"I have reports that in many Packs all egglings are being allowed to live."
Afsan looked thoughtful. "I suspect the people feel it’s unfair for only the egglings of The Family to go unculled."
"But the population — ?"
"Will swell. By eightfold."
"We are creatures of instinct, Afsan. Even you, even the most rational of us. I remember Nor-Gampar, the way you tore his throat out aboard the Dasheter…"
"Yes," said Afsan sadly. "We are creatures of instinct."
"Right now, with the egglings confined to the creches, the matter is in hand. But when they venture out into the world…"
"They will seek to establish their own territories. And there won’t be enough space for each of them. The territorial imperative will drive them, and everyone, into dagamant."
"That is my fear, too." Dybo spread his arms. "What can I do?"
Afsan tilted his head slightly upward, thinking. "It’s difficult. Obviously we as a people simply can’t allow all of our offspring to live — we’re much too fecund for that. Since the hatching of time, the bloodpriests have taken care of weeding the population. But now those priests are in disrepute. Their respectability must be restored."
"How?" Dybo got up off the rock he had been straddling and began to pace. "When I father hatchlings, I will gladly submit them to dispatch."
Afsan shook his head. "You will not be believed."
"But they’ll know I’m not lying."
"Not intentionally, no. But you might be misinformed or misled by your advisors, as, apparently, you and perhaps your predecessors have been in the past."
"I’ll submit my egglings to public dispatch, then, so that there can be no doubt."
"Public dispatch." said Afsan, the idea evidently intriguing him. "You know, I once saw a litter dispatched."
"What — when?"
"When I stopped in my home Pack of Carno, venturing back from the Dasheter’s landing after we circumnavigated the world. I stumbled into the creche at the wrong time. It’s a sight I’ve never forgotten. Public dispatch — yes, people would flock to watch that." He scratched the underside of his muzzle. "But even that would leave all eight of your mother’s children alive."
Dybo flicked his tail. "There’s nothing I can do about that."
"Perhaps there is," said Afsan slowly.
Dybo stopped pacing directly abreast of Afsan. "What do you mean?"
"You have been challenged by your brother. He claims he would have been chosen as best, had the imperial bloodpriest performed his job properly."
"That’s what he says."
"What has become of that bloodpriest?"
"You mean the one who held the job when I hatched?" said Dybo. "Mek-Maliden is his name. He’s still alive. He’s very old, of course, but in theory he’s still the imperial bloodpriest."
"Have you asked this Maliden whether Rodlox’s claim is true?"
Dybo looked away. "Maliden has gone missing. No one has seen him since the day Rodlox made his challenge."
"Are you sure that he, too, as a bloodpriest, hasn’t fallen prey to an angry mob?"
Dybo shook his head. "I don’t think so. Maliden’s personal effects are missing, too."
Afsan nodded slowly. "That he’s run away is strong evidence that Rodlox’s claim is true, I’m afraid. Have you searched the documents at the imperial Hall of Worship?"
"Not personally, of course. But I’ve ordered it done. Nothing has been found to either corroborate or refute Rodlox’s claim." Dybo sighed. "Of course, if I were involved in such a monumental deception, I doubt I’d write anything down, either."
"No. Nor would I. So the truth has fled the city with Maliden."
"Apparently."
Silence, except for the calls of wingfingers and the drums and bells from a ship sailing by far below. Then: "There are two thrusts to Rodlox’s claim," said Afsan. The first, that all eight of Lends’s children got to live, seems verified, if we take Maliden’s disappearance as an admission of guilt. But that, in and of itself, is not so damaging. After all, all eight of Novato and my children were allowed to live, too."
"Indeed."
"But the second part of the claim, that the wrong eggling was designated as Emperor-to-be, is very bad indeed, and it hasn’t been proven. Maliden could tell us."
"If we could find him," said the Emperor. "I’ve sent out riders with orders for his arrest."
"I doubt you’ll locate him soon enough," said Afsan.
"Frankly, I doubt it, too," agreed Dybo. "If the other bloodpriests are in cahoots with him, he’ll have an ally in every Pack. Without Maliden, there’s no one who can categorically refute Rodlox." Dybo slapped his tail against the ground in frustration. "Regardless, the people have made up their minds already. They believe that everything Rodlox said is true."
"And that hampers your ability to lead," said Afsan.
"Yes."
"The question of who rightfully belongs on the ruling slab must be resolved."
"But how? I suppose, if the overwhelming opinion is that I’m not the rightful heir, then I could step down and let Rodlox take my place."
"No!" said Afsan. "No. You can’t do that. Rodlox would abandon the exodus. No, a way must be found to prove that you are the correct leader."
"And how can we do that?"
Wingfingers careened overhead. Nearby, insects buzzed in low shrubs.
"A replay," said Afsan simply. "You and your siblings must face the culling of the bloodpriest again."
Dybo was silent for a long time, then his teeth began to click. "Afsan, you’re yanking my tail. Do you know who becomes imperial bloodpriest in Maliden’s absence? His apprentice, Dagtool. He’s not that formidable. Chances are I could take him in a fight, and if I couldn’t alone, certainly my siblings and I together could."
"Of course," said Afsan. "To set eight adults against one would be silly. When the bloodpriest does his culling, it’s eight tiny hatchlings he must deal with." He looked up, blind eyes on Dybo. "What we need is an appropriately scaled-up bloodpriest."
Dybo stared at his friend. "What do you mean?"
"We need something as formidable to you as an adult Quintaglio is to an eggling. Something that will have no trouble going against eight adult Quintaglios. Something ten times your size."
"Afsan, you’re gibbering. There’s nothing that meets your description."
"Yes, there is."
"Oh, come on. The only thing that even remotely sounds like that is…"
"Yes?"
"Oh, Afsan, be serious."
"I am serious. You and your siblings should publicly replay the culling of the bloodpriest against a blackdeath."
"A blackdeath? Afsan, those creatures are dangerous!"
"So is a Quintaglio bloodpriest to a newly hatched infant."
"But a blackdeath!"
"It’s an elegant solution. We will end up with the rightful Emperor. Plus, by having you and your siblings — members of The Family — submitting to such a public culling, the role of the bloodpriest will be re-established, and the population will return to its traditional controls."
"But, Afsan, umm, there’s no way that I could survive against a blackdeath — no way any Quintaglio could."
Afsan’s teeth touched together gently. "I’m sure your first point is the one that really concerns you, my friend. You’re afraid that in such a test, you would not be the winner."
"Well," said Dybo, "even if the odds were even, I’d only have a one-in-eight chance of survival — assuming, that is, that the blackdeath could be stopped somehow before it devoured all of us, not to mention everyone else in the vicinity."
"A one-in-eight chance is all a newborn Quintaglio gets."
"Yes, but…
"The species grows strong because only the best survive."
"I know that, but…"
"But you doubt that your odds are even one in eight? You are not in the best of shape."
"Thank you."
"Frankly," said Dybo, "I came to you hoping for a solution that would leave me in power."
"I, too, would like to see you remain Emperor."
Dybo was bitter. "It doesn’t sound that way."
"Dybo, I fought long and hard to convince you of the truth about our world." Afsan clicked his teeth. "It’s not easy breaking in a new Emperor."
Dybo spread his hands. "But if I were to go up against a blackdeath, I wouldn’t survive."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"I’d prefer to hear something a bit more definite than that."
Afsan slid from his rock and stood over the sleeping Gork, who was hissing softly in the boulder’s shade. "You’re missing the obvious, Dybo. An eggling’s only hope of surviving the culling is to run the fastest and thus avoid being gulped down by the bloodpriest. But you are an adult. You have your intellect to aid you." He reached down and stroked the sleeping lizard’s hide. "Remember Lubal’s dictum: ’A great hunter has not only sharp tooth and polished claw but a keen mind as well, for it is cunning that will save all when the predator becomes the prey.’ "
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, I will be your trainer."
"Just what I need. A blind person telling me how to fight."
Gork awoke and pushed its belly up off the grass. "Have you forgotten who I am?" said Afsan. "The best hunters in all of Land called me The One in my youth. Was it not I who felled the largest thunderbeast ever seen? Was it not I who dispatched the water serpent Kal-ta-goot?"
Dybo bowed and then, feeling silly doing so but doing it nonetheless, said out loud, "I am bowing." He added a moment later: "You are indeed a great hunter."
Afsan returned the bow. "There is a way for one Quintaglio to survive against a blackdeath."
"And that is?"
He shook his head. "I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet. But I’m confident that I can find a way."
"Confident enough to bet my life on it?"
"I’ll do the best I am able," said Afsan.
"It’s more than just my life, Afsan. You enjoy the support of the Emperor. You want for nothing under my leadership, and your dream of getting us off this world is pursued because of me. If I lose, you lose."
"I know that. But, forgive me, it seems as though your reign will soon abruptly end unless you consolidate your power, unless a stop is put to this challenge to your right to rule. We are a hunting society; no one knows better than I how strongly our people revere those with skill at the hunt." Gork rubbed gently against Afsan’s legs. "If you could survive against a blackdeath, you would by definition be the greatest hunter in all of Land. That, in and of itself, would be enough to make most people willing to accept your right — your earned right — to rule."
"I am Emperor now," said Dybo, "because my mother died young. And Rodlox is a governor, because his predecessor likewise met an unexpected death. The rest of my putative siblings are merely apprentice governors."
"True."
"But the governors they are apprenticed to are also my relatives, if one believes Rodlox. They are my mother’s brothers and sisters."
"And they are old," said Afsan simply.
"So?"
"So, respect for elders runs deep. People may grumble about their right to hold high office in light of what Rodlox has said, but I doubt anyone will seriously call for their replacement. First, to be blunt, they’ll all die of old age soon enough anyway. And most of them have governed since long before you or I were born. In those many kilodays they’ve earned the right to continue administering their provinces, earned it by deeds. If the question of rightful Emperorship is solved, I suspect the issue of who should be governing the outlying provinces will fade into the background."
"Very well," said Dybo. "But members of The Family are not the only ones to have avoided the test of the bloodpriest. You and Novato had eight children, and all of them, except poor Helbark, are still alive." Helbark had succumbed to fever shortly after his birth.
Afsan shook his head. "My children lived because of the wishes of the people, not despite them. I knew nothing about them being alive until the Dasheter returned to Capital City sixteen kilodays ago. The bloodpriests and the people chose to make a special dispensation."
"Because they thought you were The One, the great hunter foretold by Lubal."
"Indeed."
"But you are not The One. You may indeed be a great hunter, but you are not The One."
"Perhaps not."
"I know you are not."
"I have never made a claim either way."
"You know you are not."
Afsan made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I don’t play up the suggestion, but if some support the exodus because they feel that it is the great hunt foretold by Lubal, I do nothing to dissuade them. Regardless, my children were a special case, made with full public knowledge. The deceit practiced by The Family was something quite different: an attempt to control all of Land. But the circumstances were reversed. The palace advisors deceived The Family, in an attempt to wrest control from Larsk’s descendants and vest it in themselves. You now have a chance to rectify that: to put an end to the deceit, to eliminate the advisors who have corrupted the government, to establish once and for all your right to lead."
"What you suggest is radical."
"This is not the first time I’ve made a radical suggestion."
"No, no, I suppose not." Dybo leaned against one of the boulders, weary. "There is no other way?"
"The only alternative is the one you’ve already mentioned. You could abdicate. Let Rodlox take over. It would mean the end of our people, though — the death of our race."
Dybo looked thoughtful. "I try to keep the welfare of all Quintaglios in mind, of course," he said quickly, "but, um, what do you suppose would become of me if I did choose to abdicate?"
"You’d be sent into exile, I’d imagine," said Afsan. "There’s plenty of land on the southern shore of Edz’toolar where you could hunt and live and study in absolute peace." A pause. "Or so High Priest Det-Yenalb once told me."
"What?"
"Kilodays ago, when you had me held prisoner in the palace basement, Yenalb came to visit me. He offered me safe passage from the Capital, under his protection, if only I would disappear and never again speak my so-called heresies."
"I didn’t know about that. And you turned him down?"
"Yes."
"This was before…?"
"Before my eyes were put out? Yes."
"You turned down a safe way out?"
"I had no choice. The world’s survival depended on making the people understand what I’d come to know."
"Yenalb’s offer must have tempted you."
"More than you know. But one must not shirk responsibilities, Dybo, especially if one is to lead."
"If I don’t answer Rodlox’s challenge, continued infighting will distract us from the task at hand."
"Yes."
"And if I do answer the challenge, and Rodlox wins, he will cancel the exodus attempt."
"Yes."
"And our people will die."
"Yes."
"Then I must not only accept the challenge, I must win it," said Dybo. "I have no choice, do I?"
Afsan turned his blind eyes on his friend. "That’s the funny thing about being a leader, Dybo: you rarely do."
*13*
Fra’toolar
Babnol kept watching the horizon. The sun had long since risen from it and was now making its usual fast progress across the bowl of the purple sky. The waves were choppy, as always, and as gray as stone.
Toroca came near her. "Looking for our ship?"
Babnol nodded.
"It could show up anytime today, or tomorrow for that matter."
"I know."
"But you’re anxious to leave this place?"
"Since Pack Derrilo returned, it has been awfully crowded around here."
"It will be even more crowded aboard whatever ship they send for us."
"I suppose … but at least it will be a different crowd. That will help."
Toroca understood none of this, but nodded anyway. "The voyage should be quite exciting," he said.
Babnol scanned the horizon again. "I suppose. It depends — Look!" She pointed. Out where the sky met the waves there was something.
"It’s a ship," said Toroca, squinting.
"’Our ship," said Babnol. She had the far-seer with her and brought it to her eye. "It’s a big one."
"The sails look red," said Toroca.
"Yes," she said, squinting. "Four great red sails. And two hulls, connected by a joining piece, it looks like."
"May I see?" asked Toroca.
Babnol handed him the brass tube.
"I know that ship!" said Toroca. "Babnol, this is going to be a very interesting voyage indeed. We’re about to sail on a piece of history."
Var-Keenir anchored the mighty Dasheter offshore, and small landing boats were used to transfer Toroca, Babnol, and the rest of the surveyors on board.
It hadn’t been that long since Toroca had taken his pilgrimage aboard this ship. He had hoped that this voyage would go more easily than the last, but he found the ship’s rolling from side to side no less disconcerting than it had been on his trip to gaze upon the Face of God. And the stench! He knew the sources of each smell — wet wood and tree sap and salt and musty fabric — but they were no more welcoming than they’d been the last time. Likewise he was getting a headache from the constant barrage of sounds: slapping of waves, snapping of sails, groaning of wooden planks, footsteps on the deck above.
On his previous voyage, Toroca had been one of fourteen pilgrims and therefore had had no special status. But this time out, he was the expedition leader. He could have claimed the grandest guest cabin aboard, but he opted instead for a small one on the port side of the topmost of the aft decks, the same cabin Afsan had used, seventeen kilodays ago, when he had embarked on his pilgrimage aboard the Dasheter.
The door to the cabin was carved in an intricate relief of the original five hunters. The wood was dark with age and splitting in several places, but the carving was still stunning. Toroca had no trouble telling the five apart. That was Lubal running; Hoog with her mouth open, teeth exposed; Belbar leaping, claws unsheathed; Katoon bending over a carcass, picking it clean; and Mekt, the first bloodpriest, head tipped back, a Quintaglio hatchling sliding down her throat. Katoon and Lubal had their hands held in the Lubalite salute: claws out on their second and third fingers, the fourth and fifth splayed, the thumb held against the palm.
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