Dybo, fully back in command, ordered the gate opened, and imperial guards hastened to comply. The air was split by a ratcheting sound as the wooden barrier jerked aside. It was an athlete’s gate, small for the blackdeath, but the retreating beast shouldered its way through, spying the daylight at the end of the tunnel. The creature was let go; it had performed with honor and great skill. Once outside the stadium, it seemed as eager to leave Capital City as the citizens were to have it gone, heading back toward the foothills of the Ch’mar volcanoes.

Cadool cupped Afsan’s elbow and the two made their way to find Dybo. By the time they arrived on the playing field, Dybo’s physician, who had been waiting nearby as planned, was already attending to him, cleaning his arm stumps so that the limbs would regenerate properly, without infection or deformity. Dybo, leaning back on his tail for support — it was important that the Emperor be seen to walk from the arena — seemed dazed or in shock, but when he saw Afsan and Cadool approaching, he apparently recognized them and tipped his head in greeting.

"He sees us," said Cadool.

Afsan bowed concession toward Dybo and waited quietly for ihe doctor to finish his work, all the time glowing with pride in his friend.

*45*

Capital City, twenty days later

"Afsan!"

Afsan was lying on his boulder at Rockscape, snoozing. Gork was pacing quietly back and forth.

"Afsan!" Dybo shouted again, running through the field to the ancient arrangement of boulders, the stubs of his arms ending in bright yellow rings — the first signs of new growth.

The blind advisor woke up and lifted his head from the rock. Gork, moving with a side-to-side motion, waddled out to meet Dybo, its forked tongue slipping in and out of its mouth. Dybo bent to pet the lizard, then sighed when he realized he didn’t have anything to pet it with. Gork didn’t seem to mind. It nuzzled Dybo’s legs.

Afsan pushed himself off his rock and stood, leaning back on his tail. "What is it?"

"They’ve found Maliden."

Afsan threw back his muzzle in a yawn, still not completely awake. "Who?"

"The imperial bloodpriest! The one who was there at my hatching! They’ve found him. He was brought here under guard from northernmost Chu’toolar."

"Have you spoken to him yet?"

"No," said Dybo. "I wanted you to be with me."

Afsan groped for the harness that Gork wore, and he and Dybo headed back to Capital City, the warm afternoon sun beating down on them from the mauve sky.

"Maliden is badly hurt," said Dybo as they walked back. "He, ah, resisted arrest."

"And your agents were overly zealous?"

"It came close to being a territorial challenge, I’m afraid. His injuries are severe for one as old as he. They say he won’t live long."

"It must have been a hard ride for him, severely injured, all the way back from Chu’toolar."

Dybo nodded. "Hard indeed."

There was no specific place for holding prisoners, since so rarely was someone accused of a crime. They entered the new palace office building, Dybo leading the way, Gork helping Afsan to avoid obstacles. Afsan looked somewhat pained as it became apparent they were heading down a ramp into the basement. "What’s wrong?" said Dybo.

"Nothing."

"Your muzzle shows blue, friend."

"It’s — I’m sorry, I’m just remembering my own time held prisoner in a basement, charged with heresy. My apologies; I didn’t mean to bring it up."

Dybo said nothing. There was nothing to say. They continued down the ramp and rounded out onto the stone floor, their toeclaws and Cork’s making little scraping sounds as they continued along. Two imperial guards stood outside a wooden door. Dybo dismissed them — there were too many people in this confined space as it was. He, Afsan, and Gork entered the musty room, and Dybo quickly moved to the far side, maximizing the space between them. The room contained a couple of wooden crates; it was obviously simply a storage area. Looking old and haggard, flopped on his belly in the center of the floor, was Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest. "Maliden," said Dybo.

The oldster lifted his muzzle slightly. "Your Luminance," he said. "And Afsan. Hahat dan."

"You have no territorial permission to give," said Dybo. "You are a prisoner."

Maliden’s voice was a wheeze. "I committed no crime."

Afsan’s tail swished. "Yes, you did."

Maliden looked at Afsan, then grunted as though the mere effort of lifting his muzzle again had caused him great pain. "You’re wrong, Afsan."

"Wrong?" Afsan crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Do you deny that you tampered with the selection of the Emperor-to-be?"

Maliden wheezed softly. "I have done nothing that was criminal," he said at last.

"You’re evading the question," said Afsan. "Tell me…"

Maliden’s breath sounded like paper tearing. "I will say nothing in front of Dybo."

"I am Emperor," Dybo said. "You are accountable to me."

Maliden shook his head, then moaned. That, too, had hurt. "I don’t doubt your authority, Dybo. Indeed, I honor you for it. But I will be dead soon — within the daytenth, I’d warrant. Leave me, and I’ll make my final statement to Afsan. Stay, and I’ll say no more." He paused, catching his ragged breath. "You can’t force me to speak. Any physical coercion would finish me off right now, I’m sure." A long, protracted wheeze, then: "Leave, Dybo. Please."

Dybo looked at Afsan, who, of course, did not look back. At last, his tone ripe with frustration, the Emperor said, "Very well." He stomped from the room. Without arms there was no way for Dybo to slam the door, but he glared at it as if that were his wish.

Afsan pushed down gently on Cork’s head, and the lizard flopped onto its belly, limbs sprawled out at its side. He then let go of the harness and moved nearer to Maliden, crouching down.

"Now," said Afsan quietly, "tell me about your crimes."

"Crimes?" Maliden clicked his teeth, ever so softly. "Ah, Afsan, you are as they said. You believe there’s a fundamental conflict between you who are scholars and we who are priests." Maliden’s wheezing punctuated his speech. "But it’s not true, Afsan. We both want the same thing for the people — we want them to prosper and be happy and well."

Afsan shook his head. "You wanted control, you wanted to be able to steer society in the direction you wished it to go."

With a grunt, Maliden forced his muzzle off the ground again. "No," he said at last. "You’re wrong. Look at Dybo! A finer leader we’ve never had. He’s strong enough to exert his authority when it’s required, but calm enough to let others bring forth good ideas. You yourself, Afsan, with your goal of getting us off this world. Would Len-Lends have listened to you? No, of course not. She was too forceful, too determined to defend her own territory, to lead according to her vision, no matter what."

"So you chose someone who would be more malleable, someone whose views you could shape."

"We chose someone who might be more moderate, Afsan. Only that. I’ve been told about what happened here in the streets while I was gone. Violence, death, blood spilling everywhere. It’s a never-ending cycle. You, Afsan, even you, killed then."

"To dispatch one in dagamant is not killing."

"Semantics. Polite beliefs that let us live with ourselves afterward. Don’t talk to me about such things. In my time, I have swallowed whole more than a thousand Quintaglio children. I shudder to say I even came to like the taste of meat so young, so tender. We use euphemisms to describe it, and pretend that we’re not killers, but we are, to the very core, killers not only of animals for food but of our own kind. Murderers."

"I don’t understand," said Afsan.