"Pain can be controlled by a strong enough mind," said Afsan. "At least, for a short time."
"I suppose, but — oh, God, he’s doing it again! God, how that must hurt! He’s chewing off his own right arm now! There it goes … that arm has fallen to the ground, too. The blood is soaking the soil. He’s just got two stumps now, coming off his shoulders. He looks… he looks…"
"Just like God," said Afsan.
Cadool was staggered. "Yes! From the first sacred scroll! After She sacrificed Her arms to make the five original hunters and the five original mates! Just like God!"
There were murmurs throughout the stands, as other spectators realized the resemblance. An Emperor who was as a God! How could they have doubted him?
It was well past noon now. Dybo had maneuvered carefully. He’d positioned himself to the west of the blackdeath, the sun behind him. He turned his body in a three-quarters view, and tipped low from the waist, the short stubs of his arms dangling in front of his torso. He bowed low, lower still, his tail lifting from the ground, matching the posture of the blackdeath. Dybo roared again, precisely mimicking the blackdeath’s sound. The blackdeath roared in return, but then the incredible, the miraculous, happened. The blackdeath took a step backward, moving away from Dybo.
Dybo roared once more, stepping forward. He dipped from the waist, bobbing, up and down, up and down, a territorial challenge, a gesture shared by both Quintaglio and blackdeath, a gesture unmistakable to the spectators and to the great ebony monster.
Dybo was challenging the blackdeath … and the blackdeath was retreating.
"I don’t understand," said Cadool.
"He may look like God to us," said Afsan, "but silhouetted against the sun behind him, with his arms only tiny stumps, and assuming the proper posture, to his mighty opponent he looks like a blackdeath — like a juvenile blackdeath."
The blackdeath roared halfheartedly at Dybo, but continued to retreat, step by step, pace by pace, back farther and farther toward the spectator stands, toward the door through which the challengers had come…
"But why, Afsan? Why is it retreating?"
"A blackdeath is no different from other animals, Cadool, or from us, for that matter. A mature male is often challenged by young bucks. The male endures such challenges — they’re a rite of passage for the juveniles, a growth experience. Among animals, true territorial battles are only ever fought between approximately equally matched opponents. A male that size would never actually fight a juvenile as apparently young as Dybo."
The blackdeath continued to fall back. About halfway across the field, it turned around and, slumped forward, head down, it simply walked across the rest of the arena’s short axis, in full retreat from Dy-Dybo.
Spenress, the only other survivor, was clearly amazed — and clearly delighted that it appeared to be over. She bowed in territorial concession to Dybo.
The crowd was stunned for a moment, then a voice, thinned by distance and the constant east-west breeze, went up: "Long live Emperor Dybo!"
Afsan remembered the day, half his life ago, when he and Dybo came ashore after their long pilgrimage voyage. They had encountered a hunting party from Pack Gelbo. Kaden, leader of the party, had told them that Dybo was now the Emperor. Then, as now, the shout was soon going up from every throat: "Long live Emperor Dybo!"
Dybo, fully back in command, ordered the gate opened, and imperial guards hastened to comply. The air was split by a ratcheting sound as the wooden barrier jerked aside. It was an athlete’s gate, small for the blackdeath, but the retreating beast shouldered its way through, spying the daylight at the end of the tunnel. The creature was let go; it had performed with honor and great skill. Once outside the stadium, it seemed as eager to leave Capital City as the citizens were to have it gone, heading back toward the foothills of the Ch’mar volcanoes.
Cadool cupped Afsan’s elbow and the two made their way to find Dybo. By the time they arrived on the playing field, Dybo’s physician, who had been waiting nearby as planned, was already attending to him, cleaning his arm stumps so that the limbs would regenerate properly, without infection or deformity. Dybo, leaning back on his tail for support — it was important that the Emperor be seen to walk from the arena — seemed dazed or in shock, but when he saw Afsan and Cadool approaching, he apparently recognized them and tipped his head in greeting.
"He sees us," said Cadool.
Afsan bowed concession toward Dybo and waited quietly for ihe doctor to finish his work, all the time glowing with pride in his friend.
*45*
Capital City, twenty days later
"Afsan!"
Afsan was lying on his boulder at Rockscape, snoozing. Gork was pacing quietly back and forth.
"Afsan!" Dybo shouted again, running through the field to the ancient arrangement of boulders, the stubs of his arms ending in bright yellow rings — the first signs of new growth.
The blind advisor woke up and lifted his head from the rock. Gork, moving with a side-to-side motion, waddled out to meet Dybo, its forked tongue slipping in and out of its mouth. Dybo bent to pet the lizard, then sighed when he realized he didn’t have anything to pet it with. Gork didn’t seem to mind. It nuzzled Dybo’s legs.
Afsan pushed himself off his rock and stood, leaning back on his tail. "What is it?"
"They’ve found Maliden."
Afsan threw back his muzzle in a yawn, still not completely awake. "Who?"
"The imperial bloodpriest! The one who was there at my hatching! They’ve found him. He was brought here under guard from northernmost Chu’toolar."
"Have you spoken to him yet?"
"No," said Dybo. "I wanted you to be with me."
Afsan groped for the harness that Gork wore, and he and Dybo headed back to Capital City, the warm afternoon sun beating down on them from the mauve sky.
"Maliden is badly hurt," said Dybo as they walked back. "He, ah, resisted arrest."
"And your agents were overly zealous?"
"It came close to being a territorial challenge, I’m afraid. His injuries are severe for one as old as he. They say he won’t live long."
"It must have been a hard ride for him, severely injured, all the way back from Chu’toolar."
Dybo nodded. "Hard indeed."
There was no specific place for holding prisoners, since so rarely was someone accused of a crime. They entered the new palace office building, Dybo leading the way, Gork helping Afsan to avoid obstacles. Afsan looked somewhat pained as it became apparent they were heading down a ramp into the basement. "What’s wrong?" said Dybo.
"Nothing."
"Your muzzle shows blue, friend."
"It’s — I’m sorry, I’m just remembering my own time held prisoner in a basement, charged with heresy. My apologies; I didn’t mean to bring it up."
Dybo said nothing. There was nothing to say. They continued down the ramp and rounded out onto the stone floor, their toeclaws and Cork’s making little scraping sounds as they continued along. Two imperial guards stood outside a wooden door. Dybo dismissed them — there were too many people in this confined space as it was. He, Afsan, and Gork entered the musty room, and Dybo quickly moved to the far side, maximizing the space between them. The room contained a couple of wooden crates; it was obviously simply a storage area. Looking old and haggard, flopped on his belly in the center of the floor, was Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest. "Maliden," said Dybo.
The oldster lifted his muzzle slightly. "Your Luminance," he said. "And Afsan. Hahat dan."
"You have no territorial permission to give," said Dybo. "You are a prisoner."