"How?" Dybo got up off the rock he had been straddling and began to pace. "When I father hatchlings, I will gladly submit them to dispatch."

Afsan shook his head. "You will not be believed."

"But they’ll know I’m not lying."

"Not intentionally, no. But you might be misinformed or misled by your advisors, as, apparently, you and perhaps your predecessors have been in the past."

"I’ll submit my egglings to public dispatch, then, so that there can be no doubt."

"Public dispatch." said Afsan, the idea evidently intriguing him. "You know, I once saw a litter dispatched."

"What — when?"

"When I stopped in my home Pack of Carno, venturing back from the Dasheter’s landing after we circumnavigated the world. I stumbled into the creche at the wrong time. It’s a sight I’ve never forgotten. Public dispatch — yes, people would flock to watch that." He scratched the underside of his muzzle. "But even that would leave all eight of your mother’s children alive."

Dybo flicked his tail. "There’s nothing I can do about that."

"Perhaps there is," said Afsan slowly.

Dybo stopped pacing directly abreast of Afsan. "What do you mean?"

"You have been challenged by your brother. He claims he would have been chosen as best, had the imperial bloodpriest performed his job properly."

"That’s what he says."

"What has become of that bloodpriest?"

"You mean the one who held the job when I hatched?" said Dybo. "Mek-Maliden is his name. He’s still alive. He’s very old, of course, but in theory he’s still the imperial bloodpriest."

"Have you asked this Maliden whether Rodlox’s claim is true?"

Dybo looked away. "Maliden has gone missing. No one has seen him since the day Rodlox made his challenge."

"Are you sure that he, too, as a bloodpriest, hasn’t fallen prey to an angry mob?"

Dybo shook his head. "I don’t think so. Maliden’s personal effects are missing, too."

Afsan nodded slowly. "That he’s run away is strong evidence that Rodlox’s claim is true, I’m afraid. Have you searched the documents at the imperial Hall of Worship?"

"Not personally, of course. But I’ve ordered it done. Nothing has been found to either corroborate or refute Rodlox’s claim." Dybo sighed. "Of course, if I were involved in such a monumental deception, I doubt I’d write anything down, either."

"No. Nor would I. So the truth has fled the city with Maliden."

"Apparently."

Silence, except for the calls of wingfingers and the drums and bells from a ship sailing by far below. Then: "There are two thrusts to Rodlox’s claim," said Afsan. The first, that all eight of Lends’s children got to live, seems verified, if we take Maliden’s disappearance as an admission of guilt. But that, in and of itself, is not so damaging. After all, all eight of Novato and my children were allowed to live, too."

"Indeed."

"But the second part of the claim, that the wrong eggling was designated as Emperor-to-be, is very bad indeed, and it hasn’t been proven. Maliden could tell us."

"If we could find him," said the Emperor. "I’ve sent out riders with orders for his arrest."

"I doubt you’ll locate him soon enough," said Afsan.

"Frankly, I doubt it, too," agreed Dybo. "If the other bloodpriests are in cahoots with him, he’ll have an ally in every Pack. Without Maliden, there’s no one who can categorically refute Rodlox." Dybo slapped his tail against the ground in frustration. "Regardless, the people have made up their minds already. They believe that everything Rodlox said is true."

"And that hampers your ability to lead," said Afsan.

"Yes."

"The question of who rightfully belongs on the ruling slab must be resolved."

"But how? I suppose, if the overwhelming opinion is that I’m not the rightful heir, then I could step down and let Rodlox take my place."

"No!" said Afsan. "No. You can’t do that. Rodlox would abandon the exodus. No, a way must be found to prove that you are the correct leader."

"And how can we do that?"

Wingfingers careened overhead. Nearby, insects buzzed in low shrubs.

"A replay," said Afsan simply. "You and your siblings must face the culling of the bloodpriest again."

Dybo was silent for a long time, then his teeth began to click. "Afsan, you’re yanking my tail. Do you know who becomes imperial bloodpriest in Maliden’s absence? His apprentice, Dagtool. He’s not that formidable. Chances are I could take him in a fight, and if I couldn’t alone, certainly my siblings and I together could."

"Of course," said Afsan. "To set eight adults against one would be silly. When the bloodpriest does his culling, it’s eight tiny hatchlings he must deal with." He looked up, blind eyes on Dybo. "What we need is an appropriately scaled-up bloodpriest."

Dybo stared at his friend. "What do you mean?"

"We need something as formidable to you as an adult Quintaglio is to an eggling. Something that will have no trouble going against eight adult Quintaglios. Something ten times your size."

"Afsan, you’re gibbering. There’s nothing that meets your description."

"Yes, there is."

"Oh, come on. The only thing that even remotely sounds like that is…"

"Yes?"

"Oh, Afsan, be serious."

"I am serious. You and your siblings should publicly replay the culling of the bloodpriest against a blackdeath."

"A blackdeath? Afsan, those creatures are dangerous!"

"So is a Quintaglio bloodpriest to a newly hatched infant."

"But a blackdeath!"

"It’s an elegant solution. We will end up with the rightful Emperor. Plus, by having you and your siblings — members of The Family — submitting to such a public culling, the role of the bloodpriest will be re-established, and the population will return to its traditional controls."

"But, Afsan, umm, there’s no way that I could survive against a blackdeath — no way any Quintaglio could."

Afsan’s teeth touched together gently. "I’m sure your first point is the one that really concerns you, my friend. You’re afraid that in such a test, you would not be the winner."

"Well," said Dybo, "even if the odds were even, I’d only have a one-in-eight chance of survival — assuming, that is, that the blackdeath could be stopped somehow before it devoured all of us, not to mention everyone else in the vicinity."

"A one-in-eight chance is all a newborn Quintaglio gets."

"Yes, but…

"The species grows strong because only the best survive."

"I know that, but…"

"But you doubt that your odds are even one in eight? You are not in the best of shape."

"Thank you."

"I know only what they tell me. I haven’t seen you in kilodays."

"Frankly," said Dybo, "I came to you hoping for a solution that would leave me in power."

"I, too, would like to see you remain Emperor."

Dybo was bitter. "It doesn’t sound that way."

"Dybo, I fought long and hard to convince you of the truth about our world." Afsan clicked his teeth. "It’s not easy breaking in a new Emperor."

Dybo spread his hands. "But if I were to go up against a blackdeath, I wouldn’t survive."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"I’d prefer to hear something a bit more definite than that."

Afsan slid from his rock and stood over the sleeping Gork, who was hissing softly in the boulder’s shade. "You’re missing the obvious, Dybo. An eggling’s only hope of surviving the culling is to run the fastest and thus avoid being gulped down by the bloodpriest. But you are an adult. You have your intellect to aid you." He reached down and stroked the sleeping lizard’s hide. "Remember Lubal’s dictum: ’A great hunter has not only sharp tooth and polished claw but a keen mind as well, for it is cunning that will save all when the predator becomes the prey.’ "

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, I will be your trainer."