Far-Seer

“Even if I did draw my cartouche on that document, what would that prove? Anybody who asked me if I was sincere in my change of mind would know in an instant that I wasn’t; I at least cannot lie openly… and for that I’m grateful.”

“Grateful to whom, Afsan? I thought you didn’t believe in a God.”

“I mean simply…”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Of course, you’d have to leave Capital City; indeed, we’d have to eject you altogether from the Fifty Packs. No one could see you again.”

Afsan’s jaw dropped open.

“Why so shocked?” said Yenalb. “Surely it’s better than death. You’re an extraordinary hunter; we’ve all heard the tales. You’d have no trouble fending for yourself. Why, you could even continue to pursue your astrological interests. I’d arrange for you to have your—what are those corrupt things called?—your far-seer to aid in your studies.”

Yenalb waited a few moments, letting that sink in. “And,” said the priest, in a studied, offhand way, “we could even arrange to find a volunteer companion for you. I understand you have a friend in Pack Gelbo who shares some of your interests, and some of your heresy.” Afsan’s head snapped up. Yenalb made a great show of trying to remember. “Now, what was her name? Something exotic, I seem to recall. Novato? Why, yes, I believe that was it. Wab-Novato.”

Afsan felt his pulse quickening. “How do you know about her?”

“There are delegations here from every Pack paying tribute to the new Emperor. I learned from Det-Zamar, the priest you traveled here with, that you had visited Pack Gelbo before going to Carno. The delegates from Gelbo were more than pleased to answer a few questions for the Master of the Faith.” Yenalb turned his muzzle to face Afsan directly. “Think of it, boy! Put your mark on that declaration, and then you and your friend can go safely, under my authority. There’s plenty of land on the southern shore of Edz’toolar where the two of you could hunt and live and study in absolute peace.”

“But we’d never see anyone else?”

“That’s a small price to pay, isn’t it? I’m offering you a way out, Afsan.” The priest looked at him as if wondering whether to go on. “I was fond of you, boy. I had taken an interest in you; went to Saleed on your behalf to help arrange your pilgrimage. You seemed so bright, and, well, if perhaps a bit absentminded, at least always polite and eager. I never wished you any ill.” Gently he proffered the writing leather again. “Take it, Afsan. Put your mark on it.”

Afsan did take the sheet and read it once more, slowly, making sure he understood the weight of each glyph, the significance of each turn of phrase. It was a tempting offer…

He unsheathed the claw on the longest finger of his left hand, the one he used to draw his cartouche. Yenalb produced a small pot of ink from a pouch in his robe and began to pry off the cap.

But then Afsan unsheathed his remaining claws and with a swat of his hand sliced the leather document into strips. They dropped to the floor, forming an overlapping array in the dirt.

Yenalb thumped his tail in fury. “You’ll regret that decision, Afsan.”

Afsan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his tail. Sadly he said, “Part of me always will.”

*33*

The central square of Capital City was filled with a latticework of Quintaglios. Each stood as close to the next as protocol would permit, meaning that, viewed from an elevation, such as the wooden platform Afsan found himself on, their heads formed points at regular intervals throughout the square, two paces between each one.

Dybo was noticeably absent. It was his orders, or at least orders that he had approved, that had brought Afsan here, but the Emperor apparently did not have what it took to watch.

It was small comfort to Afsan that Dybo had apparently had difficulty coming to a decision: it was now twenty-six days since Yenalb had visited Afsan in his tiny prison, and yet Afsan was sure Yenalb had called for this immediately after that meeting.

Six guards had accompanied Afsan, each twice his own bulk. That was far greater an escort than Afsan needed, but it seemed that the public was to be shown that Afsan was much more dangerous than his thin form would indicate. The guards had goaded him with violent shoves, pushing him up the ramp and onto the platform. And now that he was here, the hastily erected wooden structure creaking beneath him, two of them were tying him to a post, his arms lashed together behind the rough wood, his tail strapped to the planks.

The ties, made of armorback hide, were drawn so tight that Afsan felt a tingling in his hands, a numbness in his fingers. His claws were extended, but he could no longer feel their presence.

At the end of the platform, a Quintaglio even younger than Afsan beat slowly on a drum.

Afsan looked up. Overhead, against the purple sky, several large wingfingers circled.