Afsan let air out noisily. "Well, I doubt it will be a moderate. Still, this may indeed be a new beginning."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, briefly. "It is. Whenever you’re ready, we can go back into the city." "How do you mean? Where are we now?"

"Back at the docks. The Dasheter is moored. The eruptions have stopped, and what lava did make it into the city has been cooled by rainfall and has hardened into rock."

"What about Novato?"

Afsan could hear Dybo make a sound with his mouth. "Ah. Novato, yes." The old tone of teasing was back in the Emperor's voice for a moment. "You rutting hornface. Mating out of season. You should be ashamed."

"What will become of Novato?" Afsan asked again.

"She's committed no crime, in my view. She's free to do as she pleases."

"Free to go back to her Pack of Gelbo? Back to the far side of Land?"

"She could have chosen that, yes. But she did not."

"What?"

"Well, my chief astrologer is going to need an assistant. There is much you can do still, of course, but, well, your condition…" Dybo paused briefly. "I asked her if she'd like to stay here in the Capital, helping you. She said yes."

For a moment, Afsan felt his heart lift, felt a joy he had thought he would never feel again. But then, at last, he shook his head. "No."

The boards groaned again as Dybo changed positions. "I thought you'd be pleased. She told me about how you met."

Afsan rallied some strength. He pushed up off the floor, and got to his feet. His tail was too badly hurt to lean back on, so he reached out with an arm to steady himself against the wall. "I am pleased that she wants to stay. But being my assistant is not a fitting job for her. She's brilliant, Dybo. Her mind is" — he searched for the appropriate term — "far-seeing."

"Keenir says the same thing about her. But if not your assistant, what?"

Afsan turned his head to face in the direction the voice had come from. "You're committed to my vision of the future? Committed to getting us off this world before it's too late?"

Dybo was silent for several heartbeats. Then, at last, decisively, the syllable ripe with firmness: "Yes."

"Then make her director of that operation. Put her in charge of — what to call it? — of the Quintaglio exodus."

"That project will take generations."

"Perhaps."

"You believe she is the best person for the job?"

"Without question."

Silence, except for the creaking of the ship's lumber, the lapping of waves. "I'll do it," said Dybo at last. "I'll assign her that task, and all the resources she needs." Then: "Are you ready to go up on deck?"

"I think so."

"Let me help you." Dybo reached an arm around Afsan's shoulders, and let Afsan reciprocate. The young astrologer's weight sagged against Dybo. Together, they made it up the ramp and out onto the deck, the steady breeze playing over them. Afsan felt hot sun on his muzzle.

He heard a squeaking of wheels coming across the deck, then, a moment later, Novato's voice. "Afsan, are you all right?"

He nodded in her direction. "I'm still in pain, but it's getting better." His teeth clicked. "I finally understand what Keenir went through. It's awfully hard to walk properly without a working tail." He wished he could see her. "How are the egglings?"

"They're fine; they're right here."

"Here?"

"Keenir found a wheelbarrow down in one of the cargo holds. It's not an ideal stroller, but then the creche operators told me they don't make strollers to hold eight children." She paused for a moment. "It looks like all of them except Galpook are napping."

"Let's go," said Dybo. He and Afsan started walking toward the connecting piece that led up to the Dasheter's fore-deck. After a moment, Afsan could hear the squeaking of Novato's wheelbarrow and a couple of little peeps, presumably coming from Galpook.

"Where are we going?" asked Novato, coming up beside them again.

Wingfingers were singing overhead. Afsan could tell by the way the Emperor's voice sounded that he had tipped his muzzle up at the sky.

"To the stars," Dybo said.