Far-Seer

Julor lay on her stomach, arms stretched out in front of her forming a wide angle. After a moment, her body convulsed, and she opened her jaws wide. Lying on her broad tongue and spilling over into the sides of her mouth was a brown-gray lumpy mass. Afsan reeled slightly from the smell of partially digested meat. But the newborns reacted more positively. They lifted their tiny muzzles, sniffed the air, and half crawled, half walked toward Julor, then stumbled into her gaping maw, first one, then another, and, at last, the little fellow Afsan had helped out of his shell. Tiny heads with giant still-closed eyes lapped at the regurgitated food.

Julor obviously couldn’t carry on a conversation in this position, so Afsan went back to his stool. He watched for the better part of the afternoon as the remaining eggs opened. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen that wasn’t in the sky.

The next day, Afsan decided to go back to the nursery and see how the hatchlings were doing. He was particularly interested in his little friend who’d had trouble getting out of his shell.

It was a fine day. The sun shone down from a cloudless purple sky. Pale moons were visible. Most everyone was in a good mood, judging by how little room they left between themselves on the paths of Carno. Afsan bowed cheery concession to those who passed him, and others reciprocated. The walk to the bank of the Kreeb was invigorating.

Although Julor had seemed surprised that Afsan had used the food-bearers’ entrance, she hadn’t really rebuked him for it. Since it was the closest door, he decided to use it again, this time, just for fun, pushing it open with his muzzle. Once more he was in the corridor between the inner and outer walls.

Suddenly all cheeriness drained from him. His claws burst from their sheaths. Something was very wrong. He heard thundering feet and the peeping of egglings. Afsan hurried down the curving hall and opened the inner door he had gone through the day before.

A large male was running around the room, his purple robe flying about him, his tail lifted high off the sand. Peeping loudly and running and stumbling and crawling with all their might, the babies, their obsidian eyes now open wide with fear, were trying to get away from him.

The figures danced in the flames from the heating fires. The male tipped his body low, bringing his head down parallel to the ground. His jaws swung open. There was a baby a single pace in front of him. With a darting motion of his head, the adult’s mouth slammed shut around the infant. Afsan heard a slurping sound and saw a slight distension of the male’s throat as the young one slid down his gullet.

“No!”

The robed male looked up at Afsan’s call, startled to see him there in the doorway. He made a swiping motion with one clawed hand. “K’ata halpataars,” he grumbled from low in his throat. I am a bloodpriest. The voice was deep, ragged, as if forced to the surface. “Get out!”

Suddenly Cat-Julor appeared behind Afsan, obviously brought running by his scream. “Afsan, what are you doing here?”

“He’s eating the babies!”

“He’s Pal-Donat, a bloodpriest. It’s his job.”

“But—”

“Come with me.”

“But he’s eating—”

“Come!” She, head-and-neck taller than Afsan, put an arm around his shoulders and propelled him from the room. Afsan looked back, horrified, and saw the robed one scoop up another infant, this one smaller than the rest—likely the one Afsan had helped out of the egg.

Afsan felt sick.

Julor took him down the inner hallway and through the main door, out into the harsh light of day.

“He killed two of the babies,” said Afsan.

Julor looked out at the rest of Carno. “He’ll kill seven from each clutch before he’s done.”

“Seven! But that will leave—”

“Only one,” said Julor.

“I don’t understand,” said Afsan.

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

Julor’s tail swished in indifference. “It’s to control the population. We need space and we need food. There’s only so much of either to go around. A female lays eight eggs in each clutch. Only one is ever permitted to survive.”

“That’s horrible.”

“That’s necessity. I’m no scholar, Afsan, but even I know that if you increase your population eightfold with every generation, it won’t be long before you’re out of room. Somebody told me that in just five generations, one Quintaglio would have tens of thousands of descendants.”

“Thirty-two thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight,” said Afsan automatically. “Eight to the fifth.”

Julor’s tail swished in amazement. “I don’t know what eight to the fifth means, but—”

“It’s a new way of expressing big numbers—”

“But I think there are more important things to know in life than fancy counting. Surely you knew something about the bloodpriests?”

Afsan bowed his head. “No.”

“But you knew eggs were laid in clutches of eight?”

“I’d never thought about it before.”