"No!"

The robed male looked up at Afsan’s call, startled to see him there in the doorway. He made a swiping motion with one clawed hand. "K’ata halpataars," he grumbled from low in his throat. I am a bloodpriest. The voice was deep, ragged, as if forced to the surface. "Get out!"

Suddenly Cat-Julor appeared behind Afsan, obviously brought running by his scream. "Afsan, what are you doing here?"

"He’s eating the babies!"

"He’s Pal-Donat, a bloodpriest. It’s his job."

"But…"

"Come with me."

"But he’s eating…"

"Come!" She, head-and-neck taller than Afsan, put an arm around his shoulders and propelled him from the room. Afsan looked back, horrified, and saw the robed one scoop up another infant, this one smaller than the rest — likely the one Afsan had helped out of the egg.

Afsan felt sick.

Julor took him down the inner hallway and through the main door, out into the harsh light of day.

"He killed two of the babies," said Afsan.

Julor looked out at the rest of Carno. "He’ll kill seven from each clutch before he’s done."

"Seven! But that will leave…"

"Only one," said Julor.

"I don’t understand," said Afsan.

"Don’t you?"

"No."

Julor’s tail swished in indifference. "It’s to control the population. We need space and we need food. There’s only so much of either to go around. A female lays eight eggs in each clutch. Only one is ever permitted to survive."

"That’s horrible."

"That’s necessity. I’m no scholar, Afsan, but even I know that if you increase your population eightfold with every generation, it won’t be long before you’re out of room. Somebody told me that in just five generations, one Quintaglio would have tens of thousands of descendants."

"Thirty-two thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight," said Afsan automatically. "Eight to the fifth."

Julor’s tail swished in amazement. "I don’t know what eight to the fifth means, but…"

"It’s a new way of expressing big numbers…"

"But I think there are more important things to know in life than fancy counting. Surely you knew something about the bloodpriests?"

Afsan bowed his head. "No."

"But you knew eggs were laid in clutches of eight?"

"I’d never thought about it before."

Julor’s teeth touched. "You who can read always amuse me. You bury your muzzles in dusty old pages, but you seem at a loss for dealing with day-to-day life. It’s hardly a secret that most egglings are dispatched. By God’s tail, how could it be kept a secret, after all? I bet you could recite facts to me endlessly about your profession, but you never bothered to wonder about babies."

"Most people know this?"

"Many do. There are unpleasant aspects to life; we accept them, but don’t dwell on them." Julor looked down her muzzle at Afsan. "Of course, most people learn about it in an abstract way, not by actually stumbling on a halpataars at work. Even the bloodpriests must force themselves into a trance before they can do their jobs. It’s a distasteful task."

Afsan thought for an instant that Julor was making a pun with her last sentence. But of course she wasn’t; she couldn’t be — could she? Perhaps she was. Perhaps having to deal constantly with such issues, one did develop a callousness about them.

"I didn’t know," Afsan said simply.

"Well, now you do." She nodded concession to him. "And now you have something to think about. Go."

She gave him a little push that was not unkind — only a creche mother would touch another without thinking. Afsan began to amble away, the sun, which earlier had seemed joyous, now hot and uncomfortable and harsh.

He found a tree to lie under and closed his eyes. He realized, horribly, what that final panel in the intricate carving on his cabin door aboard the Dasheter had really depicted. Mekt, one of the Original Five, clad in priestly robes, a whip of tiny tail hanging out of her mouth; Mekt, a bloodpriest. The cannibalistic rite of devouring children went right back to the ancient religion of the Five Hunters, indeed, was probably the only rite from that religion that was still widely practiced, the only role Lubalites had in the modern worship of the Prophet Larsk.

Afsan sat there and thought. About the dead egglings. About the harshness of existence. And, longest and most of all, about his own seven long-dead brothers and sisters, whom he had never known.

In the middle of the night, Afsan woke with a start. As every learned person knew, Land was divided into eight provinces: Capital, Kev’toolar, Chu’toolar, Mar’toolar, Edz’toolar, Arj’toolar, Jam’toolar, and Fra’toolar. Beside being head of state for all of Land, the Emperor or Empress was also governor of Capital province. But the governors of the other seven were always fiercely loyal to whoever lay on the throne of Capital City. It had hit Afsan that the other governors, from Len-Quelban in distant Fra’toolar to Len-Haktood in Carno’s own province of Arj’toolar, all of whom he’d seen at processions in Capital City, were about the same height, and therefore the same age, as the late Len-Lends, Dybo’s mother. It was all so obvious. Of course these seven governors had been loyal to the Empress. They were her siblings, her — Afsan ran down the list of governors — her five sisters and two brothers.

Imperial hatchlings weren’t gobbled by bloodpriests. Rather, the fastest was selected to become Emperor or Empress, and the other seven would become provincial governors. Their loyalty was assured, since they owed their lives to the institution of the monarchy. Without it, without the special dispensation for imperial hatchlings, they would have been swallowed whole.

Lends’s brothers and sisters now ran the seven outlying provinces. Dybo’s seven siblings would have been spirited away shortly after hatching, and they would become provincial governors when their — Afsan had to search for the words, they were so rarely used — their aunts and uncles passed on.

The descendants of Larsk ran the entire world.

Perhaps this, too, was common knowledge. Perhaps Afsan had, indeed, spent too long removed from the concerns of real life. But he understood now, and maybe this was the greatest rite of passage of all: the movements of celestial bodies were simple and predictable, but the machinations of politics were more complex and more subtle than anything to be found in nature.

Afsan lay on his belly in the dark, but never managed to get back to sleep.

It was time, Afsan knew, to return to Capital City. For one thing, Saleed would doubtless be angry that he had taken any time off at all. For another, Dybo was now Emperor — and that would be something to see!

When Afsan had first made the journey from Carno to Capital City, it was via hornface caravan, a slow way to travel. But each Pack had to send a tribute to the new Emperor, and so a group from Carno was heading out on the fastest running beasts to make the journey. After liberally mentioning his friendship with Dybo, Afsan was invited to join the party. He was delighted: this would cut his travel time by two-thirds.

The runners were similar to those used by Kaden’s hunting pack: round bodies; stiff tails; legs built for great strides; long necks; tiny heads; giant eyes. But these were the inland variety, an unattractive pinkish beige, with eyes that were green rather than golden, and beaks of shiny black.

Afsan climbed atop his mount and settled into the saddle, his own flexible tail wrapping around the runner’s stiff one. Afsan could steer the beast simply by moving his tail to indicate the direction he wanted to go, and the interlocking of their tails would help Afsan stay on the creature’s back even at the fastest speeds.