Through the pain, Afsan felt something like jelly on his muzzle.

His head pounded. His heart raced. He felt nauseous.

Yenalb’s voice rose above the sound that Afsan suddenly realized was his own screaming. "The demon can never again claim to see something that blasphemes our God!"

The crowd cheered. The strong hand at Afsan’s throat pulled away. Pain throbbed through him. He tried to blink, but his eyelids had trouble sliding over his rent orbs. His body racked.

And at last, mercifully, he fell unconscious, sagging against the wooden post.

*34*

Dybo apparently thought that what he’d allowed to be done to Afsan was a kindness, a gentler fate than having him executed. Indeed, the Emperor, in a gesture of his infinite mercy, let Afsan go, free to wander the Capital. Stripped of his rank, stripped of his home, stripped of his sight.

But free.

His eyes would never grow back. Bone and flesh, those could regenerate, but the eyes, the organs — damage to them was permanent, irreversible.

Afsan was determined not to dwell on his loss, and not to be a burden on those few who were willing to help him. He was learning to identify the sounds of the city: the clicking of toeclaws on stone paving; the thundering footfalls of domesticated hornfaces making their way down the streets; the chatter of voices, some near and distinct, some distant and muffled; the calls of traders trying to interest those wandering by in the trinkets and tools brought from other Packs; the tourists responding with interest, the locals hissing them down; the entreaties of tattooless beggars; the drums from the place of worship, sounded at the beginning of each daytenth; the identifying calls of ships down in the harbor. And behind it all the background noises, the things he had ignored most of his life: the whistle of the wind, the rustling of leaves, the pipping calls of wingfingers gliding overhead, the chirpings of insects.

And there were smells to help guide him, too: pheromones from other Quintaglios, the reek of oil from lamps, the delicious aroma of freshly killed meat as carts rattled by carrying it from the central butchery to dining halls around the city, the acrid smell from metalworking shops, pollens in the air, perfume of flowers, ozone before a storm.

He found he could even tell when the sun was out and when it was hidden behind a cloud, his skin reacting to the change in heat.

Pal-Cadool and Jal-Tetex became his constant companions. One of them was almost always with him. Afsan didn’t understand why they gave so much time to looking after him, but he was grateful. Cadool had carved a stick for Afsan from a telaja branch. Afsan carried it in his left hand, feeling the ground in front of him. He learned to judge what each little bump meant about the path ahead, with Cadool or Tetex providing a running commentary: "There’s a curb here; that’s just a loose stone; watch out — hornface dung!"

Cadool and Tetex were practically the only ones willing to speak to him. Afsan had not been tattooed with a shunning symbol — his crime was heinous, indeed, but he had not been moved to mate with a rutting animal nor had he hunted without eating what he had killed. But, then again, there were only a couple of other blind Quintaglios in Capital City, and both of them were very old. Everyone could recognize Afsan immediately, the scrawny young adult feeling his way along with a stick. And, after what had happened to Afsan, it was little wonder that no one risked talking to him.

Afsan was no longer a prisoner, but nor was he an astrologer. A priest from Det-Yenalb’s staff had taken Saleed’s place, and no apprentice was needed, apparently. Cadool had made space for Afsan in his own small apartment, two rooms on the far side of Capital City.

Today, the twenty-first day since he had been blinded, Afsan detected a difference in Cadool as the butcher walked beside him. His voice was charged, and there was excitement in his pheromones.

"What’s with you?" Afsan asked at last.

Cadool’s long stride faltered a bit; Afsan could hear the change in the way his friend’s claws ticked against the stones. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, good Cadool, that you’re all worked up about something. What is it?"

"It’s nothing, really." Without being able to see the muzzle of the person speaking, Afsan couldn’t tell if he was being told the truth. Still, since lying was futile in most circumstances, it tended not to occur to Quintaglios to try. Nonetheless, Cadool’s words seemed insincere.

"Come on, it must be something. You’re more stimulated than someone about to go on a hunt."

Clicking noises. Cadool’s laughter. "It’s nothing, really." A beat. "Do you know what time it is?"

Afsan had gotten good at counting and remembering the number of drums sounded from the Hall of Worship. "It’s four daytenths past sunrise. Or it was, a few moments ago."

"That late?"

"Yes. Why? Are you expecting something?"

"We have to get to the central square."

Afsan had also become good at counting intersections. "That’s eleven blocks from here, and you know how slowly I walk. Besides, I — I’m not comfortable there."

Cadool stopped for a moment. "No, I suppose you aren’t. But this will be worth it, I promise." Afsan felt a hand cup his elbow. "Come along!"

Physical contact with others was something that Afsan was getting used to. His claws extended when surprised by a touch, but he managed to get them retracted within a few beats.

Afsan’s gait was slow — he had to be able to feel the stones ahead of him with his stick — but with Cadool propelling him they made good time. Afsan ticked off the landmarks in his mind. The putrid smell meant they were approaching the town axis, down which the main drainage ditch ran. Soon they were close enough to hear the gurgling of the water. Next, the hubbub of the main market. The silence of the holy quarter. The smell of woodsmoke coming from the heating fires in the creche, a sure sign that they were indeed near the town’s center.

And, at last, the sounds of the central square itself. A constant background of wingfinger pips: Afsan could picture the creatures perched all over the statues of Larsk and his descendants, preening their white hairy coverings, stretching leathery wings, occasionally swooping into flight to pluck an insect from the air, or to fetch a gobbet of meat tossed by a Quintaglio seated on one of the public stools that ringed the square. Normal vehicles were prohibited here, so that carriage clacking over the stones must have been passing through on palace business. Indeed, it must belong to a highly placed official, for Afsan could hear the distinctive squeak of a pivoting front axle — a newfangled luxury, found only on the most elaborate carriages. The carriage was pulled by at least two shovelmouths, judging by the methane stench and the click of broad, flat toeclaws.

Suddenly Afsan lifted his head — an instinctive gesture, an attempt to look up. The thundering call of a shovelmouth had split the air, but not from nearby, not the small ones that had just passed. No, it came from out in the direction of the Ch’mar volcanoes, away from the harbor — a bellow, a reverberating wail.

Soon the ground shook slightly. Giant footfalls. A herd of something was moving down the streets of the city. No, no, not a herd — the slamming feet were all of different weights, different strides. A collection of animals? And Quintaglios, hundreds of Quintaglios, running alongside, their voices growing as whatever procession this was approached the square.

There were more calls from shovelmouths, as well as the low roars made by hornfaces and the greeble-greeble of armorbacks.

Afsan felt his claws unsheathe, his tail swish nervously. "What’s happening?"