Maliden’s voice was a wheeze. "I committed no crime."
Afsan’s tail swished. "Yes, you did."
Maliden looked at Afsan, then grunted as though the mere effort of lifting his muzzle again had caused him great pain. "You’re wrong, Afsan."
"Wrong?" Afsan crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Do you deny that you tampered with the selection of the Emperor-to-be?"
Maliden wheezed softly. "I have done nothing that was criminal," he said at last.
"You’re evading the question," said Afsan. "Tell me…"
Maliden’s breath sounded like paper tearing. "I will say nothing in front of Dybo."
"I am Emperor," Dybo said. "You are accountable to me."
Maliden shook his head, then moaned. That, too, had hurt. "I don’t doubt your authority, Dybo. Indeed, I honor you for it. But I will be dead soon — within the daytenth, I’d warrant. Leave me, and I’ll make my final statement to Afsan. Stay, and I’ll say no more." He paused, catching his ragged breath. "You can’t force me to speak. Any physical coercion would finish me off right now, I’m sure." A long, protracted wheeze, then: "Leave, Dybo. Please."
Dybo looked at Afsan, who, of course, did not look back. At last, his tone ripe with frustration, the Emperor said, "Very well." He stomped from the room. Without arms there was no way for Dybo to slam the door, but he glared at it as if that were his wish.
Afsan pushed down gently on Cork’s head, and the lizard flopped onto its belly, limbs sprawled out at its side. He then let go of the harness and moved nearer to Maliden, crouching down.
"Now," said Afsan quietly, "tell me about your crimes."
"Crimes?" Maliden clicked his teeth, ever so softly. "Ah, Afsan, you are as they said. You believe there’s a fundamental conflict between you who are scholars and we who are priests." Maliden’s wheezing punctuated his speech. "But it’s not true, Afsan. We both want the same thing for the people — we want them to prosper and be happy and well."
Afsan shook his head. "You wanted control, you wanted to be able to steer society in the direction you wished it to go."
With a grunt, Maliden forced his muzzle off the ground again. "No," he said at last. "You’re wrong. Look at Dybo! A finer leader we’ve never had. He’s strong enough to exert his authority when it’s required, but calm enough to let others bring forth good ideas. You yourself, Afsan, with your goal of getting us off this world. Would Len-Lends have listened to you? No, of course not. She was too forceful, too determined to defend her own territory, to lead according to her vision, no matter what."
"So you chose someone who would be more malleable, someone whose views you could shape."
"We chose someone who might be more moderate, Afsan. Only that. I’ve been told about what happened here in the streets while I was gone. Violence, death, blood spilling everywhere. It’s a never-ending cycle. You, Afsan, even you, killed then."
"To dispatch one in dagamant is not killing."
"Semantics. Polite beliefs that let us live with ourselves afterward. Don’t talk to me about such things. In my time, I have swallowed whole more than a thousand Quintaglio children. I shudder to say I even came to like the taste of meat so young, so tender. We use euphemisms to describe it, and pretend that we’re not killers, but we are, to the very core, killers not only of animals for food but of our own kind. Murderers."
"I don’t understand," said Afsan.
Maliden’s breathing was becoming more ragged, as if the effort of speaking so much was robbing him of his last remaining strength. "You mean you don’t want to understand. The newsriders are all abuzz with Toroca’s theory of evolution, of the survival of the fittest, and how that process changes species. Toroca thinks this is a new idea. He’s wrong. My order has understood it since ancient times, understood it because we practiced it. We were the agent of selection. Every generation, we made sure only the strongest survived. And that did change us, changed us as a race. With each passing generation, we became more territorial, not less. We grew increasingly violent. Yes, we became hardier, too, but at a terrible cost. We’re crippled as a people, unable to work together. It became apparent during the reign of Dybo’s mother that it was only a matter of time before we were driven to war. To war, Afsan! To killing and killing and killing until there was no one left to kill."
"A Quintaglio does not kill other Quintaglios," said Afsan.
Maliden coughed. "So teach the scrolls. And yet we are killers. What happened here was echoed throughout Land: dagamant, the streets flowing with blood. We are poised at the edge of a cliff, Afsan — on the verge of a massive, worldwide territorial frenzy that will go on and on and on." He paused, catching his breath. "Aggression reigns over us; it’s the trait we’ve bred for. And Lends was too aggressive a leader." He paused again. "You met her; do you not agree?"
Afsan thought back to the first and only time he had met Len-Lends. He had gone to seek permission to have young prince Dybo accompany him on the rites of passage, both the ritual first hunt and the pilgrimage. Alone in Lends’s ruling room, she had held up her left hand, the three metal bracelets of her office clinking together as she did so. "I will allow him to go with you, but" — she unsheathed her first claw — "you will" — and then her second — "be" — the third — "responsible" — the fourth — "for his" — the fifth — "safe return." She had let the light in the room glint off her polished claws for several heartbeats as she flexed her fingers. A threat. A threat of physical violence; the very leader of all the people deliberately striking fear into the heart of a child.
"Yes," said Afsan at last. "She was aggressive." Maliden took in breath, a long, shuddery sound. "When she laid her first clutch, the clutch from which the new Emperor would be drawn, I saw a chance to try to change that. I selected the strongest male — it was indeed Rodlox — and sent him far away. The others, in descending order of strength, were sent to the remaining provinces. And Dybo, smallest and weakest of them all, did indeed remain here."
"But why did you do this with the imperial children? Why not with the general population?"
Maliden winced; he was in great pain. "If it had worked, perhaps we would have. But remember, although I am head bloodpriest, I have my opponents, even within my order. It would have been difficult to keep such a change from becoming public. This was easier. Although a closely guarded secret, all eight imperial children always got to live ever since the days of Larsk; I made no change in that. I could not be sure of the results of my — my experiment, to use one of your words — if I’d done it differently."
"A breeding experiment."
"Yes."
"And it was a success."
"In most ways," said Maliden, his voice now much fainter than when he’d begun speaking. "Dybo is the best ruler we’ve ever had; you know that to be true. Without an equitable person such as him on the throne slab, you’d never have gotten your exodus project off the ground, so to speak. Indeed, you’d be dead — long since executed." He paused.
Afsan, uncomfortable in the prolonged crouch, rose to his feet and rocked back on his tail. "Incredible."
"Every word is true, Afsan." Maliden’s attenuated voice was all but lost in the room.
"Incredible," Afsan said again.
"You see the priesthood as your enemy; as the opponent of science. I can understand that, I suppose, for it was a priest, Det-Yenalb, who put a knife point into each of your eyes. But that was Yenalb alone, and even he thought what he was doing was for the good of the people."