Far-Seer

At that instant, Afsan’s teeth clicked together in self-satisfied amusement. It was a moment as if out of a work of fiction, like one of those improbable stories that Gat-Tagleeb was known for, when something happened at the most propitious instant.

Ship’s priest Det-Bleen had cornered Afsan on the aft deck. Afsan had been keeping to himself these last few dekadays. Partly it was because of what had happened with the mad Nor-Gampar. No one blamed Afsan for Gampar’s death—it was the only way to resolve such a frenzied challenge when there was nowhere to retreat—but, still, no one liked to be reminded of the violence that they all were capable of, that they held in check just below the surface. And partly it was because of the whispers, the askance glances, that seemed to follow him, people wondering at the folly of sailing east, ever east.

But Afsan needed to see violet sky overhead as much as anyone else, and when the decks were mostly empty he’d come topside and pace, enjoying the steady wind.

But Bleen had approached him, anger plain in his stiff, nonswishing tail, in his extended claws, in his posture, fully erect, as far from a concessional bow as possible.

Because of Afsan, Bleen had said, all aboard the Dasheter were doomed. The flesh from Kal-ta-goot was turning rancid; more individuals would soon go wildly territorial, as Gampar had. Their only hope, said Bleen, was for Afsan to recant, to convince Captain Keenir that he had been wrong, that nothing but endless River lay ahead.

“Turn us back!” Bleen had just finished saying. “For the sake of God and the prophet, get Keenir to turn us back!”

But then the pilgrim’s cry rang out, faint but distinct over the snapping sails, the crashing waves.

“Land ho! Land ho!”

Afsan’s mouth closed, his teeth clacking with glee. Priest Bleen’s mouth dropped open, his face a portrait of surprise. Afsan didn’t wait for the elder to give him leave to go. He ran down the aft deck, across the connecting piece, onto the fore-deck, and up to the point of the bow. It was a long distance, the Dasheter’s length from stem to stern, and Afsan arrived out of breath, his dewlap waggling in the breeze to dissipate heat.

Afsan didn’t have the advantage afforded by the lookout’s greater height; he could see nothing except blue water right out to the horizon. He swung to look up at her, high above. She was pointing. Afsan turned around, and, by God, there it was, rising slowly over the edge of the world, indistinct at this distance, but doubtless solid ground.

“What is it?” asked a gravelly voice from nearby. Afsan turned his head around and saw that Keenir had approached. Now that the captain’s tail had completely healed, his arrival was no longer heralded by the ticking of his walking stick. “Is it our Land? Or some unknown island?”

That possibility hadn’t occurred to Afsan. It must be Land, the place they all called home. Oh, there were some islands off Land’s western shore, an archipelago trailing back like a tail off the mainland. Indeed, Afsan supposed that what he was now seeing was probably one of these, the island Boodskar. But that it might be totally unfamiliar territory hadn’t crossed his mind. We must be back home, he thought. We must be!

“Look!” shouted another voice, and Afsan realized that Prince Dybo had also drawn near. “It’s covered with trees!”

How could he tell that? Afsan turned to face his friend—who had a brass tube held to his eye. Of course, the far-seer! Dybo had become quite a fan of it since Afsan had shown him the wonders of the night sky through its lenses.

“Give me that,” said Keenir. Afsan thought the language a bit curt for addressing a prince, but Dybo immediately handed over the instrument.

Keenir put it to his eye. Obviously he’d been thinking the same thing as Afsan. “Trees, all right,” he said, “but if that’s Boodskar, there should be an oddly shaped volcanic cone, and I don’t see—wait a beat, wait a beat, yes, by the Hunter’s claws, yes, there it is!”

Keenir’s great paw slapped down on Afsan’s shoulder, and the young apprentice staggered forward under the impact. “By God, lad!” shouted the captain. “You were right. You were absolutely right!”

Keenir turned to look out on the deck. Afsan did likewise. He then realized that all thirty people aboard were here, crowded together, the wonder and relief at being at the end of their journey enough to quell the territorial imperative, at least for a short time.

Keenir’s voice went up. “We’re home!”

Afsan scanned the ranks around him. One after another, the Quintaglios bowed in concession to him. Tails thumped the deck in thunderous applause.

“Home!”

“Finally!”

“The eggling was right!”