colored torso expanding and contracting — quite rapidly, actually; a sure sign of an energetic, warm-blooded beast.
Keenir raised his left hand, all fingers splayed, to get the team’s attention. He then used gestures to deploy the hunters in a line along the edge of a small ridge of ice: Babnol and Spalton to his left, Biltog and Delplas on his right. Toroca hung back, his eyes glued to the creature.
Keenir made two rapid chops with his hand, signaling the attack. All five of the hunters sprang into action. The creature had apparently been asleep, for it was slow in reacting, but soon its head lifted from the ground, and eyelids peeled back to reveal two golden forward-facing orbs above the fleshy muzzle.
The creature opened its mouth. There was something very unusual about its sharp teeth, but Toroca couldn’t quite make it out from this distance. Babnol lost her footing and fell backward onto the icy incline leading down to the creature. Her limbs were flailing about, desperately trying to halt her slide toward the animal. It would take the others, moving very slowly as they negotiated their way down the incline, much, much longer to reach the beast.
Keenir sized up the situation in an instant and dived onto his belly, sliding headfirst down the icy grade. With a whoop, Spalton followed suit, and the three of them — giant Keenir, much younger Spalton, and the flailing Babnol — rushed toward the creature. Keenir, who had the muzzle guard on his snowsuit undone, opened his jaws wide. He clearly intended to arrive biting.
But then the creature rose up on its short hind legs, its torso bigger than Keenir’s own barrel-chested frame, and then…
The whole scene became a strobing display for Toroca as his nictitating membranes batted up and down in wonder…
The creature’s long, gangly forearms were unfolding, first one long segment and then another, the pieces having been folded back upon themselves like the rulers Toroca had seen architects use that hinged together for compact storage…
The long, narrow arms, almost insectile in their proportions, were now three times the length of the torso…
Keenir and Babnol and Spalton were still sliding toward it, only ten or so paces separating them from it…
The long arms swung down, in great sweeping movements, now touching the ground. At their tips where hands should have been were wide flat pads that seemed to sink only slightly into the snow…
And then the beast rose up, up, up into the air, its feet lifting off the ground to dangle freely beneath its torso, as the multi-jointed arms carried it higher and higher.
Keenir, heaviest of all the hunters, arrived first, skidding between the two articulated arms and continuing to slide along the ice past where the creature had been. The old mariner was flailing now, like Babnol, trying to halt his slide.
Babnol slid in next, seemingly about to crash into one of the insectile limbs — limbs that looked so delicate, Toroca expected them to shatter like icicles upon the impact — when the creature simply lifted its arm up, out of Babnol’s path, balancing for a moment on a single lanky appendage, and she, too, skidded on, ending up in a heap with Keenir against a bank of snow.
The other hunters had now made it to the bottom, sliding Spalton having managed to halt his headlong rush, and Biltog and Delplas still on their feet. They were all staring up at this snow beast, jaws hanging open not to attack, but rather in amazement.
The creature’s dangling legs then reached out, grasping the long arms about halfway down their length, the legs forming little diagonal struts, the feet, ending in five prehensile toes, wrapping around the thin arms, and then…
The creature began to walk, its short legs controlling the elongated arms, the arms acting like stilts, its strides giant, carrying it far a
way over the white, windswept landscape…
Keenir, clearly indignant at having ended up in a snowbank, rose to his feet and began to run after the beast, his tail, wrapped in a tapered extension of his snowsuit, flying out behind him, his footfalls making kaflumping sounds, clouds of white powder rising in his wake.
It took the others a few beats to react, but then they, too, took off after the rapidly receding arm-walker.
The chase seemed hopeless. Quintaglios were used to running on hard ground or over rocks, not on yielding snow or slippery ice. Indeed, they soon came to a fissure in the ground. The creature — a stilt, Toroca had dubbed it in his mind — had no trouble stepping over it, but Keenir, his longer legs putting him by far in the lead over the other hunters, hadn’t seen it until he was almost upon it. He skidded, desperately trying to avoid slipping down it, to keep from breaking his neck on the hard blue ice far below, down in the crevice. That they no longer had to worry about the thinness of the ice was small consolation…
Keenir was slipping, slipping, slipping, his tail and right leg already hanging over the precipice. The stilt had stopped running, and, realizing that it was now apparently safe, turned to watch Keenir with interest. The captain was still sliding forward, his shod feet finding no purchase.
Toroca and the others had arrived now, but the ice on the perimeter of the crevice was too slippery to venture onto. All that was saving Keenir were the claws from his one ungloved hand, digging into the ice, white shavings piling up in trails behind them as he continued a slow, inexorable slide toward the opening.
Toroca came up right beside Babnol. "Give me your hand," he demanded, his words all but lost on the wind. She looked at him, not understanding. He reached out, seized her arm at the wrist, then, with a hand on her shoulder, pushed her to the ground, so that they were both lying in the snow. He then stretched toward Keenir.
Babnol finally caught the idea and gestured wildly for Delplas to take her other hand. Toroca looked back at Delplas, just standing there, and for the thousandth time cursed the incredible territoriality of his brethren, the stupid instinct that kept them from reaching out to each other, even when a life was at stake…
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