Far-Seer (15 page)

“I’m not looking for an easy way out,” said Afsan, but softly. “I just…” But suddenly Keenir’s head snapped up. “What is it?”

The captain hissed Afsan into silence. Barely audible over the creaking of the ship, over the slapping of the waves, came a cry. “Kal!”

And, moments later, the same cry in another voice, louder, nearer: “Kal!”

Then again and again, as if being passed along: “Kal!” “Kal!” “Kal!” And the sound of heavy footfalls thundering along the deck.

Keenir jumped to his feet, fumbling with his walking stick.

There was the sound of claws on copper from outside his door. “Yes!” shouted Keenir.

A breathless mate appeared, her face haggard. “Permission to…”

“Yes, yes,” Keenir snapped.

“Sir, Paldook up in the lookout bucket has spotted Kal-ta-goot!”

Keenir brought his hands together. “At last! At last it’ll pay for what it did! Unfurl the sails, Tardlo. Give chase!”

The old captain hurried from his quarters up onto the deck, leaving Afsan standing there, mouth agape.

After a moment’s hesitation, Afsan raced up on deck, following Keenir, the clicking of the oldster’s walking stick a staccato rhythm on the planking. They were on the foredeck of the Dasheter. Ahead, along the angle of the bow, were most of the crew, their red leather caps like a line of bright berries against the horizon. Keenir looked up, the Face of God a vast crescent above his head, and shouted, “Where?”

From high on the observation platform, Officer Paldook pointed. “Dead ahead, sir!”

All eyes peered out into the vast watery distance, ignoring the beige and red and ocher highlights on the wave caps caused by the reflection of the Face.

Somewhat out of breath, Afsan, too, made it to the carved
keetaja
-wood railing around the edge of the bow. He was only a short distance from Keenir. The captain was intent, staring, searching. His claws were unsheathed, his black eyes wide. The crew was spread out along the pointed bow, almost like a hunting line.

“There!” shouted a sailor farther along the bow.

“Yes!” chimed another. “There!”

Afsan tried to sight in the direction the two were pointing. Way, way out, almost to the horizon, he saw
something
silhouetted against the azure sky — a crooked shape, like a bent finger, but thinner, more delicate.

Afsan looked at the captain. “What is it?”

Keenir glanced at the young astrologer. “A demon. A demon out of the deepest volcanic pits.”

Afsan turned his gaze back onto the distant waters. It took him several heartbeats to find the object again — faster than normal heartbeats, he realized, as his nostrils picked up pheromones passing down the line of Quintaglios. There it was, a crooked curving shape, a — By the prophet! Look at how it moves! Like a snapping whip, it shot forward, then recoiled.

Keenir’s muzzle was pinched in rage; his tail stub twitched openly. “Give chase!” he shouted.

’’Give chase!” repeated an officer on his right, and others passed the command along. “Give chase!” “Give chase!” “Give chase!”

The crew began to run, tails flying, to various stations around the deck. Some climbed the webbing of ropes that led up the naked masts. Shouting instructions to each other, they pulled on ropes at the tops of the masts. The four great sheets of red cloth unrolled and, weighed down by dowels as thick as Afsan’s waist, came crashing toward the deck. The sheets, each with its own tribute to the Prophet Larsk, billowed outward and soon began to snap. The deck lurched as the ship, having been still all these days, heaved into motion.

Crewmembers were swinging on ropes, pulling on cables. Spray in his face, Afsan watched booms swing around. The sails cracked in protest as they were brought against the wind. The booms groaned and howled; the wooden deck creaked under the stress.

But the
Dasheter
moved! By the very Face of God, it moved with speed and power, harnessing the wind, tacking toward :he strange object far, far ahead.

“What’s going on?”

Afsan turned, surprised at the voice. Prince Dybo had appeared at his elbow. “Ho, Dybo. I cast a shadow…”

“Yes, yes. What’s going on?”

“We’re pursuing something.”

“But what?”

“Put a knot in my tail if I know.”

Dybo made a gruff sound. A sailor was approaching, carrying a coiled rope. Dybo stepped into her path.

“What are we chasing?”

The sailor wasn’t looking where she was going. “Get out of my way, child.”

Dybo thumped his tail against the deck and bobbed his torso in a territorial display.

The sailor looked up. “What the — Oh, Prince Dybo. I’m sorry…” She bowed deeply.

Afsan thought his friend played the role well. Measured, with a distinct pause between each word, he said again, “What are we chasing?”

The sailor looked terrified. She realized that she’d insulted a member of The Family. Tail swishing nervously, she stammered, “Kal-ta-goot. The serpent.”

“Which serpent?”

“Why, the one that attacked the Dasheter on our last pilgrimage. At least, we’re assuming it’s the same one. Keenir wants it.”

Dybo’s eyes went wide. “His injuries. His face, his tail…”

The sailor bobbed agreement. “Yes, yes. He fought bravely, of course. He’s a hunter at heart, the captain. He wanted fresh meat for the passengers and crew, real bones to gnaw on. He took a hunting party out in one of the little landing boats, thinking to swarm the creature’s back when it surfaced, to dispatch it quickly, and have a feast for all. But that beast is a monster, a killer. We almost lost Keenir.” The sailor fell silent, then, timidly, “Good Prince, they need this cable up front to lock off the boom. May I go?”

“Yes.” Dybo stood out of her way, and she scurried on up the deck.

Afsan, who’d been marveling at how well his friend assumed the mantle of authority when it suited him to do so, edged closer to Dybo. “So we’re to give chase? If it almost killed him once, what’s to say that this won’t be a dangerous pursuit?”

Dybo looked at Afsan. “The hunt is always dangerous. But it purges our anger. Keenir certainly needs some purging.”

Afsan clicked his teeth. “That much is certain.”

At that moment, Keenir’s voice went up over the sounds of the ship. “Faster! Faster! It’s getting away.”

The
Dasheter
cut through the waves, foam and spit flying in its path.

From high overhead, Paldook shouted, “It’s moving east.”

“Then east we go!” Keenir’s rumbling voice had a dangerous edge.

A sailor near Keenir said, “But, Captain, if we continue east, we will move ahead of the Face of God.”

And then Keenir did something a Quintaglio almost never does. He stepped directly into the personal space of the sailor, and, with a violent sweep of his cane, knocked the hapless crewmember to the deck.
“I said east!”

Afsan’s nictitating membranes blinked. Ahead, at the eastern horizon, barely visible, a strange curving neck darted back and forth. The
Dasheter
surged forward into unknown waters.

Prince Dybo was surprised by the scratching of claws on the copper plate outside his cabin door.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“Var-Keenir. May I come in?”

“
Hahat dan
.”

Dybo had been leaning on his dayslab, snacking on a strip of salted meat. He looked up at the doorway, at the grizzled captain leaning on his walking stick.

“Yes, Keenir, what is it?”

Keenir’s tail swished. “Good Prince Dybo, I — I’m ashamed.” He looked at the planks making up the deck. “I have not given proper thought to your safety. We are heading into uncharted waters; we are pursuing a dangerous serpent. My first thought should have been for your welfare.”

“Yes,” agreed Dybo amiably. “It probably should have.”

“This beast has preyed on my mind ever since our last encounter. It’s an ungodly creature, Prince, and we’d be doing a service to all mariners by getting rid of it.”

“How long do you anticipate chasing it?”

Keenir shifted his weight. It was clear that he wanted to say, “For as long as it takes.” Instead, he said nothing.

“My friend Afsan is pleased that we’re sailing this way.”

“What?” said Keenir. “Um, yes, I suppose he is.”

“Can you kill this creature? This Kal-ta-goot?”

“Yes. Of that I’m certain.”

“You did not succeed before.”

“No,” said Keenir, “I didn’t.”

“But you’re sure you can this time?” Dybo pushed off the dayslab and stood up, leaning back on his tail.

“Yes. The first time I took a handful of sailors out in a small shore boat. That was my error. We tried to overwhelm the creature, but it tossed the boat with one of its flippers. This time, I’ll go right up to it with the
Dasheter
itself. It’s no match for this great vessel, I assure you.”

“I am a member of The Family; I am needed back in Capital City.”

“I know.”

Dybo looked at the tough, salted strip of meat he had been eating. Finally: “We would have fresh meat if you killed this serpent?”

“That we would, good Prince.”

“How much time do you need?”

“Surely no more than forty days…”

“Forty days! An eternity.”

“It’s not easy to close the distance; Kal-ta-goot is swift. But I beseech you, Prince. I want this monster.”

“It’s just a dumb animal,” said Dybo gently. “To be enraged with a dumb thing seems, well, pointless.”

Keenir looked up. “I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. I want this monster.”

Dybo looked Keenir up and down. Scarred face, bitten-off tail. He thought of the hunt against the thunderbeast and how, when worked up for that battle, he had wanted the thing dead. And he thought of the sun. At last he said, “I might strike it, too.” A pause. “Forty days. No more.”

Keenir bowed deeply.

“God hunt us all, if we do not hunt Kal-ta-Goot to its death!” Keenir’s words, presumably meant to inspire, seemed to have the opposite effect. The crew, although fiercely loyal to him, was visibly nervous. The passengers were terrified. But the
Dasheter
pressed on, Keenir and his walking stick ticking across the deck.

No ship had ever sailed this way before, heading eastward, past the pilgrimage point where the Face of God had hung at the zenith. At each daytenth, Afsan took careful note of the Face’s position as it slipped slowly toward the western horizon, astern of the ship.

Kal-ta-goot stayed maddeningly out of reach. Afsan had only one chance to glimpse it through the far-seer before Keenir demanded it back. He had seen a snake-like neck, and, intermittently, a round hump of a body moving among the waves. At the end of the neck was a long head with — it was difficult to be sure at this distance — dagger-like teeth that stuck out and overlapped even when the thing’s mouth was closed.

Keenir stood constantly at the ship’s bow, occasionally barking an order, but mostly just staring through the far-seer at his elusive quarry, and muttering swear words under his breath.

Afsan spent most of his time up on deck, all but unaware of the chill spray, the biting wind, as he watched the sky with a fascinated intensity that matched Keenir’s own. As day gave way to the ever-so-brief twilight, Det-Bleen, the ship’s priest, approached Keenir within earshot of Afsan. Afsan understood that although Keenir had known Bleen for kilodays, the captain never really liked the priest, considering him a necessary part of the baggage for such journeys, but certainly not a colleague or friend.

“Good Captain,” said Bleen, bowing deeply, “our vigil beneath the Face was not yet over. We had three days of prayers and rapture left.”

Keenir kept his eye scrunched to the lens of the far-seer, the yellow scar on the side of his head a close match in color for the brass tube. “Does not God hear all?” said Keenir.

Bleen looked perplexed. “Of course.”

“Then She will hear your prayers whether we are directly beneath her or not.”

“Yes, but, Var-Keenir, for many aboard this is their first pilgrimage. It’s important they stay the twenty days, do the thirty-seven penances, read and understand the nine scrolls of the prophet.”

“There will be other trips.”

“My fear is that there will not be. You take us into unknown waters. You take us into parts of the River that God Herself has not checked for us.”

The ship rocked as it moved against a large wave. “I will have that monster, Bleen. I will have it!”

“Please, Keenir, I beg you to turn back.”

The captain swung the far-seer around, trying to refocus on the distant serpent. “I have the authority of Prince Dybo for this journey.”

“So Dybo tells me. You’ve got forty days.”

“Then talk to me again at the end of that period.”

“Keenir, please, it’s blasphemy.”

“Talk not to me of blasphemy. Before I’m done, these waters will be red with blood.”

Bleen reached out to Keenir, bridging the territorial space between them, and touched the captain on the shoulder. Keenir, startled, at last lowered the eyepiece and looked at the priest.

“But whose blood shall it be, Keenir?” said Bleen.

The captain squinted at the holy one, and for a moment Afsan thought that Bleen had finally gotten through to Keenir. But Keenir shouted out, “Onward!” and went back to peering through the far-seer. One of the officers ran to sound the ship’s beacon of loud and soft bells and drums, and Bleen, tail swishing in despair, moved to the aft deck, turned toward the setting Face of God, and began chanting prayers for mercy.

The
Dasheter
had chased the serpent for thirty-nine days now. Keenir was more agitated than ever. Sometimes they would lose sight of it for daytenths at a time, but whether because it had dived beneath the water or simply had slipped over the horizon, Afsan couldn’t say. The lookout in the perch high atop the foremast always managed to catch sight of the beast again, and the chase continued. It occurred to Afsan that perhaps the monster was toying with Keenir, that it was deliberately staying out of reach. Regardless, the
Dasheter
continued its eastward journey, until eventually the Face of God touched the westward horizon behind the ship, a huge striped ball sitting on the water.