What will become of me? Afsan thought. They can’t leave me here forever. He wandered about the room, his tail swishing in the dust on the floor. He had assumed Dybo would be his ally, thought that once the Emperor had heard what Afsan had to say, all resources would be committed to the problem.
Time is running out, Afsan thought, and then, with a shudder, he realized that it wasn’t just running out for the world. It was also running out for him personally.
Do they really think I’m a demon? Yes, the scrolls told of such beasts from ancient times, and again of the aug-ta-rot nay-sayers, who had ultimately been slain because they refused to listen to Larsk. But surely those tales were mere fantasy. How can they be so blind, so terribly blind?
Afsan wasn’t the only one who knew the truth. Keenir knew it. Dybo knew it. The passengers and crew of the Dasheter—at least those with enough mathematics and brains to understand what they had seen—knew it, too. And Novato, sweet Novato, she also knew it.
Would they all remain silent? What punishments could be inflicted upon them if they did not?
Crime.
It was an odd word, an ancient word. Afsan had read about crimes in books from the past. During the great famine 380 kilodays ago, when half the plants died of plague, and, afterward, half the animals, there had been crimes, Quintaglios stealing food from other Quintaglios. He remembered the old punishment. Hands were cut off. In the 400 days it took to generate a new hand, the malefactor would usually learn his or her lesson.
Would they cut off my hands? It would be painful and awkward, but they would grow back. Who among those who knew would talk, would spread the word? Afsan felt sick at the thought of Novato, who created such magnificent instruments, losing her hands for even a short time. And Keenir had just finished regenerating a tail. At his age, that was a strain. One could suffer only so many such losses before the parts regenerated in malformed ways.
Maybe they were being wise in remaining silent.
But I cannot.
Afsan thought back to his moments of doubt aboard the Dasheter, high atop the foremast in the lookout’s bucket, the pilgrims holding services below, the Face of God roiling above, wind whipping at him.
He’d thought to jump then, to plummet into the deck, rather than disturb the order of the world. But that was before he’d met Novato, seen her sketches, understood the magnitude of it all.
The world is coming to an end.
There was no alternative. Silence now would mean the end of the Quintaglio people.
I must find the strength to go on.
The storeroom had a musty smell. Afsan didn’t like it, and be tried not to breathe deeply. He circumnavigated the room, touching objects, getting used to his new home. The cool stone walls, the rough wood of the crates: it was a harsh room, an uncaring room. His quarters near the palace had hardly been plush, but this was almost unlivable.
He leaned on his tail and let out a heavy sigh.
Rites of passage.
He’d been through them all now: leaving his home Pack and journeying to Capital City, beginning his profession of astrology, climbing the Hunter’s Shrine, taking part in his first hunt, undergoing his first pilgrimage.
And Novato.
Sweet Novato.
His hand went up to the side of his head, feeling the small bumps made by his tattoos: the mark of a hunter, and, added by Det-Bleen aboard the Dasheter, the symbol of a pilgrim.
But maybe it wasn’t just individuals who went through rites of passage on their way to adulthood. Maybe his whole species had to do that. He thought of the dark times, the cannibalistic reign of the earliest Lubalites, the frightening stories told in whispers. He thought, too, of current civilization, with its religion and superstition. And what is to come? What awaited the Quintaglio race, after its childhood’s end?
In the lamplight, Afsan watched drifting motes of dust for a length of time that he did not measure.
“Permission to enter your territory?”
He looked up, startled by the voice coming muffled through the rough wooden door, a door no one had ever thought of equipping with a copper signaling plate. Still, the request was polite. He’d not expected any courtesy now that he was branded a demon. Eyes wide, Afsan replied, “Hahat dan.”
The door squeaked open. The two guards were still there, one on either side, but standing between them, wearing a red smock, was lanky Pal-Cadool, his friend the palace butcher. With his long arms, he was carrying a silver tray laden with hunks of meat. Steam rose from the pieces. A fresh kill.
“Hello, Afsan,” said Cadool, bowing as much as the tray would allow.
“Cadool! It’s great to see you.”
Cadool moved into the room and set the tray on one of the packing crates. He returned to the doorway, but, much to Afsan’s surprise, instead of exiting, he closed the door, shutting out the guards.
“I believe there is enough meat here for two,” said Cadool. Afsan eyed the plate. Yes, enough for two, he thought, as long as you’re not as hungry as I am. “May I join you?” Cadool continued in his protracted speech.
“You’d eat with a demon?”
Cadool clicked his teeth. “I don’t think you’re a demon.” He reached down to the plate and grabbed a gobbet of meat. “Do you know the 111th Scroll? ‘For there is grace in all Quintaglios, but none more so than the skilled hunter.’ I’m one of those who went to feast on that thunderbeast you brought down, Afsan. A kill worthy of Lubal herself.”
Afsan picked up a piece of meat, tossed it to the back of his throat, and swallowed. “Beginner’s luck.”
“You are modest. That, too, is commendable. I’ve heard also of the way you killed Kal-ta-goot.”
“Then stories of the Dasheter’s, voyage are circulating! You must have heard that we sailed around the world.”
“That has been said, yes.”
“And do you believe it?”
Cadool helped himself to another hunk, this one with an unpleasant vein of fat running through it. He worried it out with a fingerclaw before popping the meat into his mouth. “I don’t know.” Then he did something that didn’t quite make sense to Afsan. He raised his left hand, unsheathed the claws on the second and third fingers, and spread his fourth and fifth lingers. Next he pressed his thumb into his palm.
“I’m sorry,” said Afsan. “I keep seeing that sign, but I don’t have a clue what it means.”
Cadool nodded. “Where have you seen it?”
“The demons shown in the Tapestries of the Prophet. They’re making that sign, aren’t they?”
“You should know by now that those labeled ‘demon’ are not always deserving of that title.”
Afsan’s voice was small. “Indeed.”
“Where else?”
“My cabin aboard the Dasheter had carvings on the outside of its door, carvings of the Five Original Hunters. Two of them were making that sign. And Captain Var-Keenir did it at one point.”
“Anywhere else?”
“Pahs-Drawo made it after I killed a fangjaw. He’s a hunter from my home Pack, Carno.”
“Yes, I know Drawo.”
Afsan’s nictitating membranes fluttered. “You do?”
“He’s here in Capital City, isn’t he? Part of the delegation from Carno to honor the new Emperor?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I met him yesterday at a service.”
“Yesterday was an odd-day. There are no services on odd-days.”