"Fossil Hunter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sawyer Robert J.)*6*A Quintaglio’s Diary Rockscape, near Capital City It was an eerie place, a place of the dead. Ancient cathedral, ancient cemetery, ancient calendar — the debates raged on among the academics. All that remained were ninety-four granite boulders, strewn — or so it seemed at first glance — across a field of tall grasses, a field that ended in a sheer drop, edged with crumbling marl, plummeting to the great world-spanning body of water far below. But the boulders, as one could clearly see when their positions were plotted, were not strewn. They were Rockscape, it was called: a minor tourist attraction, a site that most first-time visitors to Capital City made sure to see, proof that long before the current city had been built, Quintaglios had inhabited this area. Some claimed the rocks represented sacrificial altars on which the earliest Lubalites had practiced their cannibalistic ways. That was an easy theory to believe. The wind sometimes shrieked across the field like the doleful wails of those offered up to placate a God who was making the land tremble. Afsan often came here, straddling a particular boulder, the one the historians referred to as Sun/Swift-Runner/4 but that everyone else had come to call simply Afsan’s rock. This was his place, a place for quiet contemplation, introspection, and deep thought. Afsan could find his way here as easily at night as in the day, but he never did so. Indeed, he rarely came out at all after sunset. It was unbearable for him. To know that the stars — the glorious, glorious stars — were arching overhead was too much. Of all the sights he would never see again, Afsan missed the night sky most. The great landquake of kiloday 7110 had left much of Capital City in ruins. In its aftermath, most of the Lubalites had gone into hiding again. Officially, no record was kept of who had been identified as a member of that ancient sect, and even unofficially little concern was paid to it. Oh, there were those who called for retribution, but Dybo declared an amnesty. After all, when he made the public announcement that he agreed with Afsan that Larsk was a false prophet, he couldn’t very well penalize those who had refused to worship Larsk earlier. Jal-Tetex was permitted to remain on as imperial hunt leader, although she died eventually, in exactly the way she would have liked to — on the hunt. The lanky Pal-Cadool stayed in favor with the palace, although he was reassigned from being chief butcher to personal assistant to Afsan, a role he had unofficially held anyway since the blinded Afsan had been released from prison. Afsan, whom some had called The One, the hunter foretold by Lubal, who would lead the Quintaglios on the greatest hunt of all. Some still believed Afsan to be this — and, indeed, some took the exodus to be the hunt Lubal had spoken of. Others who had believed it once, had grown less and less convinced of it as time went by. Afsan, after all, had not hunted in kilodays. And others still, of course, had always scoffed at the suggestion that Afsan was The One. Cadool did his best to make Afsan’s life comfortable. Afsan often sent Cadool to run errands or do things that he could not himself, and that meant that Afsan was often alone. Alone, that is, except for Gork. "It’ll help look after you," Cadool had said. Afsan had been dubious. As a youngster with Pack Carno, he had kept pet lizards, but Gork was awfully big to be considered a pet. It was about half Afsan’s own size. Afsan had never seen such a creature before he had been blinded, so he really had only an approximate idea of what Gork looked like. Its hide was dark gray, like slate, according to Cadool, and it constantly tasted the air with a flicking bifurcated tongue. Gork was quite tame, and Afsan had petted it up and down its leathery hide. The reptile’s limbs sprawled out in a push-up posture. Its head was flat and elongated. Its tail was thick and flattened, and it worked from side to side as Gork walked. Gork gladly wore a leather harness and led Afsan around, always choosing a safe path for its master, avoiding rocks and gutters and dung. Afsan found himself growing inordinately fond of the beast and ascribed to it all sorts of advanced qualities, including at least a rudimentary intelligence. He was surprised that such pets weren’t more common. It was in some ways pleasant to spend time with another living, breathing creature that didn’t trigger the territorial instinct. Although Gork was cold-blooded, and therefore not very energetic, it was still fast enough as a guide for Afsan, given how slowly Afsan walked most of the time, nervous about tripping. Afsan and Gork, alone, out among the ancient boulders, wind whipping over them, until… "Eggling!" A deep and gravelly voice. Afsan lifted his head up and turned his empty eye sockets toward the sound. It couldn’t be… "Eggling!" the voice called again, closer now. Afsan got up off his rock and began to walk toward the approaching visitor. "That’s a voice I haven’t heard in kilodays," he said, surprise and warmth in his tone. "Var-Keenir is that you?" "Aye." They approached each other as closely as territoriality would allow. "I cast a shadow in your presence," said Keenir. Afsan clicked his teeth. "I’ll have to take your word for that. Keenir, it’s grand to hear your voice!" "And it’s wonderful to see you, good thighbone," said Keenir, his rough tones like pebbles chafing together. "You’re still a scrawny thing, though." "I don’t anticipate that changing," said Afsan, with another clicking of teeth. "Aye, it must be in your nature, since I’m sure that at Emperor Dybo’s table there’s always plenty of food." "That there is. Tell me how you’ve been." The old mariner’s words were so low they were difficult to make out over the wind, even for Afsan, whose hearing had grown very acute since the loss of his sight. "I’m fine," said Keenir. "Oh, I begin to feel my age, and, except for my regenerated tail, my skin is showing a lot of mottling, but that’s to be expected." Indeed, thought Afsan, for Keenir had now outlived his creche-mate, Tak-Saleed, by some sixteen kilodays. "What brings you to the Capital?" "The Afsan clicked his teeth politely. "Everyone’s a comedian. I mean, what business are you up to?" "Word went out that a ship was needed for a major voyage. I’ve come to get the job." "You want to sail to the south pole?" "Aye, why not? I’ve been close enough to see the ice before, but we never had the equipment for a landing. The "That much is certain. You know that it is my son Toroca who will be leading the Antarctic expedition?" "No, I did not know that. But it’s even more fitting. His very first water voyage was aboard the "We don’t call it a pilgrimage anymore." "Aye, but I’m set in my ways. Still, not having to bring along that bombastic priest, Bleen, does make the voyage more pleasant." Afsan actually thought that Bleen wasn’t a bad sort, as priests went. He said nothing, though. "Where is Toroca now?" asked Keenir. "According to his last report, he’s finishing up some studies on the eastern shore of Fra’toolar. He’s expecting a ship to rendezvous with his team there, near the tip of the Cape of Mekt." "Very good," said Keenir. "Whom do I see about getting this job?" "The sailing voyage is part of the Geological Survey of Land. That comes under the authority of Wab-Novato, director of the exodus." "Novato? I’m certain to get the job, then, I daresay." Afsan clicked his teeth. "No doubt," and then, in a moment of sudden exuberance, he stepped closer to the old mariner. "By the very fangs of God, Keenir, it’s good to be with you again!" Musings of The Watcher |
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