Far-Seer

“No, it’s not. I’ve been watching the moons, both the ones that revolve around the Face and the ones that revolve around the other planets. For those around other planets, there’s only one that I can see any detail on. It’s darker on one side than the other—not because of phases, but because of its constitution, I think. Anyway, it always faces the same side toward its planet. And in our—system, I guess you’d call it—in our system, the nine innermost moons all constantly show the same side toward the Face of God.”

“And we are one of the innermost moons?”

“We are, in fact, the innermost moon.”

“Ah hah! You may save my faith yet: of all the objects in the sky, you’re saying we are the closest to the Face of God.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“All right; I’ll listen further. If you were going to undermine the special relationship between Quintaglio and God, I would have had to leave.” Dybo’s tone had become deadly serious. Afsan hadn’t realized quite how important faith was to his friend.

“Don’t worry, Dybo,” Afsan said. “In fact, we’re closer to the Face of God than any other moon is to its planet, from what I’ve been able to see. And we’re much closer than the next nearest moon in this system, the Big One.”

“Hmmm,” said Dybo, and he stretched his chubby body, reveling in the warm sun, already now well past the zenith. “But the sun rises and sets. Why does it do that, but the Face hangs stationary, only rising or setting if you sail toward or away from it?”

“The sun appears to rise and set as we swing around the Face of God, just as objects come in and out of your field of vision if you rotate your own body.”

“You’ve got all the angles figured out, eh?” said Dybo. And you told this to Keenir, and he listened?”

There was no point in emphasizing Keenir’s stubbornness. “He listened,” Afsan said simply.

“Wow. And you really believe this, Afsan?”

“I really do.”

Dybo grunted. “Someday, my friend, I will be Emperor. And, if your studies go well, someday you will be my court astrologer. Perhaps an Emperor should be open to new things. You say you can show me proof of this?”

“The calculations and charts are in my cabin; the planets and moons will reveal their truth to you tonight, if the sky is clear.”

“It’s hard to believe.”

“No,” said Afsan. “It’s the truth.”

The ship rolled with a wave. “The truth,” echoed Dybo. But after the wave, the planks of the deck did not stop creaking. Afsan lifted his head. A mid-sized male was moving toward them, his feet stamping. There was lots of room between where Afsan and Dybo lay and the mast supporting the red sail with the crest of Larsk’s Pilgrimage Guild, so Afsan felt sure he would avoid them. But the male—he was close enough that Afsan could now see that it was Nor-Gampar, a member of the crew—seemed to be heading straight at them. Dybo, too, lifted his head in astonishment, as the deck planks bounced with each thunderous footfall. And then, incredibly, the crewmember charged right between Afsan and Dybo, violating both of their territories, a three-clawed foot impacting the deck less than a handspan from Afsan’s muzzle, the chitinous points splintering the wooden planks.

Afsan pushed himself upright with his forearms and swung around to look at the intruder. Dybo, too, rose to his feet, claws unsheathed. There, standing now a few paces behind them, was Gampar, his torso tilted from the waist, bobbing up and down in territorial challenge.

*21*

It happened from time to time. That didn’t make it any easier. Afsan leaned back on his tail, a solid tripod of lean muscle, the wind now steady on his back. For a moment, Afsan blamed himself: perhaps Nor-Gampar would have been able to contain his feelings if he’d really believed they were well on the way home, instead of still outward bound. But the thought passed quickly: this was a dangerous situation, and a wandering mind could cost Afsan his life.

He glanced to his left: Dybo had folded his arms across his chest, hands carefully tucked out of view so that Gampar could not see his claws, extended in reflex. No need to provoke the crewmember. Afsan realized that Dybo was right. He balled his own fists, the points of his fingerclaws digging into his palms.

Gampar’s whole body was bobbing up and down, a lever tipping on the fulcrum of his hips. His tail, rigid and still, stuck out almost horizontally behind him, his torso parallel to the deck, his neck, head, and muzzle pointed forward, tipping up and down, up and down.

Afsan then stole a look over his shoulder. The aft deck, where he and Dybo were, was empty. So was the connecting piece that led to the foredeck. Five Quintaglios were at the far end of the foredeck, looking out over the pointed bow, their backs to the tableau of which Afsan was part. And high above, in the lookout’s bucket atop the foremast, someone—it looked like Biltog again—was scanning the surrounding waters, but paying no attention to what was happening on the twin diamond hulls of the Dasheter.