Far-Seer

Afsan paused, his hand on the fluted brass rod that worked the locking mechanism. Privacy was deeply valued. The territorial instinct could never be completely overcome, and when one was alone behind a closed door it was presumably by choice. But, Afsan decided, since Saleed obviously was not alone, no harm would be done by assessing the situation before stepping into it. He placed his other hand to his right earhole, forming a cup to funnel the sounds.

“I have no use for your toys.” That was Saleed’s voice, deep, sharp, like a hunter’s polished claws.

“Toys?” A gravelly voice, pitched even lower than Saleed’s. The Quintaglio word was ca-tart, with the final consonant accompanied by a clicking of teeth. Whoever had spoken it was clearly angry: the terminal click was loud enough to be heard through the thick wood, like rocks clacking together. “Toys!” shouted the voice again. “Saleed, the shell of your egg must have been too thick. Your brain is damaged.”

Afsan’s nictitating membranes fluttered over his eyes in amazement. Who could possibly speak to the court astrologer thus?

“I am an obedient servant of my God,” replied Saleed, and Afsan could picture the old astrologer raising his wrinkled muzzle haughtily. “I don’t need the help of the likes of you to accomplish my work.”

“You prefer to go on spouting the dogma of ages past, rather than really learning something about the heavens?’’ The voice carried a strong note of disgust, and Afsan expected to hear the sound of a tail slapping against the marble floor. “You are an embarrassment to the Empress.”

Whoever this stranger was, Afsan liked him. He pressed his ear harder to the door, eager to catch every word. The dry wood creaked. Shocked, Afsan’s claws jumped to attention. There was nothing to do but walk right in as though he had just arrived.

There was Saleed, standing behind his worktable, leaning on his withered arms, green skin spotted yellow and black with age.

Opposite him was the stranger, barrel-chested, wearing a red leather cap over the dome of his head. The stranger had a ragged yellow scar running from the tip of his muzzle to his left earhole. He wore a gray sash over his torso. The sash was perhaps a handspan wide at the shoulder, but narrowed to half that at his hip. Capital City was a port town, and Afsan recognized the sash as the mark of a master mariner.

Quintaglios continue to increase in body size until death, although the rate did slow as time went on. The stranger was about the same size as Saleed—double Afsan’s mass—so Afsan judged him to be approximately the same age as the old astrologer. His green hide, though, showed none of the age mottling Saleed’s did.

“Ah, Afsan,” said Saleed. He glanced at the newfangled timepiece on the wall, its pendulum swinging back and forth like the codger’s dewlap. “Late again, I see.”

“I’m sorry, master,” said Afsan quietly.

Saleed hissed, then swished his tail in Afsan’s direction. “Keenir, this is my latest apprentice, Afsan—proudest son of far Carno.” The last five words were ladled with sarcasm. “Afsan, pay honor to Captain Var-Keenir.”

Var-Keenir! Here? If even half the stories he had heard were true— Afsan tipped from the waist in respect, lifting his tail from the ground. “I cast a shadow in your presence,” he said, and for the first time Afsan felt the tired old greeting might actually carry some truth.

Keenir turned his head to look at Afsan. Since Quintaglio eyes are solid black, one can’t tell where another is looking unless the other also turns his head. Afsan always turned his head to look at adults, but few adults repaid the courtesy to those adolescents who did not sport the tattoos of the hunt or the pilgrimage (and those adults who lacked the hunter’s tattoo were accorded no respect by anyone). That Keenir had turned to look at him made Afsan like him even more.

“If you can keep your claws sheathed while working with Saleed, then it’s I who should pay honor to you,” said Keenir, the voice so deep it reminded Afsan of the call of a shovel-mouth. The mariner stepped forward, leaning heavily on an ornate carved stick to support himself. It was then that Afsan noticed that most of Keenir’s tail was missing. There was only a handspan’s worth of yellow new growth on the green stub. He could look freely at the injury, for there was no way for Keenir to tell where Afsan had focused his eyes, but he took care to show no other expression on his face or with the movement of his own tail. Afsan judged that Keenir’s tail must have been chopped off only a hundred days ago or so, perhaps in whatever accident had scarred the sailor’s face. “So you would be an astrologer, eh, boy?” said Keenir.

“That is the profession selected for me,” said Afsan, and again he bowed in respect. “I would be honored to succeed at it.”