"What have you done for him, Doctor?" asked Dybo.

"Everything possible," said Mondark.

Dybo then turned to Yenalb. "And you?"

"I have used every prayer I could think of," said the high priest.

The prince waddled over to the surgical table. "Then let me try."

Darkness…

And a sound.

Music?

Yes, music. A ballad: The Voyage of Larsk.

So beautiful. Compelling.

He sailed to the east,

River’s waters tossing his boat,

A steady wind,

And, at last, rising from the waves…

Rise up to the music.

No. Sleep.

Yes! Awake!

But the darkness is so warm, so inviting…

Can’t give in to it.

Wake up! Break out into the light.

So difficult, like cracking through an eggshell without a birthing horn.

Better to sleep, to relax, to rest.

So tired.

No…

No!

Force the outer eyelids open. Light filters through the inner membranes. An effort, such an effort: open those, too.

Such beautiful music.

"Dy-bo…"

The prince stopped singing and thumped his tail in joy. "Afsan, you plugged earhole! I knew you wouldn’t leave us."

Afsan managed to click his teeth together weakly. "Finish the song."

Dybo leaned back on his tail. And sang some more.

Afsan and Dybo walked down the cobblestone streets of Capital City.

"You were amazing!"

Afsan bowed slightly. "I did only what needed to be done."

"Nonsense! It’s the talk of the city, and I hear the newsriders are having a great time with it. No one has ever seen such skill, such innovation, on a first hunt."

"You are too kind."

"And that lanky palace butcher — what’s his name?"

"Pal-Cadool."

"Cadool, yes. Every time he brings me food, he asks about that hunt. It’s funny listening to him. He’s intimidated by my station, but he can’t help but ask about your kill. He keeps saying he wishes he had been there to see it. I’ve told him three times now about you shimmying up that endless neck, ripping out the thunderbeast’s throat. He loves the story!"

"And no doubt it gets better with each retelling," Afsan said lightly.

"No, this tale needs no embellishment. I thought we were doomed."

"Well," said Afsan, "Cadool probably misses the organized hunt. After all, most of his time is spent simply slaughtering animals in the stockyards. A true ritual hunt is a rare thing. I understand that most people only participate once a kiloday or so. And I wouldn’t doubt that Cadool gets to do so even less often, given his palace responsibilities."

Dybo slapped his belly in good humor. "Well, that’s true enough. Feeding me is a full-time job!"

Clicked teeth. "Exactly."

"Still, it’s not just Cadool who’s impressed. Even Tetex admits that she had overestimated her skill in taking on that monster. When I become Emperor, I should make you leader of the imperial hunt!"

Afsan stopped dead, his jaw hanging open. "What? Surely you wouldn’t do that — I, I’m an astrologer, a scholar."

Dybo stopped too and spoke gently. "I’m teasing you, you gizzard stone of a plant-eater. I know the stars are your first love; I wouldn’t take them away from you."

Afsan sighed with relief and began walking again. "Thank you."

"But it was a remarkable kill…"

"You forget that it almost killed me," replied Afsan.

"Well, yes, you took a nasty fall. But you had so much brains to begin with, I knew that even getting half of them knocked out wouldn’t be a problem."

Afsan dutifully clicked his teeth.

Soon, they were looking down upon the harbor, the steady wind ruffling their sashes. Along the shore were manyjerbok-saja trees, distinctive because their branches all grew in great trailing arrays off to the west, shaped that way by the constant unidirectional wind.

Twenty sailing ships were moored in the harbor, ranging from small pleasure vessels to big cargo carriers. The great River spread out to the horizon, its waters choppy close to Land but looking smooth farther out. Twisty wisps of cloud were visible, but otherwise the sky was its usual deep, clear mauve. Several kinds of animals were on the beach. A caravan of hornfaces, not unlike the one Afsan had journeyed with from Carno, stood by one of the cargo ships, long horns projecting from above their eyes and the tips of their nose beaks, a great frill of bone rising from the back of each head to shield the neck. Nearby, a small thunderbeast was being used as a crane, a cradle hanging from its long neck lifting what looked like a blast furnace off the deck of a three-mast ship. Wingfingers swirled in the air above the beach, individuals occasionally swooping down to snatch something to eat.

Quintaglios were milling about, too. Merchants from Capital City, crowding closer than protocol would normally allow, were shouting offers at the captains of the cargo ships. They were trying to secure the best of the latest shipments of copper and brass tools from Fra’toolar, of gold bracelets and pendants bearing the marks of workers from the Cape of Belbar, and of that rarest of commodities, cloth, from the plantgrowers of the Mar’toolar plains.

The Dasheter, with its double-diamond hulls, was easy to spot among the other ships. Its four masts — two on the port side of the forehull, two on the starboard side of the afthull — stood higher than any of the others in the harbor.

Most of these ships moved cargo from coastal communities. They could be small since they put into port every few days, letting passengers and crew off to run and hunt. Afsan remembered the story of the Galadoreter, blown far out into the River by a storm, unable to land for dekadays. With no way to release the territorial instinct, the crew had fought until everyone aboard had died in a crazed territorial battle. The ship, its decks littered with rotting Quintaglio carcasses half eaten by wingfingers, had blown back to shore near the mining town of Parnood.

But the Dasheter was a long-voyage vessel. Even though meant to carry only thirty people, it was huge. Afsan looked down at its twin hulls: two vast diamonds joined by a short connecting piece. Everywhere, space was maximized. True, a Quintaglio would feel uncomfortable penned in any place that was not clearly his or her own territory, but the four decks of the Dasheter afforded as many square paces per person as possible. Intellectually one would always know that others were nearby but if tricked physiologically into feeling alone, instinct should be kept at bay.

The Dasheter’s vast red sails were angled parallel to the steady wind caused by Land’s travel down the River, preventing them from moving the ship. In the center of each sail was an emblem of the Prophet Larsk, for it was his famous voyage that the Dasheter was going to retrace. The first sail had Larsk’s cartouche; the second, his name in ancient stone-glyphs; the third, his head silhouetted against the swirling Face of God, an image derived from the famed Tapestries of the Prophet that hung not far from Saleed’s office; and the fourth, the crest of the Pilgrimage Guild, founded by Larsk himself, and to which Var-Keenir and all other mariners of note belonged.

"It’s a beautiful ship," said Dybo.

Afsan nodded. "That it is."

Coming up from the harbor was the Dasheter’s identification call. Loud: five bells; two drums. Soft: five bells; two drums. Loud: five bells; two drums. Over and over again.

"The journey will take a long time," said Dybo.

"Anything worthwhile takes time," said Afsan.

Dybo looked at him. "My, aren’t we profound today." He clicked his teeth in humor. "But, yes, I suppose you’re right. Still, it’s frustrating. Why does God look down upon the world from so far away?"