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between his teeth. He examined the errant meat, skewered on the polished curve of his middle-finger talon, then nibbled it off. “Well, why not?”
    “There’s one more thing, Dybo.”
    “You’ve got my food. You’ve got my company. What more could you possibly want?”
    “Yenalb says one should take the hunt before going on the pilgrimage.”
    “Does he, now? Well, I suppose that makes sense. But the hunt…” Dybo looked away.
    “You’re afraid?”
    “Afraid?” Dybo’s voice sounded hollow. “You are addressing the son of the Empress, you would-be astrologer.”
    “That I am. Well, if you are not afraid, then why not join me in the hunt?”
    “It’s just that…”
    Pal-Cadool had returned bearing a platter holding bowls of water. Dybo fell silent.
    “How is the meat?” asked Cadool, his words, like his frame, elongated.
    “Excellent,” said Dybo, still slightly tremulous.
    “Young Dybo,” said Cadool, each word a ponderous, lengthy sound, “it’s not my place to comment, but I overheard a bit of what you two are talking about, and, with your permission, I have something to say.”
    Dybo looked up, surprised. It was as though he was seeing Cadool as an individual for the first time. “Speak, butcher.”
    Cadool dipped his muzzle, now wiped clean, to show that he was looking at the hip joint on the table. “Nothing, young prince, tastes better than meat you have killed yourself.”
    Dybo looked up at Cadool. The butcher’s muzzle retained its normal green color, so the prince knew that he was telling the truth. Dybo looked back down at the meat, flared his nostrils, enjoyed its smell. “Well, in that case, I must try it. Afsan, a-hunting we will go!”
    “You’re not afraid?” said Afsan.
    Dybo dug into the meat in front of him. “I’ve endured your singing, excrement from a shovelmouth. What could be more frightening than that?”

*5*
    Well, thought Afsan, among other things, meeting the Empress herself could be more frightening than my singing.
    Afsan had seen Empress Len-Lends many times, but always from a distance. Her stern visage oversaw most official events and she often greeted returning packs. But now Afsan was to have an audience with her. He would never forget the expression on Saleed’s face when he had arrived at the astrologer’s office that morning.
    “Young Afsan,” Saleed had said, a tremulous note in his voice, “the Empress commands your presence at her ruling room right away.”
    Afsan’s nictitating membranes danced across his eyes. “The Empress wishes to see me?”
    “That’s right,” Saleed said with a nod. “You’ve either done something incredibly bad or incredibly good. I don’t know which it is.”
    Afsan headed up the wide spiral ramp into the light of day, then crossed the courtyard to the ornate building that housed the room from which the Empress ruled. Guards flanked the entrance ramp, but they were there only to fend off wild beasts that might wander into the city. They wouldn’t think of challenging another Quintaglio, even one as young as Afsan, for to challenge one’s territory was to force a fight, and civilized beings did not fight.
    Instead, Afsan merely was expected to nod concession to the guards, and he did just that, hurrying up the ramp and through the vast archway that marked the entrance to the main palace building.
    There was no sign of decay here. Yes, the landquakes hit this building as hard as any of the others, but it, at least, was repaired quickly after each tremor. Afsan made his way down the Hall of Stone Eggs. Its walls were lined with thousands of rock spheres that had been cut in half and polished to a lustrous sheen. The inside of each hemisphere was lined with beautiful crystals. Most of the crystals seemed to be clear or purple, but some were the same bright bluish-white as the sun itself and others were the green of Quintaglio hide.
    Afsan had heard of this great hall. Its beauty was legendary; even the priests of