"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 se
nior, 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!
"He is aug-ta-rot, then," said Yenalb. "A demon. Only a demon could lie in the light of day."
Afsan spluttered. "A demon — ?"
"Just as shown in the Tapestries of the Prophet," declared Yenalb. "Just as described in the scriptures. A demon!"
Fingers sprouted claws on half the assembled group. "A demon…"
"For God’s sake," said Afsan, "I am not a demon."
"And what," said Yenalb, his voice dangerously edged, "do you know of God?"
"I mean…"
"You said God was a fraud, a natural phenomenon, simply a planet."
"Yes, but…"
"And now you invoke the Almighty to disprove your demonhood?"
Afsan looked left and right. Some of the assembled group had started bobbing up and down. The word "demon" passed from individual to individual.
"I am an astrologer!" cried Afsan. "A scholar!"
"Demon," said the crowd, harsh and low. "Demon."
"I’m telling the truth!"
"Demon." A chant. "Demon."
"A demon among us!" said Yenalb, spinning, his robes flowing about him. "A demon in our midst!"
"Demon," repeated the crowd. "Demon."
"A demon who denounces our religion!" Yenalb’s tail slapped the floor.
"Demon. Demon."
Afsan’s claws were out, his nostrils flared. Wild pheromones were free in the room.
"A demon who profanes our God!" Yenalb’s wide mouth hung open, a rictus of ragged teeth.
"Demon. Demon. Demon."
"A demon who has no right to live!"
Afsan felt the crowd surge forward, felt his own instincts coming to the fore, felt the room spinning about him…
"No!"
Dybo’s voice shook the foundations of the room. Through clouded vision, Afsan saw that the Emperor was now on his feet.
Yenalb, crouched for a leap, turned his head to look at Dybo. "But Your Luminance — he is poison."
"No. Everyone is to hold their positions. The first to move will answer to me."
Afsan felt his body relaxing. "Dybo…"
But the Emperor did not deign to look at him. He turned his back, tail falling off the edge of the pedestal. "Shut him away."
*30*
Afsan thought he knew the basement of the palace office building well. After all, Saleed had worked there, as had many other court officials. But this was a part of it he had never seen. Two guards led him down a steep ramp into a dimly lit warren of rooms. Some of them had no doors at all, and seemed to be used for equipment storage. Others did have doors, of rough-hewn and pale galamaja wood, bearing the cartouches of service departments including janitorial and food preparation.
At the end of one corridor was a door whose cartouche depicted a triangle, three different-sized squares and two circles, all surrounded by a large square border. Afsan tried to fathom religious or royal symbolism in this, but finally realized it simply meant "miscellaneous storage." The door swung open, its hinges creaking as it did so, and Afsan was ushered in. It was a dank room measuring about ten paces by six. In it were some wooden crates, a broken wooden gear almost as tall as Afsan — it looked to be a damaged part from a water wheel — a single lamp hanging from the wall, and a shed snake’s skin lying in one corner.
The guards turned to go.
"Wait," said Afsan. "What I’ve been saying is the truth."
No response.
"Please. You’ve got to listen to me."
One guard had exited. The other turned as if to speak to Afsan, thought better of it, and walked out as well, closing the splintery door behind him.
Afsan knew the door would be unlocked — the only reason to put a lock on a door would be to keep dangerous things away from children, and he couldn’t imagine youngsters being allowed
to play in this grungy part of the palace basement. But no doubt the taciturn and burly guards stood just outside, in case Afsan tried to leave.
What will become of me? Afsan thought. They can’t leave me here forever. He wandered about the room, his tail swishing in the dust on the floor. He had assumed Dybo would be his ally, thought that once the Emperor had heard what Afsan had to say, all resources would be committed to the problem.
Time is running out, Afsan thought, and then, with a shudder, he realized that it wasn’t just running out for the world. It was also running out for him personally.
Do they really think I’m a demon? Yes, the scrolls told of such beasts from ancient times, and again of the aug-ta-rot nay-sayers, who had ultimately been slain because they refused to listen to Larsk. But surely those tales were mere fantasy. How can they be so blind, so terribly blind?
Afsan wasn’t the only one who knew the truth. Keenir knew it. Dybo knew it. The passengers and crew of the Dasheter — at least those with enough mathematics and brains to understand what they had seen — knew it, too. And Novato, sweet Novato, she also knew it.
Would they all remain silent? What punishments could be inflicted upon them if they did not?
Crime.
It was an odd word, an ancient word. Afsan had read about crimes in books from the past. During the great famine 380 kilodays ago, when half the plants died of plague, and, afterward, half the animals, there had been crimes, Quintaglios stealing food from other Quintaglios. He remembered the old punishment. Hands were cut off. In the 400 days it took to generate a new hand, the malefactor would usually learn his or her lesson.
Would they cut off my hands? It would be painful and awkward, but they would grow back. Who among those who knew would talk, would spread the word? Afsan felt sick at the thought of Novato, who created such magnificent instruments, losing her hands for even a short time. And Keenir had just finished regenerating a tail. At his age, that was a strain. One could suffer only so many such losses before the parts regenerated in malformed ways.
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