Far-Seer

And at the bottom were two profile views of Quintaglio heads facing away from each other, bowed in territorial concession, indicating that no matter which side one moved to, all territories found there were the Empress’s. Usually the heads were rendered in silhouette, and Afsan had always taken them to be generic faces, but here they were brought out in striking individual detail. Afsan’s heart jumped when he realized that the face on the left, wrinkled and mottled with age, was none other than Tak-Saleed, court astrologer, and that the one on the right, with its long muzzle and high earholes, was Det-Yenalb, the chief priest of the temple. What Afsan had interpreted before as saying all people will concede to the Empress was much, much more: even the stars and the church must bow concession to me. Afsan swallowed hard and drummed his claws against the metal plate in the doorjamb, the linking sound made louder by a hidden hollow behind the copper sheet.

Afsan waited nervously. At last, a reply came: “Hahat dan,” a short form of the words meaning “Permission to enter my territory is granted.”

Afsan worked the lever that opened the door and stepped into the ruling room. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Yes, there was a throne, an ornate dayslab angled perhaps a tad closer to vertical than normal, mounted high on a polished basalt pedestal. But in front of it was a plain, unadorned worktable, covered with papers and writing leather. The figure lying on the throne slab had her head tipped down, drawing glyphs. Afsan did not want to interrupt, so he stood quietly just inside the doorway.

There was no doubt that this was the Empress: the great dome of her head was richly tattooed. Afsan noticed that the worktable was mounted on little metal wheels. It could apparently be easily removed when official functions were being performed here.

At last the Empress looked up. Her face, although youthful, was weary. A ragged band of brown skin ran across the top of her head and down over one eye—an unusual pattern, clearly visible beneath the tattoos. She squinted at Afsan. “Who are you?” she said at last, her voice thick and cold.

Afsan’s heart skipped a beat. Had this all been some terrible mistake? Was he not expected here? “Afsan,” he said in a soft voice. “Apprentice to the court astrologer, Tak-Saleed.”

The Empress tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Ah, yes. Afsan. Saleed must like you. You’ve been here, what, four hundred days?”

“Four hundred and ninety-two, Your Luminance.”

“A record, I should think.” There was no humor in her tone. “And in that time you have become a friend of my son, Dybo?”

“It is my honor to be so, yes.”

“Dybo tells me you wish him to undertake the pilgrimage and the hunt with you.”

Afsan’s tail swished nervously. Had he overstepped propriety in asking this of Dybo? What punishment would befall his impertinence? “Yes, Empress, I have.”

“Dybo is a member of The Family and prince of this court. But, of course, he does, at some point, have to go through the rites of passage.”

Afsan didn’t know what to say, so he merely bowed concession to the Empress.

“Come closer,” she said.

Should he run to her, his tail lifting from the ground? Or walk more slowly, thus letting his tail drag? He opted for the latter, hoping it was the right choice. Normally one could approach to within the body-length of the larger of the two individuals in question without prompting a reflex reaction. Afsan felt that coming that close to the Empress, though, would be wrong. He stopped a good ten paces shy of her.

Lends nodded, as if this was as it should be. Then she held up her left hand, the three metal bracelets of her office clinking together as she did so. “I will allow him to go with you, but,” she unsheathed her first claw, “you will,” and then her second, “be,” the third, “responsible,” the fourth, “for his,” the fifth, “safe return.”

She let the light in the room glint off her polished claws for several heartbeats as she flexed her fingers. “Do I make myself clear?” she said at last.

Afsan bowed his agreement, then left the Empress’s ruling room as fast as he could.

*6*

Spitting dust, Afsan forced himself to climb higher. He had wanted Dybo to come with him. But Pal-Cadool, the butcher who for three days now had been telling the boys stories about the hunt, had been shocked at that suggestion. “One must go alone to join a pack,” he’d said in that drawn-out way of his. Dybo had gone earlier today. Afsan had had to wait until his duties to Saleed were discharged. He had not seen Dybo since the young prince had departed, nor, from what he could gather, had anyone else.