Far-Seer

But, excepting bruises and minor cuts, Afsan’s limbs were intact. His injuries were internal, to the head and torso. It was known that the sap of certain plants could relieve infections, that holding a makaloob root in the mouth might reduce nausea, that the venom from some lizards if applied in moderation could deaden pain. But to rouse one knocked unconscious, one who’d had a ladle of blood spill from his right earhole, one who even now breathed shallowly—that was a matter beyond doctor or priest.

Saleed switched from looking down his wrinkled muzzle at Afsan to facing the doctor, Dar-Mondark. Mondark seemed deep in thought, working his lower jaw backwards and forwards, the clicking made by pointed teeth passing over each other an audible indication of his cogitation. At last he answered Saleed’s question. “He has been unconscious since they brought him back from the site of the kill. His shoulder took the brunt of his fall—see the bruising there?—and we have shifted his shoulder blade back to where it should be. But the side of his head was also banged severely. We tried placing halbataja leaves on his brow. That helps about one time in twenty, but there was no response.”

Mondark knew more about the inner workings of the Quintaglio body than anyone else. For kilodays, he had been dissecting cadavers, trying to understand what each organ was for and how it worked; why extremities could regenerate, but eyes, for instance, could not; what blood was for; and so on.

The hospital room was heated by a cast-iron stove burning coal. When the body was warm, internal processes occurred more quickly, so this would normally speed any healing that might occur naturally. The crackling of the flames was the only sound for several heartbeats. Finally, looking as if he had been wondering whether to say what he was about to, Mondark went on. He gestured with his head. “High Priest Yenalb is here. And Crown Prince Dybo came in with Afsan, and said he would return soon. Even that lanky palace butcher—Cadool, is it?—stopped by. And now our humble facilities are graced by he who reads the stars for the Empress. Why is this youngster so important?”

Yenalb was bent over Afsan. He had used a carefully honed and polished fingerclaw to pierce the skin above Afsan’s left earhole, making a swirling pattern. Now he was smearing in purple-black pigment, filling in the hunter’s tattoo. Normally the high priest would only personally tattoo members of The Family, but Yenalb must have felt a degree of responsibility for Afsan’s injuries. If Afsan did not survive, at least he would make it into heaven bearing the mark of one rite of passage.

Saleed wrinkled his muzzle as if he found such questions distasteful. “Afsan is my apprentice,” he said at last. “He has—he has a remarkable mind; a genius one rarely sees.”

“Judging by his heroics today,” said Mondark, “it would appear that he has a great future as a hunter.”

“No.” Saleed let the syllable hang between them for a time. “No, this is his first and his last hunt. His mind is too keen, too valuable, to waste on such animal concerns.”

“The people need to eat.”

“The people are going to need much, much more than just fresh meat if we—” Saleed stopped short. Mondark opened his mouth slightly, a questioning gesture. Apparently Saleed felt he couldn’t just end there. At last he said, “There are tough times ahead, Doctor. Tough times, indeed.”

Mondark’s tail swished back and forth. His claws unsheathed. Fear. “You have read a portent in the sky. The stars foretell our doom!”

Yenalb stopped working on Afsan’s tattoo and looked up at the astrologer. For a moment, Saleed closed both his eyes. He apparently was uncomfortable, as though, perhaps, the medic had read him too plainly, had taken his meaning too clearly. Or perhaps not, for after a moment Saleed clicked his own teeth in gentle humor. “You may be taking me too literally,” he said at last. “Just because I’m an astrologer doesn’t mean I always speak of heavenly revelations. Perhaps I meant, in a general sense, that our progress as a people simply depends upon the sharp minds of our young.”

Mondark seemed about to speak again when Afsan, prone before them, let out a small groan, a sound coming more from deep in his chest than from his throat. Yenalb quickly moved out of the way and the medic loomed in, bringing his earhole to Afsan’s chest.

“Well?” snapped Saleed.

“His heart is beating more steadily.” Mondark laid his palm across Afsan’s forehead. “He’s managed to raise his body temperature well above the ambient, meaning his metabolism has strengthened considerably.” He shouted, “Paturn, bring bowls of blood!”