Far-Seer

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “No,” said Afsan. “It’s the truth.”

  The ship rolled with a wave. “The truth,” echoed Dybo. But after the wave, the planks of the deck did not stop creaking. Afsan lifted his head. A mid-sized male was moving toward them, his feet stamping. There was lots of room between where Afsan and Dybo lay and the mast supporting the red sail with the crest of Larsk’s Pilgrimage Guild, so Afsan felt sure he would avoid them. But the male — he was close enough that Afsan could now see that it was Nor-Gampar, a member of the crew — seemed to be heading straight at them. Dybo, too, lifted his head in astonishment, as the deck planks bounced with each thunderous footfall. And then, incredibly, the crewmember charged right between Afsan and Dybo, violating both of their territories, a three-clawed foot impacting the deck less than a handspan from Afsan’s muzzle, the chitinous points splintering the wooden planks.

  Afsan pushed himself upright with his forearms and swung around to look at the intruder. Dybo, too, rose to his feet, claws unsheathed. There, standing now a few paces behind them, was Gampar, his torso tilted from the waist, bobbing up and down in territorial challenge.

  *21*

  It happened from time to time. That didn’t make it any easier. Afsan leaned back on his tail, a solid tripod of lean muscle, the wind now steady on his back. For a moment, Afsan blamed himself: perhaps Nor-Gampar would have been able to contain his feelings if he’d really believed they were well on the way home, instead of still outward bound. But the thought passed quickly: this was a dangerous situation, and a wandering mind could cost Afsan his life.

  He glanced to his left: Dybo had folded his arms across his chest, hands carefully tucked out of view so that Gampar could not see his claws, extended in reflex. No need to provoke the crewmember. Afsan realized that Dybo was right. He balled his own fists, the points of his fingerclaws digging into his palms.

  Gampar’s whole body was bobbing up and down, a lever tipping on the fulcrum of his hips. His tail, rigid and still, stuck out almost horizontally behind him, his torso parallel to the deck, his neck, head, and muzzle pointed forward, tipping up and down, up and down.

  Afsan then stole a look over his shoulder. The aft deck, where he and Dybo were, was empty. So was the connecting piece that led to the foredeck. Five Quintaglios were at the far end of the foredeck, looking out over the pointed bow, their backs to the tableau of which Afsan was part. And high above, in the lookout’s bucket atop the foremast, someone — it looked like Biltog again — was scanning the surrounding waters, but paying no attention to what was happening on the twin diamond hulls of the Dasheter.

  Afsan took a few steps sideways, distancing himself from Dybo. That way, Gampar couldn’t rush them both simultaneously — he’d have to choose his target. Afsan leaned back on his tail and watched the crewmember.

  Gampar’s movements were slow, deliberate. He tilted his head toward Dybo, then toward Afsan. His eyes seemed glazed over. His body continued to bob.

  “Take it easy, Gampar,” said Afsan, his voice soft, the gentle hiss an adult uses when talking to an eggling. “Take it easy.”

  Gampar’s arms dangled at the side of his horizontally held torso, claws extended, fingers dancing.

  “Yes,” said Dybo, trying to match Afsan’s tone, but a tremulous note encroaching. “Remain calm.”

  Afsan looked over at Dybo. Was that fear he had heard? He hoped so, but the prince was swinging forward from his hips, too, his round body held now at an angle halfway between horizontal and vertical. He had moved his unsheathed claws into view.

  Afsan’s mind echoed with the words of Len-Lends, Dybo’s mother, the Empress, who had ticked off each part of the sentence with another extended claw: “I will allow him to go with you, but you will be responsible for his safe return.”

  Dybo was reacting instinctively to the challenge from Gampar. If they fought, there was no doubt that the crewmember — a good eight kilodays older than Dybo, and correspondingly taller, although probably no more massive — would kill the prince.

  Afsan tried again. “Just relax, Gampar,” he said. “We’re all friends here.”

  For a few heartbeats, they held their positions and Afsan thought his words were calming Gampar. But then Gampar bent his knees, crouched low, opened his jaws to expose sharp teeth, and sprang at Dybo. Afsan reacted as quickly as he could, leaping into the air himself.

  It was all a blur, Gampar hit Dybo, knocking him down. Afsan heard the breath go out of the prince with an “oomph.”

  Gampar’s jaws snapped, trying to dig into Dybo’s throat, but succeeding only in taking a hunk of fatty meat the size of a fist out of Dybo’s shoulder.

  Afsan’s leap, with which he had meant to intercept Gampar, had been miscalculated. He landed with a sound of reverberating wood on the deck just in front of the ball of limbs that represented the fighting Dybo and Gampar. Afsan spun around, his tail whooshing through the air, and jumped on Gampar’s back.

  The crewmember hissed. Afsan felt his own instinctive urges coming to the fore, felt his intellect ebbing, knew that he must end this soon before it degenerated into a brawl to the death, blood washing the decks of the Dasheter.

  Over the crashing of the waves, the snapping of the sails, Afsan heard the thunder of feet as the five Quintaglios who had been up at the bow rushed now to the scene of the fight. A quick glance showed that Biltog, the lookout, was clambering like a giant green spider down the rope webbing that led to his perch.

  Gampar’s jaws slammed shut again. Dybo had managed to bring an arm up, and his assailant bit into it, several teeth popping out upon hitting bone. The smell of the blood, driven into Afsan’s face by the steady breeze, was getting to him, bringing him to a boil.

  Ticking on the deck. Without looking up, Afsan knew it was Keenir approaching. He did not care, did not think about anything except the fight…

  No.

  By God Herself, no! Think clearly. His vision was blurred. Intellect can win out over instinct. Afsan fought not to lose himself in the frenzy. Dybo’s jaws were snapping now, trying to take a piece out of Gampar. Afsan raked his claws across the side of Gampar’s face, digging into the soft flesh of his muzzle, the fibrous construction of the salt gland. Gampar flinched, screamed, turned his head toward Afsan. That was the moment, the chance: Afsan brought his jaws together in a terrible, wonderful, shearing bite, rending through the sack of Gampar’s dewlap and slicing through the underside of his neck. The crewmember’s body twitched a few times, and Afsan felt hot wind billowing out of Gampar’s lungs through the great rent in his neck, his final breath escaping.

  Blood was everywhere. Afsan felt his own neck pulling back, readying for another strike, readying now to attack Prince Dybo…

  “Afsan, no!”

  A voice as deep as the bottom of a cave, as rough as rocks clacking together.

  “No!”

  Blind rage. The urge to kill…

  “No!” shouted Keenir again.

  Afsan’s vision cleared. He saw, at last, his friend, bloodied and hurt. Afsan forced his jaw closed, rolled off the corpse of Gampar, and, heart pounding, breath ragged, lay on his side on the deck, staring into the rapidly setting sun.

  *22*

  “Land ho!”

  The shout went up from one of the other pilgrims, doing her turn in the lookout’s bucket, high atop the forward mast.

  At that instant, Afsan’s teeth clicked together in self-satisfied amusement. It was a moment as if out of a work of fiction, like one of those improbable stories that Gat-Tagleeb was known for, when something happened at the most propitious instant.

  Ship’s priest Det-Bleen had cornered Afsan on the aft deck. Afsan had been keeping to himself these last few dekadays. Partly it was because of what had happened with the mad Nor-Gampar. No one blamed Afsan for Gampar’s death — it was the only way to resolve such a frenzied challenge when there was nowhere to retreat — but, still, no one liked to be reminded of the violence that they all were capable of, that they held
in check just below the surface. And partly it was because of the whispers, the askance glances, that seemed to follow him, people wondering at the folly of sailing east, ever east.

  But Afsan needed to see violet sky overhead as much as anyone else, and when the decks were mostly empty he’d come topside and pace, enjoying the steady wind.

  But Bleen had approached him, anger plain in his stiff, nonswishing tail, in his extended claws, in his posture, fully erect, as far from a concessional bow as possible.

  Because of Afsan, Bleen had said, all aboard the Dasheter were doomed. The flesh from Kal-ta-goot was turning rancid; more individuals would soon go wildly territorial, as Gampar had. Their only hope, said Bleen, was for Afsan to recant, to convince Captain Keenir that he had been wrong, that nothing but endless River lay ahead.

  “Turn us back!” Bleen had just finished saying. “For the sake of God and the prophet, get Keenir to turn us back!”

  But then the pilgrim’s cry rang out, faint but distinct over the snapping sails, the crashing waves.

  “Land ho! Land ho!”

  Afsan’s mouth closed, his teeth clacking with glee. Priest Bleen’s mouth dropped open, his face a portrait of surprise. Afsan didn’t wait for the elder to give him leave to go. He ran down the aft deck, across the connecting piece, onto the fore-deck, and up to the point of the bow. It was a long distance, the Dasheter’s length from stem to stern, and Afsan arrived out of breath, his dewlap waggling in the breeze to dissipate heat.

  Afsan didn’t have the advantage afforded by the lookout’s greater height; he could see nothing except blue water right out to the horizon. He swung to look up at her, high above. She was pointing. Afsan turned around, and, by God, there it was, rising slowly over the edge of the world, indistinct at this distance, but doubtless solid ground.

  “What is it?” asked a gravelly voice from nearby. Afsan turned his head around and saw that Keenir had approached. Now that the captain’s tail had completely healed, his arrival was no longer heralded by the ticking of his walking stick. “Is it our Land? Or some unknown island?”

  That possibility hadn’t occurred to Afsan. It must be Land, the place they all called home. Oh, there were some islands off Land’s western shore, an archipelago trailing back like a tail off the mainland. Indeed, Afsan supposed that what he was now seeing was probably one of these, the island Boodskar. But that it might be totally unfamiliar territory hadn’t crossed his mind. We must be back home, he thought. We must be!

  “Look!” shouted another voice, and Afsan realized that Prince Dybo had also drawn near. “It’s covered with trees!”

  How could he tell that? Afsan turned to face his friend — who had a brass tube held to his eye. Of course, the far-seer! Dybo had become quite a fan of it since Afsan had shown him the wonders of the night sky through its lenses.

  “Give me that,” said Keenir. Afsan thought the language a bit curt for addressing a prince, but Dybo immediately handed over the instrument.

  Keenir put it to his eye. Obviously he’d been thinking the same thing as Afsan. “Trees, all right,” he said, “but if that’s Boodskar, there should be an oddly shaped volcanic cone, and I don’t see — wait a beat, wait a beat, yes, by the Hunter’s claws, yes, there it is!”

  Keenir’s great paw slapped down on Afsan’s shoulder, and the young apprentice staggered forward under the impact. “By God, lad!” shouted the captain. “You were right. You were absolutely right!”

  Keenir turned to look out on the deck. Afsan did likewise. He then realized that all thirty people aboard were here, crowded together, the wonder and relief at being at the end of their journey enough to quell the territorial imperative, at least for a short time.

  Keenir’s voice went up. “We’re home!”

  Afsan scanned the ranks around him. One after another, the Quintaglios bowed in concession to him. Tails thumped the deck in thunderous applause.

  “Home!”

  “Finally!”

  “The eggling was right!”

  It took the better part of six days for the Dasheter to make it into the mainland, passing in turn each of the volcanic islands that made up the archipelago. They briefly saw another sailing ship, but it was far out to the north and, although everyone aboard was desperate to see some new faces, Keenir pressed on toward the main shore. The inward voyage was accompanied by a more frequent ringing of the ship’s bells, an increase in the pounding of the ship’s drums.

  Finding just where to put to shore was difficult, though. Capital City, clear on the other side of Land, was the only truly permanent settlement. The Packs tended not to stay put long. Rather, they followed the herds of animals. Afsan’s home Pack of Carno migrated up and down the north bank of the Kreeb River; shovelmouths were the staple of their diet.

  Buildings would be abandoned by one group, only to be picked up, a kiloday or two later, by another. That is, if they had remained intact despite the landquakes.

  At last Keenir settled on a dock set in a small bay, which, judging from his charts, seemed to be the Bay of Three Forests in the southernmost part of Jam’toolar province. The buildings visible from the shore seemed currently unoccupied but mostly intact. Keenir brought the ship in slowly, majestically. The waters were too shallow for the Dasheter to go in all the way, though, so the anchor was put down and everyone rowed ashore in smaller landing boats.

  Each shore boat was designed to hold six people, but the Dasheter had only four, not five, the one lost in Keenir’s original battle with Kal-ta-goot having not yet been replaced. Still, everyone crowded into the remaining boats, their joy enough to keep instinct in check for the brief trip to the beach.

  At last! After 304 days, Afsan stepped back on solid land. It felt strange not to be rocking back and forth, not to feel the waves, not to hear the snapping of the sails. He took a few steps onto the shore, then collapsed to the sand, delighted, oh so delighted, to be on firm ground.

  Others ran off into the forests, perhaps just for the joy of running, perhaps to catch something fresh to eat.

  Most of the passengers wanted to be returned to Capital City, so they could get on with their lives. But Capital City was still twenty-five days or so away, sailing along the coastline of Land, and Keenir knew that his passengers and crew needed some time off the ship before they headed back. Indeed, Keenir seemed not the least surprised when two passengers and one crewmember said that they had decided to consider this the end of their voyage. They would make their way inland on their own, catching food as they went.

  Soon, small search parties were organized to try to find other Quintaglios. The hope was to find a newsrider, one of those who rode from Pack to Pack on a bipedal mount, bringing the latest word from Capital City to the outlying provinces.

  Afsan and Dybo formed one such search party. They headed directly into the interior, looking for the telltale signs that a hunting group or a hornface caravan had passed by recently.

  Their skills weren’t really up to the task, but after a half day of searching, Dybo noticed three large wingfingers circling endlessly in the distance. This, they agreed, likely meant a fresh kill. The pair hiked through the forest, occasionally sighting the wingfingers again through breaks in the canopy of trees.

  At last they came across eight Quintaglios working over the recently felled carcass of a shovelmouth, bloody muzzles dipping in and out of the torn flesh for gobbets of meat.

  The hunters looked up as Afsan and Dybo approached. Sated with food, their territorial imperatives were well in check. They waved for the two youngsters to join them.

  “Plenty to go around!” shouted a large female, whom Afsan guessed was leader of the hunt.

  The meat, red and runny with blood, did look awfully good after the endless dekadays of bland water creatures hauled aboard the Dasheter and the increasingly gamy flesh of the great serpent Kal-ta-goot. Afsan and Dybo both eagerly bowed concession and helped themselves to fresh flesh, Afsan shearing a large hunk off the tail and Dybo digg
ing into the beast’s haunch with tooth and claw.

  “Where are you from?” the hunt leader asked after the boys had eaten their fill.

  “We’ve just landed with the Dasheter,” said Afsan. There were a few appreciative murmurs: Keenir’s ship was well-known all over Land.

  “I am Lub-Kaden,” said the hunt leader, crouched on the ground. “What are your names?”

  “I’m Afsan and this is Prince Dybo.”

  Heads that had been buried in the flesh of the shovelmouth lifted themselves clear into the sunlight. Other hunters, already stuffed and lying on their bellies, stirred to face Afsan.

  Kaden looked directly at Afsan. “Say that again.”

  “My name is Afsan. This is Prince Dybo.”

  She appeared to watch Afsan carefully, but his muzzle did not flush blue. A Quintaglio can get away with telling a lie only in the dark.

  Kaden rose to her feet. “You are Dybo?” she said to Afsan’s friend.

  “I am.”

  No change in his muzzle color, either. One of the other hunters nodded and whispered to a companion, “I had heard the prince was of a mighty girth.”

  “And you’ve been away on a water voyage, you say? Aboard the Dasheter?”

  “That’s right,” both Afsan and Dybo said in unison. “A pilgrimage.”

  “Then you don’t know, do you?” said Kaden.

  “Know what?” asked Dybo.

  “It pains me to have to tell you, good sir,” said the hunt leader, “but we were visited by a newsrider only last even-night. Her Luminance, Empress Len-Lends, died a short time ago.”

  “My mother?” said Dybo. “Dead?”

  “Yes,” said Kaden. “A landquake in Capital City, apparently. Part of a roof collapsed. I understand it was a swift death.”

  Dybo’s tail twitched. Afsan, too, felt pangs of sadness. He’d been too much in awe of his friend’s mother to really say that he had liked her, but he had certainly admired all she had done for the people.