"What about your advisors, Dy-Rodlox? Surely Len-Ganloor told some of them before she died?"
"An unusual situation," said Rodlox with a shrug. "Those who would have been my two most-senior aides, Cat-Makdon and Pal-Haskan, were part of that same ill-fated hunting party on which Governor Len-Ganloor died." Rodlox shook his head. "It should have been an easy kill, a concession to ceremony, really. Ganloor, Makdon, and Haskan were all trampled to death in the stampede."
"And you think the secret about your siblings died with them?"
"Yes. I don’t think there’s anyone left in my province who knows the truth," said Rodlox. "But once you fight me, they will. The entire world will."
Dybo waved his hand. "Even if, as you claim, I was not the strongest eggling of Lends’s clutch, that does not necessarily mean that you were the strongest. There would have been six others, besides you and me."
"The six who now serve as apprentice governors in the other provinces." Rodlox nodded. "But the same logic that says keep the weakest here at the imperial court also says send the strongest to the most isolated province. Edz’toolar isn’t the farthest of the toolars from the Capital, but it is the harshest and most difficult to get into, requiring the climbing of many mountains if approaching by land, and weathering its storm-swept shores if arriving by water."
"But there’s no guarantee that the winner of a battle between just the two of us now would indeed be the same one of the eight who would have best eluded the bloodpriest twenty-eight kilodays ago."
Rodlox grunted. "True. But in the absence of any alternative method of making the determination, it must suffice. I can prove I am of the imperial line, prove that I am Larsk’s descendant."
"Proof is an elusive thing…"
"I can demonstrate it to the reasonable satisfaction of the public. And that, fat one, is all that counts."
A moment later, Dybo’s claws slipped out, and it seemed to Rodlox that it was perhaps a deliberate gesture rather than an instinctive response. "You will not address me that way. My name is Dy-Dybo, and I grant you permission to use it. If you prefer to call me by title, you will use ’Your Luminance’ or ’Emperor.’ "
"I will call you what I wish."
Dybo raised his hand. "Then this conversation is at an end. I have granted you no special privileges, beyond the right to call me directly by name. I rule, Dy-Rodlox. Acknowledge that."
"For the time being, Dybo." That Rodlox had chosen the familiar form of his name visibly irritated Dybo, for it was clearly done not from affection but out of defiance. "But you must answer my challenge."
Still, Dybo adopted a slightly mollified tone. "I see that you are a person of strong will, and I grant that your intellect is keen." He scratched his belly, which was spilling over the side of the polished stone slab. "Perhaps Edz’toolar is too barren and isolated a prize for one such as you. I offer an accommodation, a middle ground: a senior official’s role, with whatever portfolio you desire. Public works? The judiciary? Name it, and it is yours. You will move here to the Capital and enjoy all the benefits of life at the imperial court."
Rodlox scraped his teeth together, a deliberate mockery of laughter. "You are transparent, Dybo. You perceive me as a threat, so you would have me underfoot where I could be watched at all times. I reject your offer. You will fight me in single combat. And I shall win."
Dybo spoke now as one might speak to a child. "Single combat has been barred since ancient times. You know that. There is no way to begin a battle without having it continue until one participant is dead."
"That is true."
"You threaten me with death? There are prescribed penalties for such treason."
"I make no threat. I simply note the probable outcome of a battle between us."
"I concede that I am perhaps not your physical match…"
"Indeed you are not."
"But being Emperor is not about physical prowess. It’s about fairness and progress and clarity of vision."
"Which is why the most appropriate person — the rightful heir — must, must, lie upon that ruling slab that now strains to support you."
Dybo spread his arms, looking to Rodlox like a monster wingfinger, suspended in air by the slab. "All the Packs are prosperous. We’re making great strides toward the stars. What quarrel do you have with me?"
"I hate you." The words were unexpectedly harsh.
Dybo’s inner eyelids blinked. "I do not hate you, Rodlox."
"You should. For I am your downfall personified. I will push and push and push until I am in your place."
"I could have you banished."
"To where? Edz’toolar?" Rodlox clicked his teeth. "I am lord of Edz’toolar already."
"I could have you executed."
"And violate the ancient laws? I think not. There are those who would not stand for that; you would destroy what’s left of your own authority if you flouted our laws so. No, Dybo, you have only three choices. One" — and here Rodlox raised a finger, claw extended — "you can accept my challenge. Two" — a second finger erect, its claw likewise unsheathed — "you can abdicate your role, acknowledge my claim, and let me assume the Emperorship. I will allow you to live. Or, three" — and a third clawed finger was held up — "you can take the coward’s route and wait until the people force you to respond to my challenge."
Dybo regarded Rodlox’s raised hand. The ticking off of points with clawed fingers was so like his mother’s way. For the first time, Dybo realized that, without a doubt, this was his brother. It was a tragedy, this conflict, for surely in cooperation they could accomplish so much more than they individually would through a rivalry.
Dybo shook his head. "You are wrong, Rodlox. There is a fourth alternative, and one that is more appropriate than any of your choices. Hear me describe it, and then we shall see which of us is the coward."
A Quintaglio’s Diary
I wish I didn ’t have siblings. I try not to compare myself to them, but it’s futile. I can’t help myself. Am I as proficient as they? As keen of mind? Is my pilgrimage tattoo as intricate and well-balanced as that sported by Yabool? And which of us does Novato and Afsan favor? Surely they’ve thought that, if things had gone differently, only one of their children would have lived. Which would they have preferred it to be?
I was thinking these thoughts today as I ate in one of the communal dining halls when Haldan walked in. She passed nowhere near me on her way to fetch a piece of meat, so she didn’t bother to bow concession in my direction. She simply settled herself in at a bench on the opposite side of the room and began to gnaw at her meal.
I watched her. Of course I was careful not to swing my muzzle in her direction; she couldn’t tell where I was looking. But it came to me, as I worried out the final bits of meat adhering to the bone in front of me, that I couldn’t tell where she was looking, either. Her eyes, solid black, could have been focused on the flesh in front of her.
Or they could have been focused on me.
On me.
We’d often thought the same thoughts before; I’d seen it in her expression.
Were we thinking the same thing now?
And suddenly I realized exactly what it was that I was thinking at that moment, a ripple that wouldn’t die down, a thought dark and dangerous and persistent.
I wished she was dead.
I stopped picking over my meat and, at the same moment, she stopped picking over hers.
I wondered if she was thinking the same thing about me.
*16*
The Dasheter
Toroca was up on deck. On board a sailing ship, everyone had chores to perform, and Babnol knew she could count on him being occupied for at least a couple of daytenths. She went down the ramp, its timbers groaning not under her weight but rather under the buffeting of the ship, and came to Toroca’s cabin.
She paused briefly to reread the plaque about Afsan and to admire the carving of the five hunters in the dark wood of the door. There was a copper signaling plate
adjacent to the doorjamb, but she didn’t drum her claws against it. Instead, she stole a furtive glance over her shoulder, then opened the door, the squeaking of its hinges making her even more nervous. As soon as she was inside Toroca’s cabin, she swung the door shut.
Her claws were exposed. Invading another’s territory was uncomfortable. Although she knew Toroca wouldn’t be back for some time, she couldn’t tarry here. It was too upsetting.
Although there was a desk with a small bench in front of it — space aboard a sailing ship was at too much of a premium to allow for a dayslab — Toroca had wisely placed all fragile objects directly on the floor, lest the pitching of waves knock them off the desk. No lamps were lit, of course; it was far too dangerous to leave a flame unattended. But the leather curtain was drawn back from the porthole, and, indeed, the little window had been swung open, letting the cold, salty air from outside pour in. In the harsh sunlight coming from the porthole, she could see the hinged wooden case that held the far-seer Afsan had given to Toroca. But that was not what she had come for, nor was the object of her quest plainly visible.
Even more distasteful: she would have to rummage through Toroca’s things. Such a breach of protocol! Still, it had to be done. She moved over to the storage trough and gingerly picked up sashes and backpacks and pieces of the specially designed arctic clothing, carefully stacking each piece on the floor so that she could put them back exactly the way they had been. There were several books amongst Toroca’s effects, including one written by his father and, to her surprise, a well-thumbed copy of the book of Lubalite prayer.
At last she found what she was looking for: the object, the strange blue hemisphere with the vexing six-fingered handle attached. She picked it up and, cradling it in both hands, held it in front of her. She was always surprised by its weight and the way the material warmed so quickly in her hands. She looked at the strange geometric carvings — little strings of symbols — at several places on its lower surface, and wondered for the thousandth time what they meant.
The object’s color bespoke evil. Blue. An unholy color; the color of lies, of deceit.
No Quintaglio made this object, of that she was sure. The strange material — harder than diamond! — couldn’t be worked by any tool, and that grip wasn’t made for a hunter’s hand.
But if not a Quintaglio, then who?
Quintaglios had five fingers.
God had five fingers.
The sixth fingerhole made this an unholy device. Not of Quintaglio. Not of God.
There was goodness in God, goodness in God’s creations.
This — thing — lacked goodness. And, therefore, it was dangerous. She had seen how Toroca had spent endless daytenths staring at it, turning it over and over again in his hands, clicking the rings up and down, up and down…
Six fingers.
And yet — perhaps the user of this device had been like her: different from most. A facial horn; a sixth finger. Did one or the other make you lack goodness?
Of course not.
But this was an ancient artifact, dating from the very beginning of life.
Things do occasionally hatch from eggs that are so horrible, so deformed, that the bloodpriests dispatch them immediately, without waiting for the formal culling.
There were no bloodpriests at the beginning, none until God bit off Her own arms, and Mekt formed from one of Her fingers.
So a horrible thing that hatched from one of the eggs of creation wouldn’t have been dispatched, since there was no one to do the dispatching.
She turned the device over in her hands.
It lacked goodness. She was convinced of that.
It had been dead and buried for thousands of kilodays, sealed in a tomb of solid rock. It was only by sheer accident that Toroca had released it.
Time, now, to correct that.
She walked over to the porthole, felt the chill wind on her muzzle, heard the slapping of waves against the hull, the snapping of sails, the calls of distant wingfingers.
Toroca would hate her for this.
But she was only thinking of him, of his safety, of his soul.
She tossed the object out the porthole. It hit the gray waves with a splash and sank immediately from sight, gone forevermore.
*17*
Arj’toolar
Arj’toolar, in northwestern Land, is a province known for its sheltered ports and hospitable inns, its metalworkers who turn copper and brass into complex instruments, its weavers who make fishing nets used throughout the world, its large holy sector, and its vast herds of orange-and-blue-striped shovelmouths, a peculiar breed with meat considered the tastiest of all.
Its governor was Len-Haktood, a hoary fellow who had survived to old age despite his quick temper only because his office shielded him from the kinds of attacks such a temper would normally engender. He was a meaner, pettier version of his sister, the late empress Len-Lends. Apprenticed to Haktood was Kroy, sister of the current Emperor, Dybo.
Haktood looked out the window. An ugly mob had gathered outside — fully ten people, standing far too close to each other. They were chanting slogans: "Truth in government!" "No special deals!" "A rightful leader for the people!" Five burly imperial guards, sent by Dybo, stood mutely along the far wall of Haktood’s office.
Haktood summoned Kroy, who did indeed look a lot like Dybo, although she lacked his plumpness, and handed her the scroll that the imperial guards had brought with them.
Kroy saw that the seal on the scroll was that of the Emperor. It had already been broken. She unfurled the leather sheet. At the top was Dybo’s cartouche, tooled in exquisite detail. Beneath it in bold, black glyphs, was a memorandum:
From: Dy-Dybo, Emperor of Land, Leader of the Fifty Packs, Head of The Family, Descendant of Larsk
To: Governors of the provinces of Jam’toolar, Fra’toolar, Arj’toolar, Chu’toolar, Mar’toolar, and Kev’toolar
It has come to be commonly believed that the governors of the seven outlying provinces are also members of The Family, being the siblings of the late Empress Len-Lends, and that their apprentices are the siblings of myself, the current Emperor.
Dy-Rodlox, who, since the untimely death of Len-Ganloor, has been governor of Edz’toolar, claims that he, not I, is rightful heir to the ruling slab. The accompanying documents give more details about his assertions.
The culling of the bloodpriest must be replayed, this time in full public view. You are ordered to send your apprentice governor, as well as at least three official observers, to Capital City by the 666th day of kiloday 7128, wherein each of the apprentices will have a fair chance of becoming Emperor. My imperial guards will escort your delegation here.
Kroy looked up. "Who does Dybo think he is, summoning me this way?"
Haktood was terse. "He thinks he is the Emperor. And he is correct — at least for the time being."
"Surely you will decline."
Haktood looked out the window. "I haven’t the power to do that."
"But you’re a provincial governor!"
"There are forces at work greater than any authority I might have. The people are demanding this."
"Someday, I will be governor of this province," said Kroy.
Haktood’s tone was sly. "But why be content with governing a single province when you could be Emperor of all of Land?"
"No. I won’t go. Let the other apprentice governors play this foolish game. I’ll stay here."
"I am your master, Kroy. I am governor of Arj’toolar; you are simply my apprentice. You will do as I say."
"But to replay the culling. What does that mean?"
"I’m not sure. But you are strong; whatever the test, I’m sure you will be the victor."
"I am strong," said Kroy, "but you, Haktood, you are weak. You urge me to go to the Capital solely so that Arj’toolar will be seen to have dealt with the scandal of the imperial children. You divert attention from yourself, for you, as much as me, are the product of the bloodpriests’ decept
ion. Your right to be alive is as questionable as my own."
"I have earned the respect of the people, Kroy. You are still an apprentice; you have earned nothing."
Kroy bared her fangs at Haktood. "Pray that I do not win. Under normal circumstances, an apprentice, such as myself, would have had no power until you passed on. But if I become Emperor, I shall be your superior, Haktood. Our positions will be reversed; I will be the master — not just of you, but of all of Land. You will regret not supporting me now, that I promise you."
From outside came the cries of the mob.
"You’ll have a one-in-eight chance, Kroy. Do you fancy your odds are better against that mob?"
The lead imperial guard stepped forward. "I will guarantee your safe passage to the Capital."
Kroy looked the burly fellow up and down. "And what about my safety once I’m there?" The guard was silent.
*18*
The Dasheter
Special cold-weather clothing had been made for the sailors. Toroca wasn’t used to wearing any clothing, except his sash, and the concept of garments that would cover him almost completely was not appealing.
The clothing was well-designed. Most of it was made out of an inner and outer layer of thick leather, stuffed in between with wingfinger hair. The jacket had a long hood that tied down around the muzzle, leaving only a slit for the eyes and a small opening at the tip for breathing.
The lower part consisted of three tubes, two open-ended ones for the legs and a third, tapered one, closed at the end for the tail. Getting the lower part on was awkward: Toroca seemed to always end up with one extremity left over that hadn’t made it into its appropriate tube, or else with it on backward so that the tail’s part faced off the front.
Once the two parts — bottom and jacket — were on, the wearer then tied on a thick, padded waistband, lined right around with pockets. The waistband protected the parts that would otherwise become exposed when tipping over caused the jacket to separate from the bottom. There were also thick boots of thunderbeast leather, lined inside with wingfinger hair, and silly things that weren’t quite gloves, since all the fingers save the thumb went into the same amorphous, hair-lined pocket.
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