Far-Seer

“A pilgrimage is not about saving time, eggling. Our goal is to retrace the prophet’s journey, to see the spectacle as he saw it. And, beyond that, consider what you’re asking, lad! God lives upriver from Land, watching out for obstacles and dangers ahead. She protects us. You’re suggesting that we sail ahead, moving in front of God, into waters that She has not first observed. We’d be without Her protection, without Her blessing.”

“But—”

“Enough!” Keenir raised his hand again, and this time the claws were fully extended. “Enough, eggling! I’ve been more than patient. We will head home as planned.”

“But, Captain—”

The deck shook as Keenir slammed his walking stick into the floorboards. “I said enough! Eggling, you are lucky I’m not a priest; I’d have you doing penances for the rest of your life. You’re talking not just nonsense, but sacrilege. I’ve got a mind to turn you over to Det-Bleen for some remedial training.”

Afsan bowed his head. “I meant no disrespect.”

“Perhaps you didn’t.” Keenir’s tone softened. “I’m not a particularly religious person, Afsan. Most sailors aren’t, you know. It’s just not in our blood. Superstitious, perhaps—we’ve seen things out here that would chill a regular person to the soul. But not religious, not in a formal way. But the kind of silliness you’re spouting just doesn’t make sense. Keep it to yourself, boy. You’ll have an easier life.”

“I’m not looking for an easy way out,” said Afsan, but softly. “I just—” But suddenly Keenir’s head snapped up. “What is it?”

The captain hissed Afsan into silence. Barely audible over the creaking of the ship, over the slapping of the waves, came a cry. “Kal!”

And, moments later, the same cry in another voice, louder, nearer: “Kal!”

Then again and again, as if being passed along: “Kal!” “Kal!” “Kal!” And the sound of heavy footfalls thundering along the deck.

Keenir jumped to his feet, fumbling with his walking stick.

There was the sound of claws on copper from outside his door. “Yes!” shouted Keenir.

A breathless mate appeared, her face haggard. “Permission to—”

“Yes, yes,” Keenir snapped.

“Sir, Paldook up in the lookout bucket has spotted Kal-ta-goot!”

Keenir brought his hands together. “At last! At last it’ll pay for what it did! Unfurl the sails, Tardlo. Give chase!”

The old captain hurried from his quarters up onto the deck, leaving Afsan standing there, mouth agape.

*16*

After a moment’s hesitation, Afsan raced up on deck, following Keenir, the clicking of the oldster’s walking stick a staccato rhythm on the planking. They were on the foredeck of the Dasheter. Ahead, along the angle of the bow, were most of the crew, their red leather caps like a line of bright berries against the horizon. Keenir looked up, the Face of God a vast crescent above his head, and shouted, “Where?”

From high on the observation platform, Officer Paldook pointed. “Dead ahead, sir!”

All eyes peered out into the vast watery distance, ignoring the beige and red and ocher highlights on the wave caps caused by the reflection of the Face.

Somewhat out of breath, Afsan, too, made it to the carved keetaja-wood railing around the edge of the bow. He was only a short distance from Keenir. The captain was intent, staring, searching. His claws were unsheathed, his black eyes wide. The crew was spread out along the pointed bow, almost like a hunting line.

“There!” shouted a sailor farther along the bow.

“Yes!” chimed another. “There!”

Afsan tried to sight in the direction the two were pointing. Way, way out, almost to the horizon, he saw something silhouetted against the azure sky—a crooked shape, like a bent finger, but thinner, more delicate.

Afsan looked at the captain. “What is it?”

Keenir glanced at the young astrologer. “A demon. A demon out of the deepest volcanic pits.”

Afsan turned his gaze back onto the distant waters. It took him several heartbeats to find the object again—faster than normal heartbeats, he realized, as his nostrils picked up pheromones passing down the line of Quintaglios. There it was, a crooked curving shape, a—By the prophet! Look at how it moves! Like a snapping whip, it shot forward, then recoiled.

Keenir’s muzzle was pinched in rage; his tail stub twitched openly. “Give chase!” he shouted.

’’Give chase!” repeated an officer on his right, and others passed the command along. “Give chase!” “Give chase!” “Give chase!”

The crew began to run, tails flying, to various stations around the deck. Some climbed the webbing of ropes that led up the naked masts. Shouting instructions to each other, they pulled on ropes at the tops of the masts. The four great sheets of red cloth unrolled and, weighed down by dowels as thick as Afsan’s waist, came crashing toward the deck. The sheets, each with its own tribute to the Prophet Larsk, billowed outward and soon began to snap. The deck lurched as the ship, having been still all these days, heaved into motion.