"But we’d never see anyone else?"

"That’s a small price to pay, isn’t it? I’m offering you a way out, Afsan." The priest looked at him as if wondering whether to go on. "I was fond of you, boy. I had taken an interest in you; went to Saleed on your behalf to help arrange your pilgrimage. You seemed so bright, and, well, if perhaps a bit absentminded, at least always polite and eager. I never wished you any ill." Gently he proffered the writing leather again. "Take it, Afsan. Put your mark on it."

Afsan did take the sheet and read it once more, slowly, making sure he understood the weight of each glyph, the significance of each turn of phrase. It was a tempting offer…

He unsheathed the claw on the longest finger of his left hand, the one he used to draw his cartouche. Yenalb produced a small pot of ink from a pouch in his robe and began to pry off the cap.

But then Afsan unsheathed his remaining claws and with a swat of his hand sliced the leather document into strips. They dropped to the floor, forming an overlapping array in the dirt.

Yenalb thumped his tail in fury. "You’ll regret that decision, Afsan."

Afsan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his tail. Sadly he said, "Part of me always will."

*33*

The central square of Capital City was filled with a latticework of Quintaglios. Each stood as close to the next as protocol would permit, meaning that, viewed from an elevation, such as the wooden platform Afsan found himself on, their heads formed points at regular intervals throughout the square, two paces between each one.

Dybo was noticeably absent. It was his orders, or at least orders that he had approved, that had brought Afsan here, but the Emperor apparently did not have what it took to watch.

It was small comfort to Afsan that Dybo had apparently had difficulty coming to a decision: it was now twenty-six days since Yenalb had visited Afsan in his tiny prison, and yet Afsan was sure Yenalb had called for this immediately after that meeting.

Six guards had accompanied Afsan, each twice his own bulk. That was far greater an escort than Afsan needed, but it seemed that the public was to be shown that Afsan was much more dangerous than his thin form would indicate. The guards had goaded him with violent shoves, pushing him up the ramp and onto the platform. And now that he was here, the hastily erected wooden structure creaking beneath him, two of them were tying him to a post, his arms lashed together behind the rough wood, his tail strapped to the planks.

The ties, made of armorback hide, were drawn so tight that Afsan felt a tingling in his hands, a numbness in his fingers. His claws were extended, but he could no longer feel their presence.

At the end of the platform, a Quintaglio even younger than Afsan beat slowly on a drum.

Afsan looked up. Overhead, against the purple sky, several large wingfingers circled.

Looking out over the lattice of heads, Afsan saw them parting, saw a pathway open up. Coming toward him, clad in swirling robes, bearing the Staff of Larsk, was Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. The crowd closed behind him.

Afsan’s heart pounded.

Yenalb came up the ramp that led onto the wooden platform. The crowd cheered him with whoops and thumping tails. He had yet to look at Afsan.

In an instant, Afsan saw Yenalb’s whole posture change; saw him rear up, standing as erect as possible; saw his features rearrange themselves into those of an orator; saw him adopt the posture he used in the Hall of Worship, that special bearing that helped him control others. The priest faced the crowd, raising his hands in benediction. He shouted a few words in outdated speech, speech from the time of Larsk’s voyage, speech that harked back to the truth Larsk had discovered. Then, pointing at Afsan, he announced, "We have a demon among us!" The crowd swayed back and forth, literally moved by the words. "He comes to us from the darkest volcanic pits, from the place of smoke and liquid rock and deadly gases. He is a danger to us all!"

"Protect us!" shouted someone in the crowd.

"Save us from the demon," said another voice.

Yenalb lifted his hands, again made the sign of benediction. "Fear not!" said the priest. "I will indeed save us all from this demon." At last he turned toward Afsan. "You are Afsan?"

Afsan’s voice was tremulous. "I am Sal-Afsan, yes."

"Silence! Tak-Saleed was a godly soul. You will not profane his memory by taking his name!"

Afsan looked at his feet, at his triple toeclaws digging into the splintery wood.

"Afsan, I give you one last chance," said Yenalb. "Release the poison within you. Recant!"

Afsan turned his head toward the sky. "The sun is out. You can see my sincerity. But even if it were darkest night, I would not take back what I’ve said. The world is doomed…"

Yenalb’s hand slapped across Afsan’s face, and, tied up as he was, he wasn’t able to roll with the impact. He tasted blood in his mouth, his serrated teeth having smashed into the inside of his muzzle. "Silence!"

Afsan swallowed, looked away. And yet, in that instant, he realized just how controlled Yenalb’s anger was, how orchestrated the performance. A backhanded slap? From a carnivore? Yenalb was deliberately avoiding using claws or teeth, pointedly refraining from drawing visible blood. He played the crowd the way Dybo would a musical instrument.

Yenalb turned to the audience. "The dat-kar-mas!" he shouted. Again the assembled group parted as a second priest, a female, came through, carrying a small jeweled box in both hands. She proffered the box to Yenalb. He opened it, the lacquered lid tilting back on tiny hinges. Inside was an obsidian dagger, lying on fine black silk. It glinted with lavender highlights in the sunlight. He reached in to pick it up and Afsan noticed Yenalb’s claws extending as he touched it.

The priest held it over his head and turned it so the crowd could see. Gasps and hisses filled the air. Yenalb would not attack Afsan with his bare hands, for such a spectacle might indeed incite the crowd to instinctive violence. No, already the sight of a weapon — distasteful, cowardly, a tool of the weak — had quelled the crowd. And yet, Afsan knew that Yenalb could bring them to near-boil again with a few words or an appropriate gesture. The priest turned toward him. "What you say, demon, is a lie. Since you continue to claim to see things that are blasphemous, you give us no choice." He nodded at the guards.

One of them grabbed Afsan by the throat, claws sharp against his skin, his dewlap bunched painfully against his neck. Afsan tried to bite the guard, but another moved in, crushing Afsan’s muzzle shut in the crook of her massive arm. His head was twisted sideways, and Afsan closed his eyes. He felt the planks beneath him wobble as Yenalb moved closer.

Suddenly, roughly, his right eyelid was forced open by strong fingers. Diffuse light came at him through his nictitating membrane, and then a shadow fell across him. Afsan opened the membrane to see more clearly. Coming at him, cold and sharp, was the black obsidian knife.

The dagger was filling his field of view, and he realized at last that he was not to die here, although perhaps that would have been better.

The pain as the mineral point lanced into his eye was incredible, stronger and sharper than any agony Afsan had known before. He frantically tried to escape, to free himself, but the guards were much stronger than he. His left eyelid was forced open, too. He quickly rolled that eye, trying to move the pupil as far up into his skull as possible. The last thing he saw was one of the moons, a pale and dim crescent in the afternoon sun.

Then a second stab, a second agony on top of the first.

And blackness.