Fossil Hunter

*17*

Arj’toolar, in northwestern Land, is a province known for its sheltered ports and hospitable inns, its metalworkers who turn copper and brass into complex instruments, its weavers who make fishing nets used throughout the world, its large holy sector, and its vast herds of orange-and-blue-striped shovelmouths, a peculiar breed with meat considered the tastiest of all.

Its governor was Len-Haktood, a hoary fellow who had survived to old age despite his quick temper only because his office shielded him from the kinds of attacks such a temper would normally engender. He was a meaner, pettier version of his sister, the late empress Len-Lends. Apprenticed to Haktood was Kroy, sister of the current Emperor, Dybo.

Haktood looked out the window. An ugly mob had gathered outside—fully ten people, standing far too close to each other. They were chanting slogans: “Truth in government!” “No special deals!” “A rightful leader for the people!” Five burly imperial guards, sent by Dybo, stood mutely along the far wall of Haktood’s office.

Haktood summoned Kroy, who did indeed look a lot like Dybo, although she lacked his plumpness, and handed her the scroll that the imperial guards had brought with them.

Kroy saw that the seal on the scroll was that of the Emperor. It had already been broken. She unfurled the leather sheet. At the top was Dybo’s cartouche, tooled in exquisite detail. Beneath it in bold, black glyphs, was a memorandum:

Kroy looked up. “Who does Dybo think he is, summoning me this way?”

Haktood was terse. “He thinks he is the Emperor. And he is correct—at least for the time being.”

“Surely you will decline.”

Haktood looked out the window. “I haven’t the power to do that.”

“But you’re a provincial governor!”

“There are forces at work greater than any authority I might have. The people are demanding this.”

“Someday, I will be governor of this province,” said Kroy.

Haktood’s tone was sly. “But why be content with governing a single province when you could be Emperor of all of Land?”

“No. I won’t go. Let the other apprentice governors play this foolish game. I’ll stay here.”

“I am your master, Kroy. I am governor of Arj’toolar; you are simply my apprentice. You will do as I say.”

“But to replay the culling. What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. But you are strong; whatever the test, I’m sure you will be the victor.”

“I am strong,” said Kroy, “but you, Haktood, you are weak. You urge me to go to the Capital solely so that Arj’toolar will be seen to have dealt with the scandal of the imperial children. You divert attention from yourself, for you, as much as me, are the product of the bloodpriests’ deception. Your right to be alive is as questionable as my own.”

“I have earned the respect of the people, Kroy. You are still an apprentice; you have earned nothing.”

Kroy bared her fangs at Haktood. “Pray that I do not win. Under normal circumstances, an apprentice, such as myself, would have had no power until you passed on. But if I become Emperor, I shall be your superior, Haktood. Our positions will be reversed; I will be the master—not just of you, but of all of Land. You will regret not supporting me now, that I promise you.”

From outside came the cries of the mob.

“You’ll have a one-in-eight chance, Kroy. Do you fancy your odds are better against that mob?”

The lead imperial guard stepped forward. “I will guarantee your safe passage to the Capital.”

Kroy looked the burly fellow up and down. “And what about my safety once I’m there?” The guard was silent.