Far-Seer

At the end of one corridor was a door whose cartouche depicted a triangle, three different-sized squares and two circles, all surrounded by a large square border. Afsan tried to fathom religious or royal symbolism in this, but finally realized it simply meant “miscellaneous storage.” The door swung open, its hinges creaking as it did so, and Afsan was ushered in. It was a dank room measuring about ten paces by six. In it were some wooden crates, a broken wooden gear almost as tall as Afsan—it looked to be a damaged part from a water wheel—a single lamp hanging from the wall, and a shed snake’s skin lying in one corner.

The guards turned to go.

“Wait,” said Afsan. “What I’ve been saying is the truth.”

No response.

“Please. You’ve got to listen to me.”

One guard had exited. The other turned as if to speak to Afsan, thought better of it, and walked out as well, closing the splintery door behind him.

Afsan knew the door would be unlocked—the only reason to put a lock on a door would be to keep dangerous things away from children, and he couldn’t imagine youngsters being allowed to play in this grungy part of the palace basement. But no doubt the taciturn and burly guards stood just outside, in case Afsan tried to leave.

What will become of me? Afsan thought. They can’t leave me here forever. He wandered about the room, his tail swishing in the dust on the floor. He had assumed Dybo would be his ally, thought that once the Emperor had heard what Afsan had to say, all resources would be committed to the problem.

Time is running out, Afsan thought, and then, with a shudder, he realized that it wasn’t just running out for the world. It was also running out for him personally.

Do they really think I’m a demon? Yes, the scrolls told of such beasts from ancient times, and again of the aug-ta-rot

nay-sayers, who had ultimately been slain because they refused to listen to Larsk. But surely those tales were mere fantasy. How can they be so blind, so terribly blind?

Afsan wasn’t the only one who knew the truth. Keenir knew it. Dybo knew it. The passengers and crew of the Dasheter—at least those with enough mathematics and brains to understand what they had seen—knew it, too. And Novato, sweet Novato, she also knew it.

Would they all remain silent? What punishments could be inflicted upon them if they did not?

Crime.

It was an odd word, an ancient word. Afsan had read about crimes in books from the past. During the great famine 380 kilodays ago, when half the plants died of plague, and, afterward, half the animals, there had been crimes, Quintaglios stealing food from other Quintaglios. He remembered the old punishment. Hands were cut off. In the 400 days it took to generate a new hand, the malefactor would usually learn his or her lesson.

Would they cut off my hands? It would be painful and awkward, but they would grow back. Who among those who knew would talk, would spread the word? Afsan felt sick at the thought of Novato, who created such magnificent instruments, losing her hands for even a short time. And Keenir had just finished regenerating a tail. At his age, that was a strain. One could suffer only so many such losses before the parts regenerated in malformed ways.

Maybe they were being wise in remaining silent.

But I cannot.

Afsan thought back to his moments of doubt aboard the Dasheter, high atop the foremast in the lookout’s bucket, the pilgrims holding services below, the Face of God roiling above, wind whipping at him.

He’d thought to jump then, to plummet into the deck, rather than disturb the order of the world. But that was before he’d met Novato, seen her sketches, understood the magnitude of it all.

The world is coming to an end.

There was no alternative. Silence now would mean the end of the Quintaglio people.

I must find the strength to go on.

The storeroom had a musty smell. Afsan didn’t like it, and be tried not to breathe deeply. He circumnavigated the room, touching objects, getting used to his new home. The cool stone walls, the rough wood of the crates: it was a harsh room, an uncaring room. His quarters near the palace had hardly been plush, but this was almost unlivable.

He leaned on his tail and let out a heavy sigh.

Rites of passage.

He’d been through them all now: leaving his home Pack and journeying to Capital City, beginning his profession of astrology, climbing the Hunter’s Shrine, taking part in his first hunt, undergoing his first pilgrimage.

And Novato.

Sweet Novato.

His hand went up to the side of his head, feeling the small bumps made by his tattoos: the mark of a hunter, and, added by Det-Bleen aboard the Dasheter, the symbol of a pilgrim.