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 control 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.