Far-Seer

Surely Dybo could be talked into going on a hunt. His blood-red sash of royalty, after all, was a hollow honor in the view of some people, for it had not been earned, but the tattoo of a hunter carried weight everywhere and with everyone. Yes, a prince could get away with not having it, but some would always compare him to the others who never acquired it, the beggars who had to fight with the wingfingers for whatever meat remained on discarded carcasses.

Most people enjoyed killing their own food now and then, Afsan knew, finding it invigorating and cathartic. Some made careers of hunting—Afsan had heard it said that those who might otherwise be too violent for living peacefully with others were often assigned that vocation. But to forgo the Ritual Hunt, one of the prime rites of passage, was to never know the camaraderie of the pack, and, therefore, to never really be considered a part of society.

Yes, Dybo would be the answer. His rank could get them both bumped to the top of the waiting list to join a pack. But where to find him? Afsan looked up at the bright white sun, so small as to be not much more than a searing point of light. It moved quickly across the sky—not quite fast enough for its progress to be perceived at a glance, but with enough rapidity that a few tens of heartbeats later the change would be noticeable. Noon would be here shortly.

Dybo, like most people, slept odd-nights, meaning that tonight he would be up. Usually one wouldn’t eat until just before going to sleep, since torpidity settled in after a large meal. But Dybo wasn’t like everyone else. His appetite was well-known, and he might very well be off devouring food.

Afsan headed down the ramp that led out of the Hall of Worship into the courtyard. A reflex sniff of the air, a quick scan of the grounds to ascertain who was where, then he hurried off to the dining hall.

As he entered the vestibule, he checked the container into which shed teeth were discarded. Only ten or so bright white Quintaglio fangs were at the bottom, their curved, serrated shapes ranging from the length of Afsan’s thumb to longer than his longest finger. So few discards meant that most of the palace residents had not yet eaten today. Afsan paused for a moment to admire the container, a flowing shape of intricately painted porcelain. He clicked his teeth together. At the palace, even a garbage pail was a work of art.

He headed into the first dining room. There were cracks in the stone ceiling from the big landquake of a few kilodays ago.

The dining tables, with their central ruts to drain blood, were worn, the wooden tops pitted with claw marks. Four people were eating there, three females and a male, each separated as widely as possible from the others, each noisily working over meat-laden bones.

Afsan bowed concession to the one he had to pass most closely and entered the inner dining room. There, as he had hoped, was Dybo.

The crown prince didn’t look particularly regal just now. His muzzle was caked with drying blood as he worked over a joint of hornface meat. His chest was covered with animal grease, blood splatters, and not an inconsiderable amount of the prince’s own drool. That the prince was a lusty eater was well-known. And why shouldn’t he be? Stockyards of plant-eaters were kept adjacent to the meal hall, and the Empress’s child got nothing but the finest cuts. Indeed, Afsan felt envy at the sight of the hip joint, mostly cleaned of flesh now by a combination of Dybo’s teeth and claws. Apprentice astrologers got such fare only on holidays.

“I cast a shadow in your presence, Dybo,” said Afsan. The greeting was usually reserved for one’s elders. But honor must be paid to any member of The Family, that special group that knew who its blood relatives were, that tiny elite who were direct descendants of the Prophet Larsk.

Dybo, his chest supported by a dayslab angled over the table, looked up. “Afsan!” He scooped an ornate bowl of water from the table and drained it in a massive gulp. “Afsan, you shed skin of a snake!” Dybo smiled in delight. “You gizzard stone from a spikefrill! You shell of your former self! By the Face of God, it’s good to see you!”

Afsan clicked his teeth lightly. Dybo’s exuberance was both amusing and embarrassing. “I’m always glad when my studies permit me time to see you, too, Dybo.”

“Have you eaten? You’re looking as scrawny as a wingfinger.” Afsan was thin for a Quintaglio, but it was only in comparison to Dybo that he might be thought of as scrawny. The prince’s appetite came at a price.

“No,” said Afsan, “although I will eat soon. I like to sleep even-nights.”

“Right, right. At some unspecified time in the future, you must tell me what it is you do while the rest of us are sleeping. Great mischief, no doubt!”

Afsan clicked his teeth in jest. “No doubt.”