"My last six," said Saleed.

"In any event, Afsan marched the River. He is cleansed."

Saleed nodded and turned his head to look at Yenalb. "Good."

"But he has not yet taken the pilgrimage."

"That’s right."

"He’s nearly up to my shoulder. A boy that size is old enough for the journey."

"There is more to maturity than height, Yenalb. You know that."

"Granted. But what better way for him to mature than to take the voyage? Your old creche-mate Var-Keenir is in town, did you know that?"

"Yes. Keenir and I spoke this morning."

"The Dasheter sails in a dekaday on a pilgrimage tour."

"I see." Saleed pushed up into a standing posture, letting his weight fall onto his tail. The wood of his dayslab creaked in relief. "And you, Yenalb, who have seen the boy occasionally at service, have spoken to him once or twice, you feel you know what’s good for him better than I, who has been his master for half a kiloday now. Is that it?"

"Well…"

"And now you have the fangs to come in here and set me straight?"

"Saleed, I have only the boy’s welfare at heart."

"And I do not? That’s your contention, isn’t it?"

"Well, you’re not known for being the gentlest soul…"

Saleed slapped his tail against the floor. "I am training the boy’s mind. I am teaching him to think."

"Of course, of course. I meant no slight."

Saleed lifted his tail from the floor and bobbed his torso once, a slow, deliberate gesture, a clear signal that he felt Yenalb had crossed into territory Saleed considered his own.

Yenalb backed away. "My apologies, astrologer. I meant to suggest that you might perhaps see fit to let Afsan voyage with Keenir."

Saleed was not mollified. "Yenalb, perhaps you should place a little more faith in me. Ask Keenir." He drummed his now unsheathed claws against his thigh. "He will tell you that I have already arranged for young Afsan’s passage aboard the Dashetar."

Yenalb’s nictitating membranes fluttered over his eyes. "You have?"

"I have."

"Saleed, I — I’m sorry. I didn’t know."

"Your business here is concluded?"

"Yes, but…"

"Then perhaps you will do me the honor of withdrawing from my area."

Swishing his tail in wonderment, Yenalb did just that.

The hunt! Afsan excitedly slapped his tail against the floor of the Hall of Worship. All young Quintaglios looked forward to joining in a pack, setting out in the ritual quest for food.

And yet, there was trepidation, too, for the hunt was difficult and dangerous. But if Afsan were to take his pilgrimage soon, then he must make arrangements to join a pack right away.

Most of the apprentices at the palace were older than Afsan — he was, after all, a relatively new arrival in Capital City — and all but a few bore the tattoo of their successful first kill. Afsan’s hand went to the left side of his head, above the earhole, the spot where the tattoo would go. Who else did he know who did not have the tattoo? Dybo.

Of course. Dybo, shorter by three finger-widths than Afsan himself. Dybo, who had such a flair for music and poetry, but who had often enlisted Afsan’s aid in his studies of mathematics and science. Dybo, whose penchant for mischief had gotten Afsan in trouble on many occasions, although, of course, Dybo himself always emerged unscathed. Dybo, the crown prince.

Surely Dybo could be talked into going on a hunt. His blood-red sash of royalty, after all, was a hollow honor in the view of some people, for it had not been earned, but the tattoo of a hunter carried weight everywhere and with everyone. Yes, a prince could get away with not having it, but some would always compare him to the others who never acquired it, the beggars who had to fight with the wingfingers for whatever meat remained on discarded carcasses.

Most people enjoyed killing their own food now and then, Afsan knew, finding it invigorating and cathartic. Some made careers of hunting — Afsan had heard it said that those who might otherwise be too violent for living peacefully with others were often assigned that vocation. But to forgo the Ritual Hunt, one of the prime rites of passage, was to never know the camaraderie of the pack, and, therefore, to never really be considered a part of society.

Yes, Dybo would be the answer. His rank could get them both bumped to the top of the waiting list to join a pack. But where to find him? Afsan looked up at the bright white sun, so small as to be not much more than a searing point of light. It moved quickly across the sky — not quite fast enough for its progress to be perceived at a glance, but with enough rapidity that a few tens of heartbeats later the change would be noticeable. Noon would be here shortly.

Dybo, like most people, slept odd-nights, meaning that tonight he would be up. Usually one wouldn’t eat until just before going to sleep, since torpidity settled in after a large meal. But Dybo wasn’t like everyone else. His appetite was well-known, and he might very well be off devouring food.

Afsan headed down the ramp that led out of the Hall of Worship into the courtyard. A reflex sniff of the air, a quick scan of the grounds to ascertain who was where, then he hurried off to the dining hall.

As he entered the vestibule, he checked the container into which shed teeth were discarded. Only ten or so bright white Quintaglio fangs were at the bottom, their curved, serrated shapes ranging from the length of Afsan’s thumb to longer than his longest finger. So few discards meant that most of the palace residents had not yet eaten today. Afsan paused for a moment to admire the container, a flowing shape of intricately painted porcelain. He clicked his teeth together. At the palace, even a garbage pail was a work of art.

He headed into the first dining room. There were cracks in the stone ceiling from the big landquake of a few kilodays ago.

The dining tables, with their central ruts to drain blood, were worn, the wooden tops pitted with claw marks. Four people were eating there, three females and a male, each separated as widely as possible from the others, each noisily working over meat-laden bones.

Afsan bowed concession to the one he had to pass most closely and entered the inner dining room. There, as he had hoped, was Dybo.

The crown prince didn’t look particularly regal just now. His muzzle was caked with drying blood as he worked over a joint of hornface meat. His chest was covered with animal grease, blood splatters, and not an inconsiderable amount of the prince’s own drool. That the prince was a lusty eater was well-known. And why shouldn’t he be? Stockyards of plant-eaters were kept adjacent to the meal hall, and the Empress’s child got nothing but the finest cuts. Indeed, Afsan felt envy at the sight of the hip joint, mostly cleaned of flesh now by a combination of Dybo’s teeth and claws. Apprentice astrologers got such fare only on holidays.

"I cast a shadow in your presence, Dybo," said Afsan. The greeting was usually reserved for one’s elders. But honor must be paid to any member of The Family, that special group that knew who its blood relatives were, that tiny elite who were direct descendants of the Prophet Larsk.

Dybo, his chest supported by a dayslab angled over the table, looked up. "Afsan!" He scooped an ornate bowl of water from the table and drained it in a massive gulp. "Afsan, you shed skin of a snake!" Dybo smiled in delight. "You gizzard stone from a spikefrill! You shell of your former self! By the Face of God, it’s good to see you!"

Afsan clicked his teeth lightly. Dybo’s exuberance was both amusing and embarrassing. "I’m always glad when my studies permit me time to see you, too, Dybo."

"Have you eaten? You’re looking as scrawny as a wingfinger." Afsan was thin for a Quintaglio, but it was only in comparison to Dybo that he might be thought of as scrawny. The prince’s appetite came at a price.