“Umm, no. No, there aren’t. This was a special service, held at the Hunter’s Shrine.”
“What kind of service would be held there?”
Cadool ignored the question, but made the complex hand sign again. “Watch for this sign, Afsan. There are more of us than you know.”
“More of who?”
“Us.”
Afsan opened his mouth in question, but Cadool said nothing. Finally Afsan himself said, wistfully, “I thought that at least Dybo would be on my side.”
Cadool clicked his teeth so rapidly in laughter that he almost chewed his food. The sight turned Afsan’s stomach.
“I’m sorry,” said Cadool, holding up a hand. “You’re young, I know. But surely, Afsan, you can’t be that naive.”
Afsan felt a tingling in his fingertips. He didn’t like being laughed at. “What do you mean?”
“Dybo is the son of the daughter of the daughter of the son of the daughter of the son of Larsk, the prophet.”
Afsan hadn’t known the exact lineage of his friend, but the number of generations sounded about right. “Yes. So?”
“And Larsk is the prophet because he discovered the Face of God.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Dybo rules now, and his mother, Lends, ruled before him, because their ancestor was divinely inspired to take the First Pilgrimage, to seek out the Face of God.”
“So the story goes.”
“And now you show up saying, wait, no, it’s not the Face of God at all. It’s just a natural object.”
“I know all this.”
“You know it, but you’re not seeing what it means. Dybo and The Family rule through divine right, by the grace of God. You ask him to support you in saying there is no God—or at least, that the thing his ancestor discovered is not God. If it’s not God, then Larsk was a false prophet. If he was a false prophet, then The Family has no divine right. If The Family has no divine right, then Dybo cannot rule the eight provinces and the Fifty Packs. For him to support you—or to allow others to support you—would mean abdicating his position.”
Afsan leaned back on his tail, furious with himself. He’d vowed to better understand the way the real world worked, but, once again, he had failed. “I—I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“You’d better. It’s the only thing that will get you out of this mess.”
“But the truth—”
“The truth is not the issue,” said the butcher. “At least, not for Dybo. Not anymore.”
Cadool popped one more hunk into his mouth, then pulled his weight oft his tail and began to make for the door.
“Wait,” said Afsan.
“I’ve got to get back to my duties.”
“There’s more.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s more than just the fate of the monarchy at stake. There’s more to it than just the Face of God being a planet.”
“Yes?”
“The world is doomed, Cadool.”
Cadool’s inner eyelids batted across his dark orbs. “What?”
“The fact that we are on a moon, the fact that this moon is very close to its planet: it causes stresses. Stresses that quake the land. Stresses that have driven up the volcanoes. Stresses that will tear the world apart.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have no doubt. I have seen what happens to moons that move too close to the world they revolve around. They break up into particulate rings of rubble.”
“You have seen this? In a vision?”
“No, with a device, an instrument. It’s called a far-seer. It magnifies things.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“They exist. An artisan from Pack Gelbo in Jam’toolar makes them. Anyone can see what I’ve described by looking through one.”
“Does Dybo know about these devices?”
“Oh, yes. He’s used one himself, under my guidance.”
“I doubt their manufacture will be allowed to continue.” Cadool’s tail swished. “You’re sure of this? That the world will come to an end?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“Who can say? I’ve been trying to get a sense of how much worse the volcanism and landquakes are today compared to various points in the past. My guess, and it’s only a guess, is perhaps three hundred kilodays.”
Cadool’s teeth clattered rapidly and he looked away. “Three hundred kilodays? Eggling, that’s generations from now! Why worry about it?”
“Because—because we must do something about it!”
“Do what? Afsan, the future will take care of itself. Don’t ruin your life for it.”
“Ruin my life? Cadool, I pledge my life to this cause.”
“That may literally become true.”
Afsan reared to his full height. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“You’re willing to go against The Family? That’s treason.”
“I’m against no one. I am for the truth.”
Cadool shook his head, but then raised his left hand and gave the same hand gesture. “Remember this sign, Afsan. Trust only those who know it.”
“But—”
“I must go.” Cadool bowed quickly and departed.
Afsan had lost his appetite, but something told him it would be wise to keep up his strength. Over the rest of the afternoon, he ate the five remaining pieces of flesh, his mind wandering far between each one.
That night, Afsan again found himself suddenly awake, a thought having pushed itself to the surface.
Although Dybo had acquitted himself well enough during the thunderbeast hunt, the Emperor was neither tough nor strong nor fast. He was simply fat, and, although gifted musically, not particularly shrewd.
Was Dybo really the best of his mother’s eight offspring? Really the one who ran fastest from the imperial bloodpriest? That bloodpriest would have chosen the eggling to become the next Emperor. If Afsan was right about the lineage of those who controlled the outlying provinces, the imperial blood-priest ate none of Len-Lends’s hatchlings. Rather, he or she sent the seven rejects off to be future provincial governors.
Perhaps a switch had been performed…
Perhaps, just perhaps, Dybo was the slowest of the offspring, the one most likely to be manipulated by the imperial advisors. Lends had been formidable indeed—perhaps too formidable for the priests and palace staff.
It would have been so easy a switch to make. The one that should have been in Dybo’s place would still be alive, but had probably been sent to a distant province, perhaps isolated Edz’toolar.
Afsan could never prove it, could never even suggest it in public. But it was a disturbing thought.
Once again, he spent the rest of the night awake.
*31*
Pal-Cadool knew the trick. He walked to the far side of the giant stone cairn that supported the Hunter’s Shrine. Back there, its base hidden by carefully planted bushes, a stairway had been built. Quintaglios disliked stairs—the steps caused their tails to drag or bounce—but they did have their uses. Cadool parted the shrubbery and made his way up. It was still a long climb, but he reached the top only slightly out of breath, and the steady east-west wind cooled him quickly.
As a butcher, Cadool knew bones well. He always admired the structure of the Shrine, the special juxtapositions of femurs and clavicles, of tail vertebrae and chest riblets.
Inside, he could see hunt leader Jal-Tetex. She stood on the far side of the floating sphere of Quintaglio skulls. The wind was whipping too loudly for Tetex to hear Cadool’s approach. The butcher tipped his body in homage to the skull of Hoog, patron of his craft, one of the five brown and ancient skulls at the center of the sphere. Then he spoke aloud. “Permission to enter your territory, Tetex?”