Far-Seer

“I wish you luck,” said Keenir pointedly, and turned for the door. “Saleed,” he said over his broad shoulder, “the Dasheter sails in a dekaday. Until then, I’m staying at The Orange Wingfinger. If you change your mind about this new tool, send word.”

Afsan clicked his teeth quietly. He had never known Saleed to change his mind.

“Young Afsan,” Keenir said, “a pleasure to have met you. Your light will glow brightly as time goes by, of that I’m sure.” There’s no way Keenir could have bowed—without a tail to balance the weight of his head, he would have fallen over—but something in his warm manner gave the impression that he had done so nonetheless.

Afsan beamed. “Thank you, sir.”

The sailor hobbled out the door. The ticking sound of his walking stick on the marble floor faded into the distance.

Afsan didn’t like asking his master questions, but he had to know what brought the great Keenir to the palace.

“He is a dreamer,” replied Saleed, who—much to Afsan’s surprise—failed to reprimand him for impertinence. “He has a device he claims lets him see detail on distant objects, a metal tube with lenses at either end. Apparently a glassworker on the opposite shore of Land built it for him. Keenir calls it a ‘far-seer.’ ” Saleed spat the compound word. His hatred for neologisms was well-known.

“And?”

“And the fool thought it might have application in my work. He suggested I turn it on the moons—”

“Yes!” crowed Afsan, and then shrank, expecting a rebuke for interrupting his master. When the sharp words did not come, he continued meekly. “I mean, it would be wonderful to find out what they are.”

“You know what they are,” said Saleed, slapping his tail against the floor. “They are the messengers of God.”

“Perhaps Keenir would let me borrow his far-seer for my pilgrimage,” said Afsan. “Then I could use it to examine the Face of God.” The words came tumbling out, and Afsan began to shrink the moment they were free in the air.

“Examine?” Saleed roared, his voice erupting from his giant, ancient chest, shaking the wooden furniture in the room. “Examine! An eggling does not ‘examine’ the Face of God. You will bow down and worship before It. You will pray to It. You will sing to It. You will not dare to question It!” He pointed his scrawny freckled arm at the doorway. “Go now to the Hall of Worship and pray for forgiveness.”

“But, master, I meant only to better see my creator—”

“Go!”

Afsan’s heart felt heavy. “Yes, master.” Dragging his tail behind him, he left the dimly lit room.

*3*

Afsan hated the Hall of Worship. Not all such halls, mind you: he did have fond memories of the small, cheerful one his Pack had built on the shore of Lake Doognar. But this one in particular was loathsome.

The Hall of Worship at the imperial palace! He’d expected it to be holier than any room he’d ever been in, for here the very Empress balanced in prayer, the regal tail held firm and rigid parallel to the ground. Here, the Master of the Faith, Det-Yenalb, spoke directly to God.

There was no real difference between this hall and the one he’d attended as a child. Both had the same circular layout, although this one was five times the diameter of Carno’s. Both had the same wooden floor, although poor Carno’s was deeply scratched with claw marks, whereas this one constantly received fresh planks, stained a pale green, from the nearby madaja grove maintained solely for that purpose. And both halls were divided in half by a channel of water, representing the mighty River on which Land floated. In the hall of his youth, the channel had been just wide enough to accommodate supplicants in single file. But here Afsan had often seen processions of Quintaglios wearing broad leather sashes marching six, seven, and even eight abreast.

But now the huge hall was empty. Major services were held every fifth even-day and whenever a boatload of pilgrims returned from gazing directly at the Face of God. Afsan’s footfalls echoed in the chamber as he entered from the sinner’s doorway, set at right angles to the channel of water. This was significant, he knew: those who came through this entrance, passed beneath this arch of blackest basalt, had turned as far from the natural flow of life as was possible.

He walked to the mock river and tested the ankle-deep water with his toes. As usual, it was uncomfortably cold, although he had heard tell that when the Empress was to walk here it was heated. Afsan stepped into the channel of water and leaned forward, his torso parallel to the floor, his tail swinging up to balance his weight. He’d never been good at this, and he had to splay his legs slightly to make it work, but it was considered disrespectful to drag one’s tail in the holy water.