The images were flat, with all the characters depicted in plain profile, and no perspective to the form of Larsk’s sailing ship. Many illustrations were still done this way, but Afsan had begun to see an increasing number that used the three-dimensional drawing techniques recently developed by the religious painters of Edz’toolar province. Still, despite their flatness, the tapestries were captivating. Ever since he had begun working here, Afsan had meant to arrive early one morning and spend some time examining the finely painted leather sheets with their colorful images of a time 150 kilodays past.
But today was not the day. As usual, Afsan was late. He bounded down the corridor, his tail slapping up and down. Saleed had finally given up berating Afsan for the noise he made running down the halls.
Afsan came to the great keetaja-wood door to Saleed’s office, the astrologer’s cartouche with its pattern of stars and planets and moons carved into the golden grain. Suddenly there were voices coming from within, loud and harsh, as if engaged in an argument.
Afsan paused, his hand on the fluted brass rod that worked the locking mechanism. Privacy was deeply valued. The territorial instinct could never be completely overcome, and when one was alone behind a closed door it was presumably by choice. But, Afsan decided, since Saleed obviously was not alone, no harm would be done by assessing the situation before stepping into it. He placed his other hand to his right earhole, forming a cup to funnel the sounds.
“I have no use for your toys.” That was Saleed’s voice, deep, sharp, like a hunter’s polished claws.
“Toys?” A gravelly voice, pitched even lower than Saleed’s. The Quintaglio word was ca-tart, with the final consonant accompanied by a clicking of teeth. Whoever had spoken it was clearly angry: the terminal click was loud enough to be heard through the thick wood, like rocks clacking together. “Toys!” shouted the voice again. “Saleed, the shell of your egg must have been too thick. Your brain is damaged.”
Afsan’s nictitating membranes fluttered over his eyes in amazement. Who could possibly speak to the court astrologer thus?
“I am an obedient servant of my God,” replied Saleed, and Afsan could picture the old astrologer raising his wrinkled muzzle haughtily. “I don’t need the help of the likes of you to accomplish my work.”
“You prefer to go on spouting the dogma of ages past, rather than really learning something about the heavens?’’ The voice carried a strong note of disgust, and Afsan expected to hear the sound of a tail slapping against the marble floor. “You are an embarrassment to the Empress.”
Whoever this stranger was, Afsan liked him. He pressed his ear harder to the door, eager to catch every word. The dry wood creaked. Shocked, Afsan’s claws jumped to attention. There was nothing to do but walk right in as though he had just arrived.
There was Saleed, standing behind his worktable, leaning on his withered arms, green skin spotted yellow and black with age.
Opposite him was the stranger, barrel-chested, wearing a red leather cap over the dome of his head. The stranger had a ragged yellow scar running from the tip of his muzzle to his left earhole. He wore a gray sash over his torso. The sash was perhaps a handspan wide at the shoulder, but narrowed to half that at his hip. Capital City was a port town, and Afsan recognized the sash as the mark of a master mariner.
Quintaglios continue to increase in body size until death, although the rate did slow as time went on. The stranger was about the same size as Saleed — double Afsan’s mass — so Afsan judged him to be approximately the same age as the old astrologer. His green hide, though, showed none of the age mottling Saleed’s did.
“Ah, Afsan,” said Saleed. He glanced at the newfangled timepiece on the wall, its pendulum swinging back and forth like the codger’s dewlap. “Late again, I see.”
“I’m sorry, master,” said Afsan quietly.
Saleed hissed, then swished his tail in Afsan’s direction. “Keenir, this is my latest apprentice, Afsan — proudest son of far Carno.” The last five words were ladled with sarcasm. ’’Afsan, pay honor to Captain Var-Keenir.”
Var-Keenir! Here? If even half the stories he had heard were true — Afsan tipped from the waist in respect, lifting his tail from the ground. “I cast a shadow in your presence,” he said, and for the first time Afsan felt the tired old greeting might actually carry some truth.
Keenir turned his head to look at Afsan. Since Quintaglio eyes are solid black, one can’t tell where another is looking unless the other also turns his head. Afsan always turned his head to look at adults, but few adults repaid the courtesy to those adolescents who did not sport the tattoos of the hunt or the pilgrimage (and those adults who lacked the hunter’s tattoo were accorded no respect by anyone). That Keenir had turned to look at him made Afsan like him even more.
“If you can keep your claws sheathed while working with Saleed, then it’s I who should pay honor to you,” said Keenir, the voice so deep it reminded Afsan of the call of a shovel-mouth. The mariner stepped forward, leaning heavily on an ornate carved stick to support himself. It was then that Afsan noticed that most of Keenir’s tail was missing. There was only a handspan’s worth of yellow new growth on the green stub. He could look freely at the injury, for there was no way for Keenir to tell where Afsan had focused his eyes, but he took care to show no other expression on his face or with the movement of his own tail. Afsan judged that Keenir’s tail must have been chopped off only a hundred days ago or so, perhaps in whatever accident had scarred the sailor’s face. “So you would be an astrologer, eh, boy?” said Keenir.
“That is the profession selected for me,” said Afsan, and again he bowed in respect. “I would be honored to succeed at it.”
“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 po
inted 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.
The last thing he wanted to do was appear disrespectful, for he knew that High Priest Det-Yenalb might be watching even now from his secret place, high above. Afsan kept his muzzle pointed ahead, as the posture of respect demanded, but he rolled his black eyes upward. Painted on the bowl-shaped ceiling was an image of the Face of God, swirling and colorful. But one of the black circular God’s eyes was really a window through which Yenalb sometimes watched, or so Afsan had heard from a court page. Afsan would make sure that Saleed would get a good report of his penance.
Afsan had started in the middle of the river channel, as sinners must, and was now working toward the west end. The symbolism had been explained to him kilodays ago at Carno’s Hall of Worship, the first time he’d had to undergo this humiliation. He’d bitten off a playmate’s finger during a game. The other boy — what had ever become of Namron, anyway? — had regenerated the digit in a few dekadays, but he’d also tattled to the creche master about Afsan.
Anyway, walking to the west end meant walking into the fading light of dusk, reminding one of the darkness that awaited sinners. Even then, Afsan had enjoyed the night, but he had been restrained enough not to point that out to the creche master.
At the end of the channel, balancing all the while, he bobbed his whole body three times. It was an emulation of the instinctive gesture of territoriality, and, in this context, meant, as the sacred scrolls said, here I draw the line, I will allow darkness to come no farther. After the ritualized bobbing, he turned tail and began the slow march the other way, splashing down the river toward the east, toward dawn, toward light, toward knowledge.
Knowledge! Afsan clicked his teeth in rueful humor. How little knowledge we have. What do we really know of the planets? Of the moons? How can Saleed turn down an opportunity to study them in detail, to learn their secrets?
“Boy! Your tail!”
Afsan’s heart jumped, and his fingerclaws unsheathed in surprise. Having lost himself in thought, he’d let his tail dip into the water. He quickly pulled it up and then swung his head around to find the source of the voice, echoing in the domed chamber.
It was the wrong thing to do. With legs splayed, tail swung way up, and head turned around, he lost his balance. He came flopping down belly-first into the river, splashing holy water everywhere. The impact hurt — he could feel the free-floating riblets across the front of his belly pressing in on his organs. He quickly got to his feet, and, fear on his face, hurried onto the madaja-wood flooring, the sound of drips hitting the planks echoing much too loudly in the Hall.
He scanned around for the source of the voice again. There, at the head of the mock river, standing where the sun would rise, was Det-Yenalb, a mid-sized male with an exceptionally long muzzle and earholes that seemed a bit too high on the side of his head. Yenalb wore the swirling, banded, colorful sash of his office.
“Your Holiness,” Afsan stammered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“You didn’t mean to make a mess.” Yenalb didn’t seem to be angry. “I know.”
“I’ll clean it up right away.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will.” The temple master looked at Afsan. “You’re the young one from Arj’toolar province, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, sir. Afsan is my name; my home Pack is called Carno.”
“Afsan. That’s all? A boy your size should have a praeno-men syllable by now.”
Afsan cast his head down. “I have not earned my name prefix yet, although I have chosen the one I hope to merit: Lar.”
“Lar,” repeated Yenalb. It was derived from Larsk, the name of the prophet. “A high standard to aspire to. And, yet, of course, you would not be here at the palace if you were not already exceptional. You’re Tak-Saleed’s latest, aren’t you?”
“It is my honor to be his apprentice.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Yenalb. “Afsan, you must take care. God talks to Her children in many ways. To priests, such as myself, She talks directly, in words spoken so only we can hear. To astrologers, such as your master, Saleed, She talks in the complex motions of the stars, the planets, and the moons. To others, She talks in subtler, less direct ways. Has God spoken to you?”
Afsan’s tail swished in sadness. “She has not.”
“I see you bear no tattoo. When is your pilgrimage?”
“I am to take it in the near future, although I have not yet scheduleded a voyage.”
“You are of the age, though, are you not? You look the right size.”
“Yes, it has been ten kilodays since my hatching.”
“Then you must go soon.”
“I’ve been waiting for the right moment to discuss this with mt master.”
“If memory serves, I’ve seen you in Saleed’s company before. Somehow, I doubt a moment when you feel comfortable with him will come.” Yenalb clicked his teeth together a few times to show the remark was meant as a jest. Afsan tipped his head in concession. “Well, the Dasheter sails soon. Would you care to travel with Var-Keenir, boy?”
“Would I! That would be terrific — !”
A clicked his teeth again. “I have some influence with Saleed. I’ll speak to him.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all. You obviously need some enlightenment, or you wouldn’t have been marching the sinner’s march. And nothing is more enlightening than gazing directly upon the of God.”
“So I hear.”
“Good. Now, do the march again, properly this time, then get a mop and clean up the water.” Yenalb turned to go, but then spoke once more. “Oh, and Afsan, you should try to do your hunt before y
our pilgrimage.”
“Why?”
“Well, the pilgrimage is dangerous.”
“So is the hunt, I’m told.” Again, Afsan regretted speaking so plainly to an elder, but Yenalb dipped his head politely.
“The hunt is less dangerous,” the priest said, “as long as you don’t join one of those crazy parties that still adhere to the teachings of Lubal. Go after something that eats plants and you’ll be fine. No, we lose more people on the pilgrimage than we do on the ritual hunt. Riverquakes mean there are times when boats don’t return at all. If anything were to happen to you during your long voyage, and you hadn’t participated in a hunt yet, your soul would arrive in heaven without having completed either rite of passage. That’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“Well, we all look forward to the afterlife, to a place where we will shed the instincts that keep us from working well together the way a snake sheds its skin. In heaven, at God’s side, with infinite territory, we will constantly enjoy that special camaraderie and those heightened senses that one normally only experiences during a pack-hunt. But you must be primed for that, must have experienced the cooperative spirit of the hunt in this life in order to be able to adopt it as your native mode in the next. And, as for the pilgrimage, well, you must in fact see God in this mortal existence if you are to recognize Her in heaven. She does not — She does not look like one of us.”
“I’m looking forward to gazing upon Her face,” said Afsan.
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