Oh God, I’m scared.

Then Mary’s hand pressed upon her shoulder, and she stepped forward, heading for her drop-bug.

Soon she would be on a new world, fending for herself, observing.

As Sharp walked alongside Father he was excited, almost dancing. For Father’s presence was formidable: broad shoulders and dark fur, square jaw, massive spreading antlers. Few Mint City dwellers emitted such a sense of presence. Smooth-foreheaded women glanced from beneath their veils, their amber eyes widening in horizontal slits, unconsciously reacting.

Some day Sharp would have antlers of his own. That notion brought strange feelings whirling inside him.

Then they were in the market square. Such a bustle of individuals! A thousand folk from dozens of castes thronged the temporary booths and huts and stalls, their scents an overwhelming kaleidoscope of exotic and pungent fragrances. The place was so crowded, you could almost hear the people.

Father’s tunic was his best: shining white, edged with brocade, decorated with overlapping triangles to denote the Geometers Caste. By chance, a group of Mint City Geometers was passing before them, their tunics less formal, attending to everyday business. Seeing Father, they paused; but Father, as a visitor from an outlying borough, waved them on. They bowed, antlers dipping, then continued past.

With the ceremony forthcoming, Father must be drenched with urgency; yet his manners were perfect. Sharp felt so very proud.

Beyond the square, they took a shadowed alleyway. From last year’s visit, he remembered that this was a shortcut to the Forum. He hurried, matching Father’s quickening pace. From a doorway he caught a faint scent, stale and embarrassing: one of the house daughters had illicitly entertained a young warrior here, perhaps one of the City Guard. Father strode on, perhaps not noticing.

~Dad? Are you . . . scared?

The answering scent was strong and reassuring.

~Everything will be fine. With my son here, how could it not be?

Coming out into sunlight, they crossed Central Plaza, a circular expanse paved with shards of turquoise and white. A few merchants and household ladies were walking here, no one else. Sharp opened his mouth, belatedly noticing the aftertaste of Father’s reply, the involuntary fear he had tried to mask.

Then they were at the broad steps leading up to the Forum.

Bannermen fell in to either side, accompanying them as they climbed. Scarlet-and-gold banners flapped in the breeze. The smell of oil rose from leather scabbards and the polished blades they enclosed. Once inside the shaded atrium, where wall-mounted plants scented cooler air, the bannermen moved away. All around were alcoves with odour-absorbing hangings, set there for confidential conversations between lobbyists and councillors. Sharp held his breath out of politeness.

Two servants hurried past with covered meal-pots, and Father emitted faint amusement. Not one to make fun of lower castes, he was probably thinking of yesterday morning as all four of them - Mother and Bittersweet in the cart, Sharp and Father walking alongside - came into sight of the city walls.

Because to one side, in a village with open courtyards, a poor family had been eating their vegetables in full sight of anyone who happened to pass by. To Sharp it had been disgusting; but Bittersweet, young brat that she was, had jumped around on the cart, pointing and making fun. It took Mother to stop her, with a frigid declaration that poverty was nothing to joke about.

Bittersweet could be such a pain, but part of Sharp wished she could be here too, to drink in the scents and sights of the Mint City Forum, to see the straight-backed bureaucrats and officials who—

~Tang, you are summoned.

Father lowered his head.

~I respond, Councillors.

They entered the so-called Sphere Chamber, in fact a hemispherical space decorated in a melange of colours and scents, an overpowering design. Here - in the white marble chair that rose like a throne in the centre - was where Father would prove his worth, demonstrating the maturity of his professional and intellectual life, to finally become a first-class citizen.

Sunlight made the marble chair glow.

In the encircling gloom, only a handful of Council Elders sat, though the circular bench-seats could contain up to two hundred councillors if necessary. Two of the Elders appeared to be asleep, chins on chests and their white-edged antlers drooping.

An attendant made a gesture, and Sharp stood still while Father continued along a soft blue strip of carpet. At the white chair he turned to the Elders and waited.

Meanwhile, another attendant led Sharp to the public gallery where he could sit. A silver-furred maiden at the bench’s far end looked at him, amber eyes widening. Then she pulled up her veil and tugged her robe’s cowl forward.

Sharp’s hearts gave synchronized thumps.

A tall male entered the chamber, his sleeveless robes and brocaded headgear imposing, his antlers broad and lined with age, his long arms patterned with whorls of heavy scarring. This was the Chief Librarian; he was trailed by four acolytes who bore silk-wrapped instruments in their gloved hands.

Father took his place on the marble chair. His big chest rose and fell, his breathing controlled, holding in all scent.

Addressing the Elders and Father, the Chief Librarian delivered a soft common-language sermon that powerfully evoked racial memories of life on the pre-civilized plains, followed by the painful evolution of culture and intelligence. Sharp’s eyelids drooped. Then he forced himself to inhale and sit up, before checking the cowled maiden.

Her attention was on Father, not on him, but never mind. Father’s success would extend to cover his family, and today was going to be spectacular - Sharp was sure of it.

Many times he had watched as Architects and Engineers created intricate clay models from Father’s designs, etched in solidified sand. At night, Father used the larger sandpit behind the house to track the movement of stars. The neighbours considered him brilliant, ignoring the darkness of his fur that proclaimed him an immigrant, child of a northern tribe.

Among the villagers, Father was the first immigrant of his generation invited by the Council to Share his knowledge here in Mint City. Sometimes Sharp dreamed of years to come, when he himself was adult and Father was a City Elder. Perhaps it might happen for real.

Bronze glinted.

The lead acolyte took care unwrapping his sickle, then used both hands to pass it to the Chief Librarian, who bowed before accepting the sacred instrument.

Father’s face was clenched in stone-like, impassive hardness, as the shining blade swept high—

This was it!

—before the Chief Librarian sliced downward, separating a sliver of flesh from Father’s shoulder. Did the Librarian wince? Then the other acolytes were there, one using tongs to transfer the sliced flesh to his partner’s bronze platter, while the last acolyte used his unwrapped goblet to capture some of Father’s thick, dark blood.

Not the slightest scent of pain hung in the air.

Sharp was incandescent with pride as he watched the Chief Librarian lead the acolytes, with their wonderful offering, to the waiting City Elders. First, they stopped before the Prime Elder, who picked up the fleshy sliver between the thumbs of his right hand, raised it to his mouth, hesitated, then popped it in—

Truly, this was the pinnacle of Sharp’s life.

—before spitting Father’s flesh on to the floor.

~No!

Sharp could not contain his fragrant exclamation, but that was his Father’s meat lying on the flagstone, rejected.

The Chief Librarian’s face was crinkled with revulsion. Then he blanked his expression and stood in place, trembling. But the offering on the floor was an accusation that no politeness could mask.