When he did at last have a visitor, it wasn’t who he had hoped for. The door to the storage room burst open. Afsan leapt to his feet. Standing in the entryway, robes swirling, was Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith.
Afsan did not bow. "I didn’t expect to see you," he said.
"And I prayed my whole life never to see the likes of you," hissed Yenalb. "But now you are here, and you must be dealt with." He handed a piece of writing leather to Afsan. "I want you to draw your cartouche on this. I’ll witness it with my own."
Afsan read the page. I, Afsan, formerly apprentice to the Chief Court Astrologer, before that a member of Pack Carno of Arj’toolar province, hereby affirm without reservation the existence of the Divine, that She is the one true God, that She created all life, and that the Face of God is her true countenance and Larsk is a true prophet. I disavow any claims to the contrary, and renounce and rescind any statements I may have made in the past that disagree with the content of this declaration. I have placed my mark below voluntarily, without coercion, and of my own free will. May God have mercy upon me.
Afsan handed it back to Yenalb. "I can’t agree to that."
"You must."
"Or?"
"Or suffer the consequences."
"I’ve already lost my job and my freedom. What else can you do to me?"
"Believe me, child, you do not wish to know."
"You can’t have me killed. That’s against the teachings."
"A demon may be disposed of."
"If Dybo agreed with you that I was a demon, I would be dead already. Therefore, he doesn’t."
Yenalb made an unpleasant sound. "It’ll take more than sophistry to save you. The sacred scrolls confer extraordinary powers upon my office. I can select any fate I wish for you."
"You threaten me with death? You would commit murder?"
"You yourself dispatched a crewmember aboard the Dasheter, so I’m told. A fellow named Nor-Gampar, wasn’t it?"
"That was different. He had gone into dagamant; he was crazed."
"And perhaps you are becoming crazed even as we speak. Perhaps I will have no choice but to rip your throat out."
"I am as calm as one could be, under the circumstances."
"Are you, now?" Yenalb stepped closer to Afsan. "I am a priest. It’s my job to whip individuals or groups into a frenzy. I could set you off with a few choice words, or incite those guards standing out in the hall."
"Dybo would never permit that."
"Are you sure?"
"You’d be found out. The first time he, or someone else, asked you what had happened to me, you’d be discovered."
"Would I?"
"Of course! Your face would flush blue."
"Would it?" Yenalb’s teeth clicked. "Not every person can be a priest, you know. It takes a special disposition, special talents, special ways. Have you ever seen a priest’s muzzle show the liar’s tint?"
Afsan stepped backwards quickly, widening the space between them. "No … you’re saying that you can lie openly? No. It can’t be. You’re just trying to make me nervous, trying to frighten me into agreeing to recant."
"Am I? Do you wish to put the issue to a test?" Yenalb stepped closer again. "Agree to the words on that piece of leather, Afsan. Save yourself."
"I am trying to save myself. And all of us. Even you."
Yenalb’s tail swished. "You are so young. And, except for your current delusion, so bright. Recant, Afsan."
"Even if I did draw my cartouche on that document, what would that prove? Anybody who asked me if I was sincere in my change of mind would know in an instant that I wasn’t; I at least cannot lie openly … and for that I’m grateful."
"Grateful to whom, Afsan? I thought you didn’t believe in a God."
"I mean simply…"
"Yes, I know what you mean. Of course, you’d have to leave Capital City; indeed, we’d have to eject you altogether from the Fifty Packs. No one could see you again."
Afsan’s jaw dropped open.
"Why so shocked?" said Yenalb. "Surely it’s better than death. You’re an extraordinary hunter; we’ve all heard the tales. You’d have no trouble fending for yourself. Why, you could even continue to pursue your astrological interests. I’d arrange for you to have your — what are those corrupt things called? — your far-seer to aid in your studies."
Yenalb waited a few moments, letting that sink in. "And," said the priest, in a studied, offhand way, "we could even arrange to find a volunteer companion for you. I understand you have a friend in Pack Gelbo who shares some of your interests, and some of your heresy." Afsan’s head snapped up. Yenalb made a great show of trying to remember. "Now, what was her name? Something exotic, I seem to recall. Novato? Why, yes, I believe that was it. Wab-Novato."
Afsan felt his pulse quickening. "How do you know about her?"
"There are delegations here from every Pack paying tribute to the new Emperor. I learned from Det-Zamar, the priest you traveled here with, that you had visited Pack Gelbo before going to Carno. The delegates from Gelbo were more than pleased to answer a few questions for the Master of the Faith." Yenalb turned his muzzle to face Afsan directly. "Think of it, boy! Put your mark on that declaration, and then you and your friend can go safely, under my authority. There’s plenty of land on the southern shore of Edz’toolar where the two of you could hunt and live and study in absolute peace."
"But we’d never see anyone else?"
"That’s a small price to pay, isn’t it? I’m offering you a way out, Afsan." The priest looked at him as if wondering whether to go on. "I was fond of you, boy. I had taken an interest in you; went to Saleed on your behalf to help arrange your pilgrimage. You seemed so bright, and, well, if perhaps a bit absentminded, at least always polite and eager. I never wished you any ill." Gently he proffered the writing leather again. "Take it, Afsan. Put your mark on it."
Afsan did take the sheet and read it once more, slowly, making sure he understood the weight of each glyph, the significance of each turn of phrase. It was a tempting offer…
He unsheathed the claw on the longest finger of his left hand, the one he used to draw his cartouche. Yenalb produced a small pot of ink from a pouch in his robe and began to pry off the cap.
But then Afsan unsheathed his remaining claws and with a swat of his hand sliced the leather document into strips. They dropped to the floor, forming an overlapping array in the dirt.
Yenalb thumped his tail in fury. "You’ll regret that decision, Afsan."
Afsan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his tail. Sadly he said, "Part of me always will."
*33*
The central square of Capital City was filled with a latticework of Quintaglios. Each stood as close to the next as protocol would permit, meaning that, viewed from an elevation, such as the wooden platform Afsan found himself on, their heads formed points at regular intervals throughout the square, two paces between each one.
Dybo was noticeably absent. It was his orders, or at least orders that he had approved, that had brought Afsan here, but the Emperor apparently did not have what it took to watch.
It was small comfort to Afsan that Dybo had apparently had difficulty coming to a decision: it was now twenty-six days since Yenalb had visited Afsan in his tiny prison, and yet Afsan was sure Yenalb had called for this immediately after that meeting.
Six guards had accompanied Afsan, each twice his own bulk. That was far greater an escort than Afsan needed, but it seemed that the public was to be shown that Afsan was much more dangerous than his thin form would indicate. The guards had goaded him with violent shoves, pushing him up the ramp and onto the platform. And now that he was here, the hastily erected wooden structure creaking beneath him, two of them were tying him to a post, his arms lashed together behind the rough wood, his tail strapped to the planks.
The ties, made of armorback hide, were drawn so tight that Afsan felt a tingling in his hands, a numbness in his fingers. His claws were extended, but he c
ould no longer feel their presence.
At the end of the platform, a Quintaglio even younger than Afsan beat slowly on a drum.
Afsan looked up. Overhead, against the purple sky, several large wingfingers circled.
Looking out over the lattice of heads, Afsan saw them parting, saw a pathway open up. Coming toward him, clad in swirling robes, bearing the Staff of Larsk, was Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. The crowd closed behind him.
Afsan’s heart pounded.
Yenalb came up the ramp that led onto the wooden platform. The crowd cheered him with whoops and thumping tails. He had yet to look at Afsan.
In an instant, Afsan saw Yenalb’s whole posture change; saw him rear up, standing as erect as possible; saw his features rearrange themselves into those of an orator; saw him adopt the posture he used in the Hall of Worship, that special bearing that helped him control others. The priest faced the crowd, raising his hands in benediction. He shouted a few words in outdated speech, speech from the time of Larsk’s voyage, speech that harked back to the truth Larsk had discovered. Then, pointing at Afsan, he announced, "We have a demon among us!" The crowd swayed back and forth, literally moved by the words. "He comes to us from the darkest volcanic pits, from the place of smoke and liquid rock and deadly gases. He is a danger to us all!"
"Protect us!" shouted someone in the crowd.
"Save us from the demon," said another voice.
Yenalb lifted his hands, again made the sign of benediction. "Fear not!" said the priest. "I will indeed save us all from this demon." At last he turned toward Afsan. "You are Afsan?"
Afsan’s voice was tremulous. "I am Sal-Afsan, yes."
"Silence! Tak-Saleed was a godly soul. You will not profane his memory by taking his name!"
Afsan looked at his feet, at his triple toeclaws digging into the splintery wood.
"Afsan, I give you one last chance," said Yenalb. "Release the poison within you. Recant!"
Afsan turned his head toward the sky. "The sun is out. You can see my sincerity. But even if it were darkest night, I would not take back what I’ve said. The world is doomed…"
Yenalb’s hand slapped across Afsan’s face, and, tied up as he was, he wasn’t able to roll with the impact. He tasted blood in his mouth, his serrated teeth having smashed into the inside of his muzzle. "Silence!"
Afsan swallowed, looked away. And yet, in that instant, he realized just how controlled Yenalb’s anger was, how orchestrated the performance. A backhanded slap? From a carnivore? Yenalb was deliberately avoiding using claws or teeth, pointedly refraining from drawing visible blood. He played the crowd the way Dybo would a musical instrument.
Yenalb turned to the audience. "The dat-kar-mas!" he shouted. Again the assembled group parted as a second priest, a female, came through, carrying a small jeweled box in both hands. She proffered the box to Yenalb. He opened it, the lacquered lid tilting back on tiny hinges. Inside was an obsidian dagger, lying on fine black silk. It glinted with lavender highlights in the sunlight. He reached in to pick it up and Afsan noticed Yenalb’s claws extending as he touched it.
The priest held it over his head and turned it so the crowd could see. Gasps and hisses filled the air. Yenalb would not attack Afsan with his bare hands, for such a spectacle might indeed incite the crowd to instinctive violence. No, already the sight of a weapon — distasteful, cowardly, a tool of the weak — had quelled the crowd. And yet, Afsan knew that Yenalb could bring them to near-boil again with a few words or an appropriate gesture. The priest turned toward him. "What you say, demon, is a lie. Since you continue to claim to see things that are blasphemous, you give us no choice." He nodded at the guards.
One of them grabbed Afsan by the throat, claws sharp against his skin, his dewlap bunched painfully against his neck. Afsan tried to bite the guard, but another moved in, crushing Afsan’s muzzle shut in the crook of her massive arm. His head was twisted sideways, and Afsan closed his eyes. He felt the planks beneath him wobble as Yenalb moved closer.
Suddenly, roughly, his right eyelid was forced open by strong fingers. Diffuse light came at him through his nictitating membrane, and then a shadow fell across him. Afsan opened the membrane to see more clearly. Coming at him, cold and sharp, was the black obsidian knife.
The dagger was filling his field of view, and he realized at last that he was not to die here, although perhaps that would have been better.
The pain as the mineral point lanced into his eye was incredible, stronger and sharper than any agony Afsan had known before. He frantically tried to escape, to free himself, but the guards were much stronger than he. His left eyelid was forced open, too. He quickly rolled that eye, trying to move the pupil as far up into his skull as possible. The last thing he saw was one of the moons, a pale and dim crescent in the afternoon sun.
Then a second stab, a second agony on top of the first.
And blackness.
Through the pain, Afsan felt something like jelly on his muzzle.
His head pounded. His heart raced. He felt nauseous.
Yenalb’s voice rose above the sound that Afsan suddenly realized was his own screaming. "The demon can never again claim to see something that blasphemes our God!"
The crowd cheered. The strong hand at Afsan’s throat pulled away. Pain throbbed through him. He tried to blink, but his eyelids had trouble sliding over his rent orbs. His body racked.
And at last, mercifully, he fell unconscious, sagging against the wooden post.
*34*
Dybo apparently thought that what he’d allowed to be done to Afsan was a kindness, a gentler fate than having him executed. Indeed, the Emperor, in a gesture of his infinite mercy, let Afsan go, free to wander the Capital. Stripped of his rank, stripped of his home, stripped of his sight.
But free.
His eyes would never grow back. Bone and flesh, those could regenerate, but the eyes, the organs — damage to them was permanent, irreversible.
Afsan was determined not to dwell on his loss, and not to be a burden on those few who were willing to help him. He was learning to identify the sounds of the city: the clicking of toeclaws on stone paving; the thundering footfalls of domesticated hornfaces making their way down the streets; the chatter of voices, some near and distinct, some distant and muffled; the calls of traders trying to interest those wandering by in the trinkets and tools brought from other Packs; the tourists responding with interest, the locals hissing them down; the entreaties of tattooless beggars; the drums from the place of worship, sounded at the beginning of each daytenth; the identifying calls of ships down in the harbor. And behind it all the background noises, the things he had ignored most of his life: the whistle of the wind, the rustling of leaves, the pipping calls of wingfingers gliding overhead, the chirpings of insects.
And there were smells to help guide him, too: pheromones from other Quintaglios, the reek of oil from lamps, the delicious aroma of freshly killed meat as carts rattled by carrying it from the central butchery to dining halls around the city, the acrid smell from metalworking shops, pollens in the air, perfume of flowers, ozone before a storm.
He found he could even tell when the sun was out and when it was hidden behind a cloud, his skin reacting to the change in heat.
Pal-Cadool and Jal-Tetex became his constant companions. One of them was almost always with him. Afsan didn’t understand why they gave so much time to looking after him, but he was grateful. Cadool had carved a stick for Afsan from a telaja branch. Afsan carried it in his left hand, feeling the ground in front of him. He learned to judge what each little bump meant about the path ahead, with Cadool or Tetex providing a running commentary: "There’s a curb here; that’s just a loose stone; watch out — hornface dung!"
Cadool and Tetex were practically the only ones willing to speak to him. Afsan had not been tattooed with a shunning symbol — his crime was heinous, indeed, but he had not been moved to mate with a rutting animal nor had he hunted without eating what he had killed. But, then a
gain, there were only a couple of other blind Quintaglios in Capital City, and both of them were very old. Everyone could recognize Afsan immediately, the scrawny young adult feeling his way along with a stick. And, after what had happened to Afsan, it was little wonder that no one risked talking to him.
Afsan was no longer a prisoner, but nor was he an astrologer. A priest from Det-Yenalb’s staff had taken Saleed’s place, and no apprentice was needed, apparently. Cadool had made space for Afsan in his own small apartment, two rooms on the far side of Capital City.
Today, the twenty-first day since he had been blinded, Afsan detected a difference in Cadool as the butcher walked beside him. His voice was charged, and there was excitement in his pheromones.
"What’s with you?" Afsan asked at last.
Cadool’s long stride faltered a bit; Afsan could hear the change in the way his friend’s claws ticked against the stones. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, good Cadool, that you’re all worked up about something. What is it?"
"It’s nothing, really." Without being able to see the muzzle of the person speaking, Afsan couldn’t tell if he was being told the truth. Still, since lying was futile in most circumstances, it tended not to occur to Quintaglios to try. Nonetheless, Cadool’s words seemed insincere.
"Come on, it must be something. You’re more stimulated than someone about to go on a hunt."
Clicking noises. Cadool’s laughter. "It’s nothing, really." A beat. "Do you know what time it is?"
Afsan had gotten good at counting and remembering the number of drums sounded from the Hall of Worship. "It’s four daytenths past sunrise. Or it was, a few moments ago."
"That late?"
"Yes. Why? Are you expecting something?"
"We have to get to the central square."
Afsan had also become good at counting intersections. "That’s eleven blocks from here, and you know how slowly I walk. Besides, I — I’m not comfortable there."
Cadool stopped for a moment. "No, I suppose you aren’t. But this will be worth it, I promise." Afsan felt a hand cup his elbow. "Come along!"
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