Far-Seer (13 page)

Even as the crescent waned, Afsan found himself spellbound by the play of colors across it.

But no! No. It is
not
the Face of God. It cannot be. Afsan’s tail muscles twitched in frustration, there being too little room in the lookout’s bucket for a proper slap.

He’d worked it all out. He
knew
.

The Face of God is a planet.

A planet.

Nothing more.

But if that is true, where is God? What is God?

Afsan flinched. His pulse quickened; his claws jumped from their sheaths. The idea frightened him.

Could that be so? No, no, no, of course not. Madness to even think such a thing. There must be a God. There must be!

But where? If not here, where? If not the swirling object above his head, where? If not looking down upon the pilgrims from high above, where?

Where?

Afsan’s stomach knotted, and he knew it wasn’t just from the constant swaying of the bucket.

Quintaglios exist
, he thought.

Well, that was simple enough. All right, then. God existed.

The mast moved to and fro. A stiff breeze played over Afsan’s features.

God just postpones the inevitable. If everything requires a creator, then God requires one, too.

He thought briefly of a children’s astrology class he’d taken kilodays ago. His teacher had been trying to explain the rudiments of the universe — Land being a huge island floating down the endless River. But one of the other youngsters — a visitor from a Pack that normally roamed farther north in Arj’toolar province — had said no. The way she’d heard it, Land balanced on an armorback, the sturdy four-footed animal holding everything up on its thick bony carapace.

“Ah!” the instructor had said. “But what does the armorback rest upon?”

The girl had replied immediately. “Why, another armorback, of course.”

The instructor’s tail had swished with delight. “And what does that armorback rest upon?”

“A third armorback,” said the girl.

“And that armorback?”

“A fourth.”

“And
that
armorback?”

But here the girl had held up her hand. “I see where you’re trying to go with this, teacher, but you can’t fool me. It’s armorbacks all the way down.”

Back then, Afsan had clicked his teeth quietly in amusement. But it wasn’t funny now. Was God just like that girl’s armorbacks? A way of postponing the final question? A way of endlessly putting off dealing with — with — with
first causes
! And Afsan, smug back then in his superior knowledge, was guilty of the same self-delusion, the same acceptance of easy answers. Either God was created by something else, and that something else was created by yet some greater something, and on and on to infinity, or it was possible to exist without a creator. Well, the former case was patently ridiculous. And if the latter case was true, then, well, then there was no need for a God.

No need for a God.

But what of all he had been taught? What of the great religion of the people? The mast swayed.

Afsan felt his faith crumbling around him, shattering like an egg. And what would burst forth from the shell shards?

What was Afsan about to unleash on the world?

For a few heartbeats he tried to convince himself that this knowledge was a wonderful thing, a great liberator. For did one not live in fear of God? Did one not comport oneself so as to gain favorable standing in the afterlife, such standing decided at the sole discretion of the supreme being?

But then it hit Afsan with an unexpected forcefulness.

He was afraid.

If there was no God, there was just as likely no afterlife. There was no reason to behave properly, to put the interests of others ahead of one’s own.

No God meant no meaning to it all, no higher standard by which everything was measured. No absolutes of goodness.

Below him, Afsan heard faint sounds. He looked down upon the twin diamond decks of the
Dasheter
, far below. Standing at one side was the ship’s priest, Det-Bleen, moving his arms in graceful orchestration. The pilgrims were arranging themselves in a circle, each one facing out. Their tails all aimed in toward a central point directly beneath the Face of God. They tipped their heads back, looking straight up. And they sang.

Songs of hope.

Songs of prayer.

Songs of worship.

The music, when audible above the wind and the slapping of waves, was beautiful, full of energy, of sincerity. Clearer and brighter than the other voices, Afsan could hear the magic of Prince Dybo’s singing.

They’re together
, thought Afsan,
united in worship
. For it was only through the church, through the religion, that Quintaglios saw fit to join forces for anything beyond the hunt.

The sacred scrolls said that in heaven there was no territorial instinct; that there, in the calming presence of God Herself, being in the company of others did not bring out the animal within. The church taught that one must work together, hold one’s instincts in check, that to do so was to bring oneself closer to God, to prepare oneself for the unending bliss of the afterlife.

Without a church, there would be no such teachings. Without such teachings, there would be no working together, except, maybe, to fell the largest of beasts, the greatest of prey. Without working together, there’d be no cities, no culture.

Anarchy.

In one heady moment, Afsan realized that the church was the cornerstone of the culture, that the role of Det-Yenalb was more important than that played by Saleed or any scholar, that the cement that bound together a race of carnivores, a breed that had territorial imperatives fundamental to their being, was the
belief
in God.

Below him, the pilgrims rotated on the deck, their muzzles now facing in so that they looked straight at each other: together, conscious of their union, but calm, instincts in check, under the kindly influence of the Face of God. Slowly they lifted their muzzles again and began to chant the words of the Eleventh Scroll.

The Eleventh Scroll
, thought Afsan.
The one about working together to rebuild, about how God sends landquakes not out of spite or anger, but to give us yet another reason to hold our instincts at bay and cooperate.

But Afsan knew the truth.

He could not lie. Anyone could see that he was lying, for only an
aug-ta-rot
, a demon, could lie in the light of day.

Science must always advance.

The mast swung far to port, paused for an instant, then swung far to starboard. Afsan looked down again. Directly beneath him was open water.

In a horrible flash it was clear to him.

There was a way.

A way to keep it all secret.

To keep the dangerous truth unknown.

He could jump
. He could put an end to himself.

Not just now, of course. Not with water below. Assuming he wasn’t knocked unconscious breaking through the surface, Afsan could swim alongside the ship for days.

But if he jumped — now! — with nothing but hard wooden deck to break his fall, he’d be finished, instantly. There’d be no prolonged death, just a snuffing out like a lamp being extinguished.

He’d never have to let the world know what he knew, never have to share what he’d discovered, never risk dissolving the glue holding civilization together.

It would be for the best. Besides, no one would miss him.

Afsan stared down over the edge of the bucket, watching the ship move back and forth beneath him.

What he’d discovered was the truth. And he would tell that truth to all who would listen.

He had to. He was a scholar.

Quintaglios are rational beings. Perhaps there was a time, in the distant past, when we needed a God. But not in these enlightened days. Not now. Not anymore.

Not anymore.

His resolve hardened. He was still too cramped to slap his tail properly, but he gave it a good try.

The truth, then. And to the darkest pits with the consequences.

Nodding to himself, he scanned the horizon.

No. Nothing. For an instant, he’d thought he’d seen something far, far off, splitting the waters. But it was gone now. He rotated slowly, looking in each direction for anything out of the ordinary.

As the day wore on, the sun moved higher and higher into the sky. The narrow crescent of the Face of God waned into nothingness. The vast dim circular bulk of its unilluminated side hung above Afsan’s head, a pale ghost of its former glory.

Afsan had been thinking of how to get an appointment to see Captain Var-Keenir. There was no doubt in the young astrologer’s mind that a hierarchy operated aboard the ship, that each member of the crew had specific responsibilities, and reported in turn to a designated individual. But, as to what that order was, Afsan had been unable to tell. Back at the palace grounds, Afsan had come up with a simple rule. If it wore a sash, call it “learned one.” If it sported robes, call it “holy one.” And if in any doubt, simply bob concession and get out of the way.

But the routine of the ship baffled Afsan. One day, an officer might be the lookout atop the foremast. On the next day, that same person might be working in the galley, pounding salted meats to tenderize them, and then carefully soaking them in the ship’s limited stock of blood to make the meat at least appear fresh. It was as if they rotated duties, but if there was a pattern to the rotation, Afsan had yet to perceive it.

Finally he gave up and simply decided to approach the captain directly. The
Dasheter
had been designed to appear sparsely populated even when carrying a full complement. That meant Afsan had to wind his way to the captain’s cabin through a maze of walls that seemed to serve no purpose except to shield one Quintaglio from another’s view. These walls seemed to creak the most as the
Dasheter
tossed upon the waves, as if protesting their lot in life.

At Keenir’s door, Afsan hesitated. What he had to ask was critical, and the captain’s mood had not been good of late. Afsan had overheard the captain mumbling to Nor-Gampar about how much he disliked holding station here beneath the Face of God. Not that Keenir didn’t revel in the spectacle — no, his heart was not so hard as not to be moved by the swirling maelstrom covering a quarter of the sky. But, said Keenir, a ship should sail! It should struggle into the wind, or fly like a wingfinger with a strong breeze at its back. It should move.

Well, if Keenir said yes to Afsan’s plan, he’d get all the movement he could want.

Afsan watched his own shadow flickering on the door in the lamplight, a quavering silhouette, a palsied specter. He lifted his claws to the copper plate.

Keenir’s voice was so deep as to be almost lost among the groans of the ship’s lumber. “Who’s there?”

Afsan swallowed, then spoke his own name aloud.

There was no verbal reply — did Keenir know how difficult it was to discern his voice over the sounds of the ship? Or did he simply choose to ignore a passenger — a child — invading his privacy? No, there was that ticking, the sound of Keenir’s walking stick. After a moment, the door swung open. “Well?”

Afsan bowed. “I cast a shadow in your presence.”

Keenir made a grumbling sound and Afsan’s eyes were drawn to the scar on the captain’s face, still inflamed although it was fading with time. It seemed to dance in the lamplight. “What do you want?”

Afsan found himself stammering. “I need to talk to you, sir.”

Keenir looked down his muzzle. Finally: “Very well. Come in.” The old captain walked back into his cabin. His tail had almost completely regenerated. It was as long now as one of the captain’s grizzled arms, but still not long enough to reach the floor, and therefore of only limited aid in balancing the oldster’s tremendous bulk. The tickings of his stick marked each pace back to his worktable. Afsan marveled at how the twisted length of wood managed to support Keenir.

On the walls of the cabin hung a variety of brass instruments, including several sets of articulated arms with scales marked on them. The captain’s worktable reminded Afsan of Saleed’s, back in the basement of the palace office building. Strewn across it were charts of the planets and moons. Indeed, although it was hard to tell viewing them upside down, some of them seemed to be in Saleed’s own hand.

Keenir lowered himself onto his dayslab, the wood groaning. “What is it, eggling?”

Eggling.
The word seemed destined to haunt Afsan for the rest of his days. The captain had to take him seriously — he had to!

“Captain, when do we head back?”

“You know the schedule as well as I do. A pilgrimage ship must hold directly beneath the Face for ten even-days and ten odd, unless weather or other circumstances prevent that. We’ve held this spot” — Afsan detected a certain weariness in the captain’s tone — “for seventeen of the required twenty.”

“And how will we head back?”

“What do you mean, how? We’ll hoist the sails, and the steady wind — that same wind we tacked against all the way here — will blow us back.” Keenir clicked his teeth in satisfaction. “You’ll see this ship move then, lad! Nothing moves faster than the good ship
Dasheter
when the wind is at its back!”

“And what if we went the other way?”

“What other way?”

“You know, continued on, into the wind. Continued east.”

From Afsan’s vantage point, perpendicular to the crowded desk, he could see Keenir’s tail jerk behind his stool. Keenir had tried to thump it against the floor, but it didn’t reach.