Physical contact with others was something that Afsan was getting used to. His claws extended when surprised by a touch, but he managed to get them retracted within a few beats.
Afsan’s gait was slow — he had to be able to feel the stones ahead of him with his stick — but with Cadool propelling him they made good time. Afsan ticked off the landmarks in his mind. The putrid smell meant they were approaching the town axis, down which the main drainage ditch ran. Soon they were close enough to hear the gurgling of the water. Next, the hubbub of the main market. The silence of the holy quarter. The smell of woodsmoke coming from the heating fires in the creche, a sure sign that they were indeed near the town’s center.
And, at last, the sounds of the central square itself. A constant background of wingfinger pips: Afsan could picture the creatures perched all over the statues of Larsk and his descendants, preening their white hairy coverings, stretching leathery wings, occasionally swooping into flight to pluck an insect from the air, or to fetch a gobbet of meat tossed by a Quintaglio seated on one of the public stools that ringed the square. Normal vehicles were prohibited here, so that carriage clacking over the stones must have been passing through on palace business. Indeed, it must belong to a highly placed official, for Afsan could hear the distinctive squeak of a pivoting front axle — a newfangled luxury, found only on the most elaborate carriages. The carriage was pulled by at least two shovelmouths, judging by the methane stench and the click of broad, flat toeclaws.
Suddenly Afsan lifted his head — an instinctive gesture, an attempt to look up. The thundering call of a shovelmouth had split the air, but not from nearby, not the small ones that had just passed. No, it came from out in the direction of the Ch’mar volcanoes, away from the harbor — a bellow, a reverberating wail.
Soon the ground shook slightly. Giant footfalls. A herd of something was moving down the streets of the city. No, no, not a herd — the slamming feet were all of different weights, different strides. A collection of animals? And Quintaglios, hundreds of Quintaglios, running alongside, their voices growing as whatever procession this was approached the square.
There were more calls from shovelmouths, as well as the low roars made by hornfaces and the greeble-greeble of armorbacks.
Afsan felt his claws unsheathe, his tail swish nervously. "What’s happening?"
Cadool’s hand squeezed Afsan’s elbow as he continued to steer him through the square. "Something that should have happened some time ago, my friend. You are about to be vindicated."
Afsan stopped and turned his unseeing face on Cadool. "What?"
"They’re coming, Afsan. From across Land, your people are coming."
"My people?"
"The Lubalites. The hunters. You are The One."
"The one what?"
"The One. The One spoken of by Lubal as she was dying, gored by a hornface. ’A hunter will come greater than myself, and this hunter will be a male — yes, a male — and he shall lead you on the greatest hunt of all.’’
"I know Lubal said that, but…"
"But nothing. You fit the description."
"You can’t be serious."
"Of course I am."
"Cadool, I’m just an astrologer."
"No. You are much more."
The procession was growing nearer. Afsan could feel the ground shake beneath him. The shovelmouth cries were deafening.
"Here they come," said Cadool.
"What’s happening?"
"It’s a stirring sight, Afsan. You should be proud. At the far end of the square, through the Arch of Dasan, perhaps five hundred Lubalites are entering. Young and old, male and female. Some are walking, others are riding on the backs of runners and hornfaces and shovelmouths and armorbacks."
"My God…
"And they’re heading this way, every one of them. Some of them I know: hunt leader Jal-Tetex, of course, and Dar-Regbo, and the songwriter Ho-Baban. And I believe that is Pahs-Drawo, from your home Pack of Carno…"
"Drawo is here?"
"Yes, him, and hundreds of others."
Afsan felt stones near his feet bounce as the vast procession crossed the square. Their pheromones hit him like a wall. Afsan’s claws extended in reflex. The hunt was on…
"Afsan, it’s glorious," said Cadool, his voice full of wonder. "Banners are snapping in the breeze, red for Lubal, blue for Belbar, green for Katoon, yellow for Hoog, and purple for Mekt. It’s like a rainbow. And those who own copies have the Book of Rites held high in their right hands, in plain view. No more secret worship! The time has come."
"For what?" For the first time in days, Afsan felt panic because he could not see. "Cadool, the time has come for what?"
"For the religion of the hunt to rise again!" Cadool’s words were almost drowned out by the approaching din. "Afsan, they’re here, they’re hailing you. Five hundred left hands are raised in the salute of Lubal…"
"The what?"
"The hand gesture! They’re greeting you! Afsan, return the sign! Return it!"
"But I don’t remember it…"
"Quickly!" said Cadool. He felt the butcher’s hand on his, manipulating his fingers. "Retract this claw, and this one. Good. Now, raise your hand. Yes! Press your thumb against your palm — !"
The crowd went wild, Afsan heard his name shouted over and over again.
"They all want to see you," said Cadool. He barked something at someone in the crowd. Afsan heard heavy claws move across the stones. Hot breath was on his face. "Here’s a shovelmouth. Climb onto its back."
Afsan knew these beasts well. They were commonly hunted by Pack Carno and occasionally domesticated. Adults were perhaps three times his own body length, brown, with pebbly hides, strange crests atop their heads (the shape varying from species to species), and mouths that ended in wide, flat prows. They could walk on two legs, but usually ambled about on all four.
"Here," said Cadool. "Let me help you." Afsan felt one hand upon him, then another, and, a moment later, a third and a fourth. His heart pounded at the strange touches.
"Don’t worry," said a female voice he knew well. "It’s me, Tetex."
They boosted him onto the creature’s back, and Afsan wrapped his arms around its short neck. The thing’s body expanded and contracted beneath him, and he could hear a faint whistling as the air moved through the long chambers of its head crest.
Unable to see, Afsan felt dizzy.
Suddenly the beast’s flank shook, and Afsan realized that Cadool or Tetex had slapped its side, prodding it. The shovelmouth rose up on its hind legs, lifting Afsan into the air. It had a small saddle strapped to its back, and Afsan anchored his feet into that, so that he stood straight, in line with the animal’s neck. Once the lifting had stopped, and his vertigo had begun to pass, he dared unwrap his left arm from the neck and repeated the Lubalite hand sign. The crowd cheered him on.
"The One has arrived!"
"Long live Afsan!"
"Long live the hunters!"
Afsan wished he could see them. It was all a mistake, of course, but it felt good — like basking in the sun after a satisfying meal — to be wanted by someone, anyone, after all he’d been through. He managed to find his voice and said, so softly that only the first row of onlookers could hear, "Thank you."
"Talk to us!" shouted a female’s voice.
"Tell us how you unmasked the false prophet!" demanded a male.
Unmasked the false prophet? thought Afsan. "I merely saw things Larsk did not," he said.
"Louder!" said Cadool. "They all want to hear."
Afsan spoke up. "My training allowed me to see things that eluded Larsk."
"They called you a demon!" came a voice from far away.
"But it was Larsk who was the demon," shouted another. "It was he who lied in the daylight!"
Afsan felt his stomach churning. Such words… "No," he said, now raising his hand in a call for silence. The crowd fell mute, and suddenly Afsan realized that it was he who was really in contro
l here. "No, Larsk was simply confused." Like all of you…
"The One is gracious," shouted a voice.
"The One is wise," cried another.
It came to Afsan that he would never again have the ear of so many. This, perhaps, was his one great chance to spread the word, to show the people the truth. For the first and maybe only time in his life, he was in command. It was a moment to be seized.
"You’ve heard my explanation of how the world works," he said, his throat aching from unaccustomed shouting. "We are a moon that revolves around a planet which we call the Face of God, and that planet, like all the others, travels in a circular path around our sun."
"Behold!" screamed a voice. "The lies of Larsk revealed!" The speaker sounded close to madness. The crowd was nearing a fever pitch.
"But hear, now, the most important message of all!" Afsan dared raise both hands, briefly letting go of the shovelmouth’s neck. "Our world is doomed!"
"Just as it was foretold!" shouted a drawn-out voice that sounded like Cadool’s.
Afsan heard a buzz move through the crowd. "We have some time yet," he shouted. "Although the world’s fate is sealed, we have many kilodays before its end will come."
"Kilodays to pray!" said another voice.
"No!" Afsan again balanced on the shovelmouth’s back, holding both hands aloft. "No! Kilodays to prepare! We must get off this world."
The sounds from the crowd were of puzzlement now.
"Get off the world?"
"What does he mean?"
Afsan wished he could see them, wished he could read their faces. Was he getting through to any of them?
"I mean," he said, "that although the world is ending, our race does not have to. We can leave this place, fly to somewhere else."
"Fly?" The word echoed throughout the square in intonations ranging from puzzled to sarcastic.
"Yes, fly! In vessels — ships — like those in which we now ply the waters of this world."
"We don’t know how to do that," called a voice.
"And I don’t know, either," said Afsan. "But we must find a method — we must! It will mean changing the way in which we conduct our lives. We must give ourselves over to science, we must learn all that we can. Wingfingers fly; insects fly. If they can do it, we can do it. It’s only a question of discovering their methods and adapting them to our needs. Science holds our answer; knowledge — real knowledge, verifiable knowledge, not superstition, not religious nonsense — will be our salvation."
The crowd, at last, was silent, save for the grunts of the beasts.
"We must learn to work together, to cooperate." He smelled their pheromones, knew they were confused. "Nature — or God — has given us a great challenge. We have trouble working side by side; our territorial instincts drive us apart. But we must overcome these instincts, be creatures of reason and sanity instead of prisoners of our biology."
Afsan turned his head in small increments from left to right, as if looking at each individual face. He could hear the hiss of conversation growing, a comment here, a question there, a remark from the back, an interjection up front.
"But, Afsan," came a voice, louder than the others, "we need our territories…"
Afsan held the shovelmouth’s neck firmly so as not to lose his balance as he tipped forward in a concessional bow. "Of course we do," he said. "But once we leave this world, there will be room for us all. Our Land is but a tiny part of the vast universe. We’re going to the stars!"
Suddenly another voice cut across all the others, a voice amplified and reverberating through a speaking horn.
"This is Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. Disperse at once. I have assembled those loyal to the Emperor and they are prepared to move upon the square unless you leave now. I say again: This is Det-Yenalb…"
The fool! Afsan felt pheromones from the crowd wash over him like a wave. His own claws extended. The shovelmouth gave a little yelp as their points dug into its neck. He could hear bodies jostling as Quintaglios, already packed too tightly, turned to face the priest. The situation was explosive.
"What are you afraid of, Yenalb?" shouted Afsan.
"Disperse!"
"What are you afraid of?" echoed the crowd of hunters.
Yenalb’s voice reverberated back. "I fear for your souls."
"And I fear for the survival of our people," Afsan shouted. "Call off your supporters, Yenalb. Do you really want to send priests, academics, and ceremonial guards against the finest hunters in all of Land? Retreat, before it’s too late!"
"I say again," said Yenalb. "Disperse. No punishment will be levied if you leave now."
Cadool’s voice rose up, almost deafening Afsan. "Upon whose authority do you act, priest?"
Echoing, reverberating: "The authority of His Luminance Dy-Dybo, Emperor of the eight provinces and the Fifty Packs."
"And how," demanded Cadool, "did fat Dybo come upon his authority?"
"He is…" Yenalb halted, the final syllable repeating as it faded away. But the crowd knew what he had intended to say. He is the descendant of Larsk.
"Larsk is a false prophet," yelled a female voice, "and Dybo’s authority is unearned."
Shouts of agreement went up throughout the square.
"You will disperse!" said Yenalb.
"No," said Afsan, his voice cutting through the uproar. "We will not. Order your people to withdraw."
They waited for Yenalb’s response, but there was none.
"Once first blood is spilled, Yenalb, there will be no stopping an escalation." Afsan’s voice was going, his throat raw. "You know that. Order the retreat."
Yenalb’s voice echoed back, but it had a different tone. He must have turned around to address those who were loyal to the palace. "Advance!" shouted the priest. "Clear the square!"
For once, Afsan was glad he could not see.
*35*
Pal-Cadool looked up at Afsan, balanced atop the tube-crested shoveler. The One, still small and always scrawny, had eyelids closed over rent orbs. His voice, unaccustomed to addressing multitudes, had become strained.
Cadool then looked out across the square. The Lubalites filled most of the eastern side. Some were atop hornfaces, half hidden behind the great bony neck frills. Others were riding running beasts, both the green and the beige variety. Still others were on shovelmouths — hardly a fighting creature, but still a good mount. And a few hunters stood on the wide knobby carapaces of armorbacks, ornery plant-eaters mostly encased in bone.
But Cadool saw that the bulk of the five hundred hunters were on foot. They had been rapt with attention, drinking in the words of Sal-Afsan, The One.
But now those loyal to the Emperor, led by Del-Yenalb high on the back of a spikefrill, were moving into the square through the Arch of the First Emperor.
The hunters turned, those on foot swinging quickly around, those riding atop great reptiles prodding their beasts to rotate through a half circle. With grunts and hisses the animals obeyed.
Cadool guessed there were seventy paces between the two forces. On this side, 500 hunters. On Yenalb’s, perhaps 120 priests, scholars, and palace staff members, each atop an imperial mount.
The palace loyal were a sorry lot: many of them had lived soft lives, relying on butchers such as Cadool himself to do their hunting and killing. No, they were no match for the Lubalites, either in number or skill. But their mounts were fresh, not exhausted from the long march to Capital City. Cadool took a moment to size up the animals they rode. Armorbacks had daggers of bone coming off the sides of their thick carapaces and had solid clubs at the ends of their muscular tails. A hunter would never use such a club in battle, but scholars and priests might indeed sink so low. One swing from an armorback’s tail could stave in a Quintaglio skull.
And then there were the hornfaces, with three pointed shafts of bone protruding from the fronts of their skulls: a long one from above each eye and another, shorter horn rising from the tip of the muzzle. In his time, Cadool had seen man
y hunters, either too daring or too careless, gored by such beasts. Even Dem-Pironto, who, excepting Afsan, was the finest hunter Cadool had ever known, had been felled that way. Further, the great neck shields, rising like walls of bone from the back of the animals’ skulls, would help protect the scholars and priests.
And then there were the spikefrills, such as the one Yenalb was riding. These were a rare breed of hornface with long spikes of bone sticking out of the short bony frill around the neck. They had only one real horn, a huge one sticking up from the snout, although there were small pointed knobs above each eye.
But even as he tried to make a critical assessment, Cadool realized that his own control was slipping away, his blood coming to a boil.
"Advance!" Yenalb had shouted through his brass speaking cone. "Clear the square!" The palace loyal began moving slowly. The square was crowded; their mounts jostled each other. Beasts that size could crush the foot or tail of a Quintaglio without noticing a thing.
It’s madness, thought Cadool. Absolute madness. And then he growled, low and long…
Afsan felt the ground shaking slightly, knew that imperial mounts were starting to move toward him and the hunters. The air was thick with pheromones. He didn’t want this, had never wanted it. All he’d wanted was to tell the truth, to let them see — see what he no longer could see.
The blind leading the blind.
Afsan felt his claws unsheathe.
Cadool charged, pushing through the crowd of hunters. Other Lubalites were lunging forward, closing the gap between themselves and the imperial contingent. Being on foot, Cadool had greater maneuverability than those upon mounts. He and a hundred others surged ahead, three-toed feet kicking pebbles and dirt into the air, a cloud rising around them.
Cadool’s heart thumped in time with his footfalls. The hunt was on!
Forty paces. Thirty.
The air filled with wingfingers, rising in droves from statues at the periphery of the square. Their squawks, like claws scraping slate, counterpointed the dull thunder of feet pounding the paving stones.
Twenty paces. Ten. Cadool could smell them, smell their stimulation, smell their fear.
Far-Seer qa-1 Page 24
