But then Keenir saw that the fissure began only ten or so paces away from where he’d almost fallen down into it, and he took off again, running along its length until he could cross without difficulty to where the stilt was. The stilt realized it was in trouble again, and took off, its vast strides its ticket to safety—
Except that another fissure split the ice some twenty paces farther along, and this one yawned far too wide for the stilt to cross it, even with its long arms.
And so at last, Keenir was upon it, followed moments later by Babnol and Delplas and Spalton and Biltog, while Toroca averted his eyes from the kill, from the snapping of jaws, from the slicking of the ice with dark red blood…
But once the stilt was dead, Toroca bounded in toward it, the others scooping hunks of flesh, already stiffening in the cold, out of the corpse.
Delplas paused, tilted her head back, and bolted down the flesh she’d torn free. Shouting to be heard above the whipping wind, she called to Toroca, “Can’t resist fresh meat after all, eh?”
“I don’t want to eat it,” Toroca called back. “I want to look at the arms.”
Keenir stopped bolting long enough to shout, “Not much meat on those, Toroca. After what you did, you’re entitled to the choicest hunks. Dig in!”
But Toroca ignored him, and instead brought his scalpel out of a pocket on his snowsuit, and slit the stilt’s left arm along its entire length, exposing the bones within.
It was not an arm. Or, at least, the actual arm ended at the first articulation point. The rest of the incredibly long walking appendage was made of four super-elongated finger bones.
Toroca sagged down against the snow.
Finger bones!
He tried to crack one of the phalangeal bones open with his hands, but found he could not. At last he held the limb in place with his feet and pulled up with all his strength. The bone broke. It was mostly solid, but with a narrow hollow core that betrayed its origins, the central hollow packed with dense brown meat or marrow to give it further strength.
And the head? That fleshy muzzle? Babnol was now splitting the beast’s skull open, looking for the hopefully tasty brain within. The muzzle was just an overlay on top of a horny sheath, and the teeth weren’t teeth at all, just the ragged edges of that sheath: a making-do with what was available by a creature that had come from toothless stock.
Everyone reacted with surprise, and Keenir with delight, as Toroca, a look of disgust on his face, got up and dipped his muzzle into the thing’s torso, tearing out a small hunk of flesh.
It tasted as he expected it would.
Just like a wingfinger.
*28*
The Emperor headed into the palace dining hall, passing through the public areas, nodding acknowledgment at the senior advisors present, and entered the private rear section.
Much to his surprise, scrawny Afsan, no devotee of any dining establishment, was there.
“Ho, Afsan,” said Dybo, lowering his weight onto a dayslab on the opposite side of the table. “It’s good to see you.”
“You won’t think so when I tell you why I’m here,” said Afsan.
“Oh?”
At that moment, a butcher came in, wearing a red smock. She was carrying a silver platter on which rested the leg of a juvenile shovelmouth.
Dybo looked up at her. “That’s enough for Afsan, I’d warrant, but you’d best slay an adult for me.”
Afsan inhaled deeply and turned his blind eyes up at the butcher. “It’s as I requested?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, sounding, to Dybo’s ear, somewhat nervous.
“Then you are dismissed, Fetarb. You may spend the rest of the day in leisure activities.”
She nodded quickly and scurried away.
“Wait a beat,” said Dybo to Afsan. “What about me?”
“This is for you.”
“It’s hardly enough. And what will you eat?”
“This is for me, too. We’re going to share it.”
“Share this! It’s barely a snack.”
“It’s more than enough for two, Dybo. From now on, until the battle, you will eat your meals with me, taking only as much as I do.”
“I am the Emperor!”
“You are also, old friend, quite fat. We’ll get you in shape for the battle yet, starting with putting you on a diet.”
“You cannot give me orders,” said Dybo.
Afsan spread his arms. “No, of course not. I am only an advisor. But I do strongly give you this advice. Eat less. You’ll need to be fleet of foot if you are to survive.”
Dybo eyed the leg suspiciously. “It’s not very meaty.”
“It will do just fine.”
“But, Afsan, you are notorious for your thinness, for how little you eat. Couldn’t I match the consumption of, say, Pal-Cadool, or Det-Bogkash?”
“They’re both much older than you. I’m your age, I’m the same height as you. Come, I’ve been generous. Even half of this is a much bigger meal than I normally take.”
“But what if I feel hungry later?”
“Perhaps you will. And you can eat as much as you like then.”
“Ah, that’s better.”
“So long as you hunt it down and kill it yourself. A healthy chase through tall grass will do you good.”
“Afsan, you are a hard taskmaster.”
“No,” said Afsan. “I’m simply your friend. And I want you to win.”
Dybo grunted, then dipped his muzzle toward the meat.
Dybo spent three daytenths every second odd-day at court, lying on the ruling slab, with his chief aides seated on katadu benches to his left and right. Any citizen could make an appointment to see Dybo, this being one of Dybo’s chief reforms, replacing the isolated and autocratic style of his mother and predecessor, Len-Lends.
Sometimes people came to appeal rulings made by the legal system. Dybo, of course, could overturn any judgment, and he had a reputation as something of a softy. On other occasions, scholars and inventors would come, looking for imperial support. Here, Dybo was more pragmatic: if the proposal would aid the exodus, even peripherally, its sponsor usually walked away with a document bearing Dybo’s cartouche. Any other project had a tough time getting his interest, although occasionally he showered support on musicians, music having been the Emperor’s first love. Dybo required no direct tribute, never having been a materialist. However, those who brought toys for the children in the creche were often favored.
Just now he was hearing the complaint of a young female who had traveled from Chu’toolar. She felt the profession selected for her was inappropriate. But the proceedings were interrupted by Withool, a junior page, bursting into the ruling room.
Dybo knew his staff would not disturb him without good cause. He looked expectantly at Withool.
“There’s been another one,” said the page. “Another murder.”
“Where?” Dybo pushed off his ruling slab and stepped down from the pedestal.
“Again, in an apartment complex, this time by the Pakta tannery.”
“Who was the victim?”
“Yabool, a mathematician and naturalist.”
“Haldan’s brother,” said Dybo.
“Haldan’s what?”
“Brother,” said Dybo, irritated. “Male sibling.”
“Oh. I thought—”
“How did it happen?”
“As before,” said Withool, “Yabool’s throat was slit, quite nastily, apparently by a broken mirror. Pieces of shattered mirror were found all around the body.”
“I see,” said Dybo.
“Someone should tell the newsriders,” proffered one of Dybo’s aides.
“Not yet.”
“As you say, Your Luminance.”