“This is all?” she asked.
“Our warriors were hard to control,” Stallan said. “Once you start killing these creatures it is hard to stop.”
“Full well I know that myself. The adult ones—all dead?”
“All dead. This small one I found hiding and brought it out.” She held the thing by its long hair, shaking it back and forth so it wailed with pain. “This very young one I found inside another’s coverings.” She held out the infant, a few-months-old baby that she had pulled from its wrappings, that had been held tight in its mother’s dead arms.
Vaintè looked at the tiny hairless thing with disgust as Stallan held it towards her. The hunter was used to touching and handling all kinds of repulsive creatures; the thought of doing it herself sickened her. Yet she was Vaintè, Eistaa, and she could do anything any other citizen could do. She reached out slowly and took the wriggling thing in both hands. It was warm, warmer than a cloak, almost hot. Her disgust ebbed for a moment as she felt the pleasant heat. When she turned it over and over it opened a red and toothless mouth and wailed. A jet of hot excrement from it ran down Vaintè’s arm. The instant pleasure of the heat was replaced by a wave of disgust.
It was too much, too revolting. She hurled the creature, as hard as she could, against a nearby boulder. It became silent as she went quickly to the water to scrub herself clean, calling back to Stallan.
“It is enough. Tell the others to return to the boats after they have made sure that none live.”
“It will be done, Highest. All dead. The end of them.”
Is it? Vaintè thought as she plunged her arms into the water. Is it the end? Instead of elation at the victory she found herself sinking into a dark depression.
The end—or just the beginning?
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
Enge moved close to the wall and leaned against it so she could feel the warmth of the heater. Though the sun had risen, the city still held some of the chill of the night. Around her the varied animals and plants of Alpèasak stirred to life, but this was so normal that she took no heed. Beneath her feet was the latticework of the floor that rested on the thick layers of dried leaves below. Within the leaves there was the rustle of large beetles and the other insects that cleared away debris, even the movements, had she listened, of a scurrying mouse. All around her there were stirrings as the ebb of life accelerated with the coming of day. High above, the sun was already shining on the leaves of the great tree, as well as on the many other plants that made up this living city. Water vapor was now being drawn from the stomata of these leaves, to be replaced by water that moved slowly upwards through the vessels of the trees, vines, creepers, water brought into the living system by the millions of root hairs beneath the ground. At Enge’s side, unheeded, the tendril of her discarded cloak twitched as it sucked at the saptree.
To Enge all of this was as natural as the air she breathed, the richness of the intertwined and interdependent life forms that existed on all sides of her. Occasionally she thought about it and all of its moral implications. But not today, not after what she had heard. Boasting of murdering another species! How she longed to talk to these innocent braggarts, to explain to them about the meaning of life, to force them to understand the terrible crime that they had committed. Life was the balance of death, as sea was the balance of sky. If one killed life—why, one was killing oneself.
Her attention was drawn as one of the fargi pulled at her manacled hands, confused by her status and unsure how to address her. The young fargi knew that Enge was one of the highest—yet her wrists were bound like one of the lowest. Lacking the words she could only touch Enge to draw her attention.
“The Eistaa wants you to come now,” the fargi said.