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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.
    It was late afternoon, the sun already bloated, purple, and low. When he’d started the climb, Afsan had been conscious of the background noises: the mating cries of shovelmouths pumped through their intricate crests; wingfingers shrieking as they scooped up lizards; ship’s bells and drums far off in the harbor. But the climb was arduous, and soon all other sounds were drowned out by the thudding of his heart.
    The Hunter’s Shrine was atop a giant rock pile, fully as high as any of the Ch’mar volcanoes. But this cairn hadn’t been formed naturally. Legend had it that each of the Five Original Hunters — Lubal, Katoon, Hoog, Belbar, and Mekt — had brought one stone here for every successful kill throughout their lives. The priests of their sect had continued the practice thereafter. Of course, worship of the Five had all but vanished ever since the Prophet Larsk first gazed upon the Face of God, now some twelve generations ago, and so the pile did not continue to grow.
    Which was fine by Afsan. It was far too high already. He clattered over slabs of stone. Some were ragged; others, smoothed by rain, by tilting and chafing together, or by the scouring of Quintaglio claws. His hands scrabbled for purchase, his feet dug in where possible. He moved quickly over precarious parts, the slabs shifting beneath