Far-Seer

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Palsab grunted. “I take it you’re about to blaspheme again,” but even she recognized that the sound from the sky was coincidence. Teeth clicked around the circle.

  But Afsan swallowed hard. This was important, vital. Those who hadn’t believed what he’d told them so far certainly wouldn’t accept what he was about to say. The weight upon him was almost palpable. At last, he forced out the words. “The world is coming to an end.”

  The reaction was as he’d expected: expressions of disbelief or derision, and, on a few faces, of fear. Afsan raised a hand, careful, despite his excitement, to keep his claws sheathed. “What I say is true. It’s a consequence of the other discoveries I made. We’re too close to the Face of God; our path around it is not stable. Our world will be torn apart.”

  “Nonsense!” shouted one voice.

  “You’re wrong!” called another.

  “The eggling’s insane,” muttered a third.

  “I am not insane. I am not imagining things.” Afsan fought to keep his voice calm. “What I’m saying is the absolute truth — the demonstrable truth.”

  Palsab’s claws extended. “You cannot prove what cannot be.”

  “No,” said Afsan, “I cannot. But I can prove this.”

  Palsab wiggled her fingers, but the onlooker next to her — the same fellow who had taken offense when Afsan suggested that Palsab read his paper — spoke quietly to her. “Let him talk, Palsab. He’ll put a knot in his tail, I’m sure.”

  Afsan had wanted to make his case in writing, to carefully set up each potential argument, then, piece by piece, show why his interpretation was correct. But here, on a public street, with the first spits of rain hitting his head, here, surrounded by a mob of illiterates, of people who didn’t have the training or temperament to follow an intricate line of reasoning, here, facing those he was arguing with directly, instead of through the safe and neutral medium of an academic paper, a document that would be hand-copied by scribes and circulated quietly to a few hundred academics, here he was very much in trouble indeed.

  Still, what choice did he have? Was that not Galbong, the newsrider, now at the back of the crowd? Wouldn’t she spread the story that Afsan didn’t have the courage of his convictions, that he had run rather than defend his wild ideas?

  Afsan leaned back against his tail, a passive, nonthreaten-ing posture. “To understand what I’ve come to believe, you have to understand some basic astrology.”

  “We all know about portents and omens,” snapped Palsab. “No, no. The symbolism of what’s seen in the sky is a matter for priests to interpret, or at least for more senior astrologers than myself…”

  “You see!” cried Palsab to the crowd. “He admits his own ignorance.”

  “I’m honest about which things I know and which things I don’t know. Everything I’ve come to believe about the way our, our — system — works I can justify and demonstrate to anyone who cares to listen. I’ll warrant those who claim to foretell your personal futures by reading the sky can’t do the same.” Afsan saw Yenalb, at the periphery of the group, scowl, and he realized that again he’d spoken rashly. But, by the prophet’s claws — by Saleed’s claws — it was the truth!

  “Look,” said Afsan, trying to remain calm. “It’s a simple chain. If those of us who sailed aboard the good ship Dasheter managed to travel from the east coast of Land back to the west coast simply by continuously sailing east, then the world cannot be sailing down an endless river. It must be round.” He tipped his muzzle from person to person in the inner concentric circle around him. “It must be.”

  “If,” said Palsab bitterly.

  “It’s true; it cannot be denied. I speak of it here in the light of day, and even if I’m confused — which I’m not — you can hardly believe that Var-Keenir, or the other sailors aboard his ship, could become mixed up about which direction they were sailing in.”

  Palsab opened her mouth as if to speak, but someone on the other side of her — presumably an intimate acquaintance, for he dared to lightly touch her shoulder — said, “Let him finish.”

  Afsan nodded politely at this new benefactor. “Thank you.” He looked now not at Palsab, who seemed no longer to be the speaker for the group, but rather, by lifting his head slightly, he made it clear that he was addressing them all equally. “Now, if the world is round, then what is it? Well, we see many round objects in our sky. We see the sun. But our world is not like the sun. It does not burn with white flame. We see, when we take our pilgrimage, the Face of God. But our world is not like the Face of God. It is not covered with bands of swirling color. And, although our world seems big to us, I have sailed around it, so I know now its approximate dimensions. The Face of God is gigantic; our world is not. Finally we see the moons. Some have cloudy surfaces, some have rocky ones. All go through phases, meaning parts of their surfaces are alternately illuminated and in darkness, just as parts of our world are in night and parts are in daylight. Indeed, as I’m sure some of you know, if a daytenth glass is turned over immediately every time it runs out during a pilgrimage voyage — so that it always has sand flowing through it — you can see that when it’s midnight here in Capital City it is high noon when one is observing the Face of God.”

  Thunder cracked the air again. The drops grew fatter. Afsan saw that some of those assembled were following what he was saying. “And I can provide similar chains to take you through to my other conclusions: that the Face of God is a planet, that we revolve around the Face of God, that we are in fact the closest moon to the Face of God.” Afsan flashed back to his conversation with Dybo on the deck of the Dasheter. He looked directly at Palsab. “So, you see, what I’m saying isn’t that bad. We’re closer to the Face of God than anything else. Isn’t that an appealing thought?”

  “It would be,” said Palsab, “if you didn’t go on to say that the Face of God was nothing more than, than a natural object. ’The creator is inexplicable,’ say the scriptures.”

  “And,” Afsan said, pretending now to ignore Palsab, pressing on to the bitter conclusion, “my knowledge of the laws that govern the way things work tells me that because we are so close to the Face of God, this world is doomed. Our world will be torn asunder by the same stress that causes the volcanism and the landquakes.”

  “They are worse now than in the ancient past,” said someone from the middle of the crowd. Palsab stared at the speaker. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug, “but we’re not all unable to read.”

  She turned, fuming, looking now neither at Afsan nor the fellow who had spoken of the history of landquakes.

  “So you claim we are doomed,” said another voice, female, sounding frightened.

  This was the chance, Afsan realized, the opportunity to test the reception Saleed’s ideas would have.

  “No,” said Afsan. “I claim only that our world is doomed.”

  “What’s the difference?” said the girl whom he’d spoken with earlier. “If the world crumbles beneath us, then surely we will die.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Palsab’s friend.

  “Well, consider. We now build ships to ply the River…”

  “You said it was not a River,” said Palsab.

  “No, it is not; it’s more like a vast lake. But the name ’River’ will endure, I’m sure, just as we still refer to the Fifty Packs, when there are many more than that number.”

  She nodded, conceding Afsan at least this much of his story.

  “Well, we build ships for travel in water,” continued Afsan. “We know travel by air is possible…”

  “What?” said Palsab.

  “Wingfingers do it,” said Afsan simply. “So do many insects. There’s no reason we cannot.”

  “They have wings, fool.”

  “Of course, of course. But we could build vessels to fly, like those toys children play with that float upon the air.”

  “And if we did so?” said a female from the middle of the crowd.


  “Why, we could fly from this world to another. One of the other moons, perhaps. Or a moon around a different planet. Or maybe somewhere else entirely.”

  Afsan cringed at the sound of clicking teeth. “What nonsense!” said Palsab. A flash of lightning lit the group.

  “No,” said another voice. “I’ve read tales of such voyages. The fantasies of Gat-Tagleeb.”

  “Children’s stories,” sneered Palsab. “Worthless.”

  But the fan of Tagleeb spoke again. “I’d like to hear more of what this fellow has to say.”

  “And I’d love to tell more,” said Afsan. The rain was growing heavier. He tipped his muzzle up at the clouds. “But this is not the time, I fear. Tomorrow, I’ll be in the central square at noon. All those who wish to discuss this more, please join me there.” As an afterthought, he did not know why, he added, “I have a friend named Pal-Cadool in the palace butchery. I’ll arrange for a haunch of meat to be available.”

  This seemed to satisfy most of the crowd, although Palsab glowered at Afsan before moving on. Lightning jagged across the sky, and the people hurried to get out of the rain.

  Afsan tried to catch Yenalb’s attention, wanting to thank him for helping arrange his passage on the Dasheter, but he had already left.

  Oh, well, thought Afsan, I’m sure I’ll be seeing him again soon.

  High Priest Det-Yenalb returned to the Hall of Worship, his claws flexing in agitation. What had gotten into the boy? Afsan hadn’t been like this before his pilgrimage.

  Before his time with Var-Keenir.

  Yenalb slapped his tail.

  He should have heeded the stories about that one. Yes, there were still Lubalites scattered throughout the eight provinces, but Yenalb had dismissed the grumblings about Keenir. Idle gossip, he’d thought, the kind you hear about any public figure, the kind that even circulated about himself.

  But the boy’s mind had been corrupted. He was talking heresy, blasphemy.

  That could not be allowed. It could not.

  Yenalb entered the main part of the Hall. Most of the lamps were off now, conserving thunderbeast oil. But in the flickering flames of those that were lit, he took stock of the room: circular, so that the domed roof could represent the Face of God, swirling and banded.

  Yenalb had seen the Face many times, taken the pilgrimage over and over again, gone there with Empress Lends and her predecessor, Empress Sardon, would go there with the new Emperor, Dybo, on his next pilgrimage.

  He had seen the Face, felt the rapture, heard the voice.

  It was no lie. It could not be.

  Shifting his weight onto his tail, he looked down the mock river, that channel of water between the planks through which the sinners walked. It was half empty, much of the water from the last service having evaporated.

  But this was only a model. There was a real River, and Land did float down it, and the Face of God did look down upon the way ahead, to make sure it was safe.

  It was true.

  It must be.

  It was his way of life.

  It was the way of life for all the people.

  He stared at the sinners’ river for a long time. And, at last, Yenalb felt a calm come over him. The tranquillity of the room entered him, the peace that comes with faith relaxed him, comforted him, assured him.

  He knew what he must do.

  *29*

  Afsan had expected his reunion with Dybo to be a private affair. After all, he’d once met on his own with Dybo’s mother, the late Empress Lends. Surely Dybo himself — Dy-Dybo, as he was apparently called now — would make time for his returning friend.

  But when Afsan arrived at the main palace, the guards did not nod concession to him, as they had the first time he’d had an audience here. Instead, they turned and walked just behind Afsan, closer than protocol would normally allow. They were much larger than he, and Afsan had to step quickly to keep up with the speed they were imposing.

  He was allowed no time to enjoy the Hall of Stone Eggs with its myriad polished hemispheres of rock cut to reveal the crystal hollows within. The guards marched behind him wordlessly. The complex and uneven walls of the Hall deadened the echoes of their mighty footfalls.

  They came out into the vast circular chamber with its red telaja-wood doors. Afsan was hustled along so quickly he barely had time to notice that the cartouche representing the Emperor was different: gone were the profiled heads of Tak-Saleed and Det-Yenalb. Instead, most of the cartouche was a carving of an outstretched hand spread over a flat map of Land in the great River. Odd choice, thought Afsan, since Dybo knew full well that such depictions were now obsolete.

  One of the guards pushed ahead of Afsan and clicked heavy claws against the copper signaling plate by the door.

  Afsan warmed at the sound of his friend’s voice. “Hahat dan.”

  The guard swung the door open, and Afsan and his burly escorts stepped into the ruling room.

  Lying on the ornate throne slab, high on the polished basalt pedestal, was Dybo. His head sported several new tattoos, including an intricate web-like one fanning outward from his right eye and extending back to his earhole. On his left wrist he wore the three silver loops that signified his position. He’d lost weight, although it would take a charitable soul to think of him still as anything less than fat. And he’d grown — even recumbent, it was obvious that he was slightly older.

  Afsan realized that Dybo was likely appraising him the same way. The Emperor’s eyes were probably tracking up and down Afsan’s body, but with those obsidian orbs, there was no way to be sure.

  Dybo was not alone. Benches, perhaps ten paces long, with intricate gold inlays at the ends, extended from either side of the throne slab. On the left-hand one sat Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. On the right, a mid-sized fellow with a slightly concave chest. Afsan didn’t know his name, but recognized him as a palace advisor — quite senior, obviously, if he was allowed to sit upon a katadu bench.

  To the left and right of the benches stood more people, some wearing priestly robes, others sporting the orange and blue sashes of the Emperor’s staff. Lends’s worktable on wheels was nowhere to be seen.

  Afsan bowed low. He half expected to be greeted by one of Dybo’s usual barbs — a quip about Afsan’s scrawniness, perhaps. But it was Det-Yenalb, not Dybo, who spoke.

  “You are Afsan?” the priest said, his voice liquid and unpleasant.

  Afsan blinked. “Yes.”

  “You took a pilgrimage aboard the Dasheter?”

  “You know I did, Your Grace. You helped arrange it.”

  “Answer yes or no. You took a pilgrimage aboard the Dasheter, a sailing vessel captained by one Var-Keenir?”

  “Yes.” At the far right, one of those in the sash of a staff member was writing into a small leather booklet. A transcript of the proceedings?

  “You claim to have made a discovery while on this voyage?”

  “Yes. Several discoveries.”

  “And what were those discoveries?”

  “That the world is round.” There was a sharp hiss from several members of the assembly. “That the object we call the Face of God is really just a planet.” Tails swished back and forth like snakes. Individuals exchanged worried glances.

  “You really believe this?” said Yenalb.

  “The world is round,” said Afsan. “We did indeed sail continuously to the east, leaving from Capital City here on the east coast of Land and arriving back, simply by continuing in a straight line, at the Bay of Three Forests on the west coast.”

  “You are mistaken,” Yenalb said flatly.

  Afsan felt a tingling at the tips of his fingers. “I am not mistaken. Dybo was there. He knows.”

  Yenalb slapped his tail against the floor. The sharp cracking echoed throughout the chamber. “You will refer to the Emperor as His Luminance.”

  “Fine. His Luminance knows.” Afsan moved his head so that there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind: he was looking directly at Dybo. “Don’
t you?”

  Dybo said nothing. Yenalb pointed at Afsan. “I say again, you are mistaken.”

  “No, Your Grace. I am not.”

  “Eggling, you risk…”

  “A moment, please,” said a wheezy voice. It was the senior advisor, seated on Dybo’s right. He rose with a hiss. Every movement seemed to be an effort for him. His caved-in chest heaved constantly. He was not all that old, but his breathing was ragged — some respiratory ailment, Afsan guessed. The advisor nodded at the clerk who had been taking notes, and that one put down his book and held his inked claw at his side. The advisor’s gait was slow, accompanied at every step by a hissing breath. At last he was close to Afsan. He looked Afsan in the face for several heartbeats, then spoke quietly in a protracted wheeze that only Afsan could hear. “Tell them you are mistaken, boy. It’s your only hope.”

  “But I’m not…”

  “Shush!”

  Afsan tried again in a faint volume. “But I’m not mistaken!”

  The advisor stared at him again, his breath noisy, ragged. At last he said quietly, “If you value your hide, you will be.” He turned and headed back to his katadu bench, his steps slow and pained. One of those wearing an orange and blue sash helped him sit down.

  Yenalb, looking irritated at this interruption, turned to face Afsan again. “As I said, you are mistaken.”

  Afsan was quiet for a moment, but then said softly, “I am not.” He saw the wheezing advisor close his eyes.

  “You are. We have heard how the Dasheter engaged a serpent, how the ship was tossed and turned. You, and the others, were simply confused by what had occurred. You are not a mariner, after all. You’re not used to the tricks the open water can play on one’s mind.”

  “I am not mistaken,” Afsan said again, more firmly.

  “You must be!”

  “I am not.”

  One of the other priests spoke. “His muzzle shows no blue.”

  Afsan clicked his teeth in satisfaction. It was as plain as the muzzle on his face: he was telling the truth. If he were lying, the inflammation of the muzzle’s skin would give him away. Everyone in the room had to see that, had to know that despite Yenalb’s ranting Afsan was telling the truth!