Far-Seer qa-1

by Robert J. Sawyer

  The neck swooped down. Afsan saw the ground swelling upward. Then the neck swung back up, and Afsan felt his ears pop. He clawed ahead.

  Another swoop. Another painful popping. Diving down, swinging up, dizzying, dizzying…

  Fingerclaws on his left hand clicked against those on his right. He could now encircle the entire neck.

  The neck swung to the left, and Afsan saw the beast’s brown and blue abdomen looming in. But before he could be squished against it, the neck reached the limit of its flexibility. It swung back to the right, curving outward, sweeping Afsan inrough the sky.

  The head was only a small distance away now. The squared-off snout was visible as the creature’s face swung from side to side, the giant black eyes, bigger than Afsan’s fists, batting opened and closed. The thunderbeast let out a scream, in response no doubt to Telex’s handiwork far below. Afsan could feel the neck expand and contract as the low rumbling erupted from the animal’s throat. He gave one massive pull iand brought himself to the end of the neck. The head, ridiculously tiny on a beast of such bulk, was smaller than Afsan’s own torso. It spread out before him, wrinkled. The beast’s nostrils, high on a dome of bone between the eyes, flared uncontrollably. The creature’s mouth, still open from the scream, showed pink innards and peg-shaped teeth.

  Afsan loosened his grip so that he could slide around to the underside of the neck. There he opened his jaws wide, as wide as they could go, his left and right mandibles popping from their sockets, and with all the strength he could muster he chomped down on the soft flesh on the underside of the neck. The thunderbeast gasped. Afsan bit again and again, cutting through the neck at its thinnest spot. Blood geysered out of the widening cavity, liquid crimson fists beating against him.

  Another massive bite, and then another, and another. Afsan felt hot air rush out of the hole he had made, forced out by the bellows of the creature’s lungs, far, far below.

  Craning, Afsan could see that the beast’s nostrils had stopped flaring, that its black eyes had closed for the final time. All at once, Afsan felt the rigidity go out of the neck and, like a massive flexible tree trunk, it came hurtling toward the ground, air rushing about him as it did so. Just before the neck hit, Afsan leapt off, lest he be crushed beneath it. He kicked away with all the horizontal force he could muster. While still airborne, he heard and felt the thunderous slam of the great weight of flesh as it hit, and then everything went silent as Afsan himself smashed into the dirt.

  *8*

  "How is the eggling?" Tak-Saleed’s voice betrayed no special concern as he looked down at the unconscious Afsan, lying flat on his belly on a marble surgical table, the youngster’s head stretched out so that the bottom of his jaw was against the cold stone.

  Most denizens of Capital City had left to enjoy the spoils of the hunt — more thunderbeast meat than many of them had ever seen in one place. But Saleed, giant and ancient, was too old and too slow to go so far for a meal. One couldn’t unequivocally interpret his having stayed behind as showing any particular worry about his fallen apprentice, and yet he had come here, come to the hospital, where those trained in medicine did what they could for the hunters who had been injured during the day’s spectacular kill.

  Unfortunately they couldn’t do much. Oh, they cleansed wounds with water. Some lacerations were wrapped with leather. Broken bones were braced with splints. Mangled extremities were cut off with twist-saws so that they could be regenerated. The saws were different from the cleavers Pal-Cadool used; these wrenched and tore so that blood vessels would seal. With a simple severing, a Quintaglio would bleed to death.

  But, excepting bruises and minor cuts, Afsan’s limbs were intact. His injuries were internal, to the head and torso. It was known that the sap of certain plants could relieve infections, that holding a makaloob root in the mouth might reduce nausea, that the venom from some lizards if applied in moderation could deaden pain. But to rouse one knocked unconscious, one who’d had a ladle of blood spill from his right earhole, one who even now breathed shallowly — that was a matter beyond doctor or priest.

  Saleed switched from looking down his wrinkled muzzle at Afsan to facing the doctor, Dar-Mondark. Mondark seemed deep in thought, working his lower jaw backwards and forwards, the clicking made by pointed teeth passing over each other an audible indication of his cogitation. At last he answered Saleed’s question. "He has been unconscious since they brought him back from the site of the kill. His shoulder took the brunt of his fall — see the bruising there? — and we have shifted his shoulder blade back to where it should be. But the side of his head was also banged severely. We tried placing halbataja leaves on his brow. That helps about one time in twenty, but there was no response."

  Mondark knew more about the inner workings of the Quintaglio body than anyone else. For kilodays, he had been dissecting cadavers, trying to understand what each organ was for and how it worked; why extremities could regenerate, but eyes, for instance, could not; what blood was for; and so on.

  The hospital room was heated by a cast-iron stove burning coal. When the body was warm, internal processes occurred more quickly, so this would normally speed any healing that might occur naturally. The crackling of the flames was the only sound for several heartbeats. Finally, looking as if he had been wondering whether to say what he was about to, Mondark went on. He gestured with his head. "High Priest Yenalb is here. And Crown Prince Dybo came in with Afsan, and said he would return soon. Even that lanky palace butcher — Cadool, is it? — stopped by. And now our humble facilities are graced by he who reads the stars for the Empress. Why is this youngster so important?"

  Yenalb was bent over Afsan. He had used a carefully honed and polished fingerclaw to pierce the skin above Afsan’s left earhole, making a swirling pattern. Now he was smearing in purple-black pigment, filling in the hunter’s tattoo. Normally the high priest would only personally tattoo members of The Family, but Yenalb must have felt a degree of responsibility for Afsan’s injuries. If Afsan did not survive, at least he would make it into heaven bearing the mark of one rite of passage.

  Saleed wrinkled his muzzle as if he found such questions distasteful. "Afsan is my apprentice," he said at last. "He has — he has a remarkable mind; a genius one rarely sees."

  "Judging by his heroics today," said Mondark, "it would appear that he has a great future as a hunter."

  "No." Saleed let the syllable hang between them for a time. "No, this is his first and his last hunt. His mind is too keen, too valuable, to waste on such animal concerns."

  "The people need to eat."

  "The people are going to need much, much more than just fresh meat if we…" Saleed stopped short. Mondark opened his mouth slightly, a questioning gesture. Apparently Saleed felt he couldn’t just end there. At last he said, "There are tough times ahead, Doctor. Tough times, indeed."

  Mondark’s tail swished back and forth. His claws unsheathed. Fear. "You have read a portent in the sky. The stars foretell our doom!"

  Yenalb stopped working on Afsan’s tattoo and looked up at the astrologer. For a moment, Saleed closed both his eyes. He apparently was uncomfortable, as though, perhaps, the medic had read him too plainly, had taken his meaning too clearly. Or perhaps not, for after a moment Saleed clicked his own teeth in gentle humor. "You may be taking me too literally," he said at last. "Just because I’m an astrologer doesn’t mean I always speak of heavenly revelations. Perhaps I meant, in a general sense, that our progress as a people simply depends upon the sharp minds of our young."

  Mondark seemed about to speak again when Afsan, prone before them, let out a small groan, a sound coming more from deep in his chest than from his throat. Yenalb quickly moved out of the way and the medic loomed in, bringing his earhole to Afsan’s chest.

  "Well?" snapped Saleed.

  "His heart is beating more steadily." Mondark laid his palm across Afsan’s forehead. "He’s managed to raise his body temperature well above the ambient, meaning his metabolism has stre
ngthened considerably." He shouted, "Paturn, bring bowls of blood!"

  Mondark’s team was well-trained. Within moments a young male appeared bearing a tray full of simple clay hemispheres filled with red liquid. Paturn was no older than Afsan himself, judging by his size. He set the tray on a counter and brought the first bowl to Afsan, forcing Afsan’s jaws open and letting the blood trickle into his short muzzle and down his throat.

  Mondark stepped back from the marble surgical table and motioned for Saleed and Yenalb to follow. Softly he said, "The animal blood will help rehydrate him, and its taste usually arouses the spirit. He’s fighting for consciousness now."

  Paturn drained three bowls down Afsan’s throat, although much spilled out of his gaping muzzle and pooled on the tabletop. Suddenly Afsan spluttered. Paturn immediately ceased pouring blood into him and turned Afsan’s head aside so that his throat would drain onto the tabletop.

  "Is he coming around?" asked Yenalb.

  Mondark bent over Afsan and firmly gripped the boy by the shoulders. Saleed’s nictitating membranes blinked in surprise. "Such physical contact often forces a reaction," said Mondark, almost apologetically.

  But Afsan’s coughing stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. Mondark shook him gently, but to no avail.

  The doctor swore quietly. "Roots."

  "Have you lost him?" Saleed demanded.

  Mondark straightened. "I don’t know."

  Suddenly there was another voice in the room. "You had better not lose him, Mondark."

  Heads swiveled. "Prince Dybo…" Bows of concession all around.

  "I said I would be back," said Dybo. He looked at Yenalb. "I am pleased you came," he said. And then he turned to Saleed. "It’s good to see you here, as well, astrologer."

  Saleed dipped his muzzle. He looked uncomfortable and moved quickly to the doorway. He nodded concession to Mondark. "You’ve looked after him well. My thanks." And then, off-handedly, he added, "Oh, and don’t tell Afsan I was here, please." And with that, the old astrologer hurried down the corridor as fast as his age and bulk would allow.

  "What have you done for him, Doctor?" asked Dybo.

  "Everything possible," said Mondark.

  Dybo then turned to Yenalb. "And you?"

  "I have used every prayer I could think of," said the high priest.

  The prince waddled over to the surgical table. "Then let me try."

  Darkness…

  And a sound.

  Music?

  Yes, music. A ballad: The Voyage of Larsk.

  So beautiful. Compelling.

  He sailed to the east,

  River’s waters tossing his boat,

  A steady wind,

  And, at last, rising from the waves…

  Rise up to the music.

  No. Sleep.

  Yes! Awake!

  But the darkness is so warm, so inviting…

  Can’t give in to it.

  Wake up! Break out into the light.

  So difficult, like cracking through an eggshell without a birthing horn.

  Better to sleep, to relax, to rest.

  So tired.

  No…

  No!

  Force the outer eyelids open. Light filters through the inner membranes. An effort, such an effort: open those, too.

  Such beautiful music.

  "Dy-bo…"

  The prince stopped singing and thumped his tail in joy. "Afsan, you plugged earhole! I knew you wouldn’t leave us."

  Afsan managed to click his teeth together weakly. "Finish the song."

  Dybo leaned back on his tail. And sang some more.

  *9*

  Afsan and Dybo walked down the cobblestone streets of Capital City.

  "You were amazing!"

  Afsan bowed slightly. "I did only what needed to be done."

  "Nonsense! It’s the talk of the city, and I hear the newsriders are having a great time with it. No one has ever seen such skill, such innovation, on a first hunt."

  "You are too kind."

  "And that lanky palace butcher — what’s his name?"

  "Pal-Cadool."

  "Cadool, yes. Every time he brings me food, he asks about that hunt. It’s funny listening to him. He’s intimidated by my station, but he can’t help but ask about your kill. He keeps saying he wishes he had been there to see it. I’ve told him three times now about you shimmying up that endless neck, ripping out the thunderbeast’s throat. He loves the story!"

  "And no doubt it gets better with each retelling," Afsan said lightly.

  "No, this tale needs no embellishment. I thought we were doomed."

  "Well," said Afsan, "Cadool probably misses the organized hunt. After all, most of his time is spent simply slaughtering animals in the stockyards. A true ritual hunt is a rare thing. I understand that most people only participate once a kiloday or so. And I wouldn’t doubt that Cadool gets to do so even less often, given his palace responsibilities."

  Dybo slapped his belly in good humor. "Well, that’s true enough. Feeding me is a full-time job!"

  Clicked teeth. "Exactly."

  "Still, it’s not just Cadool who’s impressed. Even Tetex admits that she had overestimated her skill in taking on that monster. When I become Emperor, I should make you leader of the imperial hunt!"

  Afsan stopped dead, his jaw hanging open. "What? Surely you wouldn’t do that — I, I’m an astrologer, a scholar."

  Dybo stopped too and spoke gently. "I’m teasing you, you gizzard stone of a plant-eater. I know the stars are your first love; I wouldn’t take them away from you."

  Afsan sighed with relief and began walking again. "Thank you."

  "But it was a remarkable kill…"

  "You forget that it almost killed me," replied Afsan.

  "Well, yes, you took a nasty fall. But you had so much brains to begin with, I knew that even getting half of them knocked out wouldn’t be a problem."

  Afsan dutifully clicked his teeth.

  Soon, they were looking down upon the harbor, the steady wind ruffling their sashes. Along the shore were manyjerbok-saja trees, distinctive because their branches all grew in great trailing arrays off to the west, shaped that way by the constant unidirectional wind.

  Twenty sailing ships were moored in the harbor, ranging from small pleasure vessels to big cargo carriers. The great River spread out to the horizon, its waters choppy close to Land but looking smooth farther out. Twisty wisps of cloud were visible, but otherwise the sky was its usual deep, clear mauve. Several kinds of animals were on the beach. A caravan of hornfaces, not unlike the one Afsan had journeyed with from Carno, stood by one of the cargo ships, long horns projecting from above their eyes and the tips of their nose beaks, a great frill of bone rising from the back of each head to shield the neck. Nearby, a small thunderbeast was being used as a crane, a cradle hanging from its long neck lifting what looked like a blast furnace off the deck of a three-mast ship. Wingfingers swirled in the air above the beach, individuals occasionally swooping down to snatch something to eat.

  Quintaglios were milling about, too. Merchants from Capital City, crowding closer than protocol would normally allow, were shouting offers at the captains of the cargo ships. They were trying to secure the best of the latest shipments of copper and brass tools from Fra’toolar, of gold bracelets and pendants bearing the marks of workers from the Cape of Belbar, and of that rarest of commodities, cloth, from the plantgrowers of the Mar’toolar plains.

  The Dasheter, with its double-diamond hulls, was easy to spot among the other ships. Its four masts — two on the port side of the forehull, two on the starboard side of the afthull — stood higher than any of the others in the harbor.

  Most of these ships moved cargo from coastal communities. They could be small since they put into port every few days, letting passengers and crew off to run and hunt. Afsan remembered the story of the Galadoreter, blown far out into the River by a storm, unable to land for dekadays. With no way to release the territorial instinct
, the crew had fought until everyone aboard had died in a crazed territorial battle. The ship, its decks littered with rotting Quintaglio carcasses half eaten by wingfingers, had blown back to shore near the mining town of Parnood.

  But the Dasheter was a long-voyage vessel. Even though meant to carry only thirty people, it was huge. Afsan looked down at its twin hulls: two vast diamonds joined by a short connecting piece. Everywhere, space was maximized. True, a Quintaglio would feel uncomfortable penned in any place that was not clearly his or her own territory, but the four decks of the Dasheter afforded as many square paces per person as possible. Intellectually one would always know that others were nearby but if tricked physiologically into feeling alone, instinct should be kept at bay.

  The Dasheter’s vast red sails were angled parallel to the steady wind caused by Land’s travel down the River, preventing them from moving the ship. In the center of each sail was an emblem of the Prophet Larsk, for it was his famous voyage that the Dasheter was going to retrace. The first sail had Larsk’s cartouche; the second, his name in ancient stone-glyphs; the third, his head silhouetted against the swirling Face of God, an image derived from the famed Tapestries of the Prophet that hung not far from Saleed’s office; and the fourth, the crest of the Pilgrimage Guild, founded by Larsk himself, and to which Var-Keenir and all other mariners of note belonged.

  "It’s a beautiful ship," said Dybo.

  Afsan nodded. "That it is."

  Coming up from the harbor was the Dasheter’s identification call. Loud: five bells; two drums. Soft: five bells; two drums. Loud: five bells; two drums. Over and over again.

  "The journey will take a long time," said Dybo.

  "Anything worthwhile takes time," said Afsan.

  Dybo looked at him. "My, aren’t we profound today." He clicked his teeth in humor. "But, yes, I suppose you’re right. Still, it’s frustrating. Why does God look down upon the world from so far away?"

  "She’s protecting us, no? Looking out for obstacles upriver, making sure the way is safe."