Far-Seer qa-1

by Robert J. Sawyer

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.

  But maybe it wasn’t just individuals who went through rites of passage on their way to adulthood. Maybe his whole species had to do that. He thought of the dark times, the cannibalistic reign of the earliest Lubalites, the frightening stories told in whispers. He thought, too, of current civilization, with its religion and superstition. And what is to come? What awaited the Quintaglio race, after its childhood’s end?

  In the lamplight, Afsan watched drifting motes of dust for a length of time that he did not measure.

  "Permission to enter your territory?"

  He looked up, startled by the voice coming muffled through the rough wooden door, a door no one had ever thought of equipping with a copper signaling plate. Still, the request was polite. He’d not expected any courtesy now that he was branded a demon. Eyes wide, Afsan replied, "Hahat dan."

  The door squeaked open. The two guards were still there, one on either side, but standing between them, wearing a red smock, was lanky Pal-Cadool, his friend the palace butcher. With his long arms, he was carrying a silver tray laden with hunks of meat. Steam rose from the pieces. A fresh kill.

  "Hello, Afsan," said Cadool, bowing as much as the tray would allow.

  "Cadool! It’s great to see you."

  Cadool moved into the room and set the tray on one of the packing crates. He returned to the doorway, but, much to Afsan’s surprise, instead of exiting, he closed the door, shutting out the guards.

  "I believe there is enough meat here for two," said Cadool. Afsan eyed the plate. Yes, enough for two, he thought, as long as you ’re not as hungry as I am. "May I join you?" Cadool continued in his protracted speech.

  "You’d eat with a demon?"

  Cadool clicked his teeth. "I don’t think you’re a demon." He reached down to the plate and grabbed a gobbet of meat. "Do you know the 111th Scroll? ’For there is grace in all Quintaglios, but none more so than the skilled hunter.’ I’m one of those who went to feast on that thunderbeast you brought down, Afsan. A kill worthy of Lubal herself."

  Afsan picked up a piece of meat, tossed it to the back of his throat, and swallowed. "Beginner’s luck."

  "You are modest. That, too, is commendable. I’ve heard also of the way you killed Kal-ta-goot."

  "Then stories of the Dasheter’s, voyage are circulating! You must have heard that we sailed around the world."

  "That has been said, yes."

  "And do you believe it?"

  Cadool helped himself to another hunk, this one with an unpleasant vein of fat running through it. He worried it out with a fingerclaw before popping the meat into his mouth. "I don’t know." Then he did something that didn’t quite make sense to Afsan. He raised his left hand, unsheathed the claws on the second and third fingers, and spread his fourth and fifth lingers. Next he pressed his thumb into his palm.

  "I’m sorry," said Afsan. "I keep seeing that sign, but I don’t have a clue what it means."

  Cadool nodded. "Where have you seen it?"

  "The demons shown in the Tapestries of the Prophet. They’re making that sign, aren’t they?"

  "You should know by now that those labeled ’demon’ are not always deserving of that title."

  Afsan’s voice was small. "Indeed."

  "Where else?"

  "My cabin aboard the Dasheter had carvings on the outside of its door, carvings of the Five Original Hunters. Two of them were making that sign. And Captain Var-Keenir did it at one point."

  "Anywhere else?"

  "Pahs-Drawo made it after I killed a fangjaw. He’s a hunter from my home Pack, Carno."

  "Yes, I know Drawo."

  Afsan’s nictitating membranes fluttered. "You do?"

  "He’s here in Capital City, isn’t he? Part of the delegation from Carno to honor the new Emperor?"

  "Yes, that’s right."

  "I met him yesterday at a service."

  "Yesterday was an odd-day. There are no services on odd-days."

  "Umm, no. No, there aren’t. This was a special service, held at the Hunter’s Shrine."

  "What kind of service would be held there?"

  Cadool ignored the question, but made the complex hand sign again. "Watch for this sign, Afsan. There are more of us than you know."

  "More of who?"

  "Us."

  Afsan opened his mouth in question, but Cadool said nothing. Finally Afsan himself said, wistfully, "I thought that at least Dybo would be on my side."

  Cadool clicked his teeth so rapidly in laughter that he almost chewed his food. The sight turned Afsan’s stomach.

  "I’m sorry," said Cadool, holding up a hand. "You’re young, I know. But surely, Afsan, you can’t be that naive."

  Afsan felt a tingling in his fingertips. He didn’t like being laughed at. "What do you mean?"

  "Dybo is the son of the daughter of the daughter of the son of the daughter of the son of Larsk, the prophet."

  Afsan hadn’t known the exact lineage of his friend, but the number of generations sounded about right. "Yes. So?"

  "And Larsk is the prophet because he discovered the Face of God."

  "Uh-huh."

  "And Dybo rules now, and his mother, Lends, ruled before him, because their ancestor was divinely inspired to take the First Pilgrimage, to seek out the Face of God."

  "So the story goes."

  "And now you show up saying, wait, no, it’s not the Face of God at all. It’s just a natural object."

  "I know all this."

  "You know it, but you’re not seeing what it means. Dybo and The Family rule through divine right, by the grace of God. You ask him to support you in saying there is no God — or at least, that the thing his ancestor discovered is not God. If it’s not God, then Larsk was a false prophet. If he was a false prophet, then The Family has no divine right. If The Family has no divine right, then Dybo cannot rule the eight provinces and the Fifty Packs. For him to support you — or to allow others to support you — would mean abdicating his position."

  Afsan leaned back on his tail, furious with himself. He’d vowed to better understand the way the real world worked, but, once again, he had failed. "I — I hadn’t thought of it that way."

  "You’d better. It’s the only thing that will get you out of this mess."

  "But the truth…"

  "The truth is not the issue," said the butcher. "At least, not for Dybo. Not anymore."

  Cadool popped one more hunk into his mouth, then pulled his weight oft his tail and began to make for the door.


  "Wait," said Afsan.

  "I’ve got to get back to my duties."

  "There’s more."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There’s more than just the fate of the monarchy at stake. There’s more to it than just the Face of God being a planet."

  "Yes?"

  "The world is doomed, Cadool."

  Cadool’s inner eyelids batted across his dark orbs. "What?"

  "The fact that we are on a moon, the fact that this moon is very close to its planet: it causes stresses. Stresses that quake the land. Stresses that have driven up the volcanoes. Stresses that will tear the world apart."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I have no doubt. I have seen what happens to moons that move too close to the world they revolve around. They break up into particulate rings of rubble."

  "You have seen this? In a vision?"

  "No, with a device, an instrument. It’s called a far-seer. It magnifies things."

  "I’ve never heard of such a thing."

  "They exist. An artisan from Pack Gelbo in Jam’toolar makes them. Anyone can see what I’ve described by looking through one."

  "Does Dybo know about these devices?"

  "Oh, yes. He’s used one himself, under my guidance."

  "I doubt their manufacture will be allowed to continue." Cadool’s tail swished. "You’re sure of this? That the world will come to an end?"

  "Yes."

  "How soon?"

  "Who can say? I’ve been trying to get a sense of how much worse the volcanism and landquakes are today compared to various points in the past. My guess, and it’s only a guess, is perhaps three hundred kilodays."

  Cadool’s teeth clattered rapidly and he looked away. "Three hundred kilodays? Eggling, that’s generations from now! Why worry about it?"

  "Because — because we must do something about it!"

  "Do what? Afsan, the future will take care of itself. Don’t ruin your life for it."

  "Ruin my life? Cadool, I pledge my life to this cause."

  "That may literally become true."

  Afsan reared to his full height. "That’s a chance I’m willing to take."

  "You’re willing to go against The Family? That’s treason."

  "I’m against no one. I am for the truth."

  Cadool shook his head, but then raised his left hand and gave the same hand gesture. "Remember this sign, Afsan. Trust only those who know it."

  "But…"

  "I must go." Cadool bowed quickly and departed.

  Afsan had lost his appetite, but something told him it would be wise to keep up his strength. Over the rest of the afternoon, he ate the five remaining pieces of flesh, his mind wandering far between each one.

  That night, Afsan again found himself suddenly awake, a thought having pushed itself to the surface.

  Although Dybo had acquitted himself well enough during the thunderbeast hunt, the Emperor was neither tough nor strong nor fast. He was simply fat, and, although gifted musically, not particularly shrewd.

  Was Dybo really the best of his mother’s eight offspring? Really the one who ran fastest from the imperial bloodpriest? That bloodpriest would have chosen the eggling to become the next Emperor. If Afsan was right about the lineage of those who controlled the outlying provinces, the imperial blood-priest ate none of Len-Lends’s hatchlings. Rather, he or she sent the seven rejects off to be future provincial governors.

  Perhaps a switch had been performed…

  Perhaps, just perhaps, Dybo was the slowest of the offspring, the one most likely to be manipulated by the imperial advisors. Lends had been formidable indeed — perhaps too formidable for the priests and palace staff.

  It would have been so easy a switch to make. The one that should have been in Dybo’s place would still be alive, but had probably been sent to a distant province, perhaps isolated Edz’toolar.

  Afsan could never prove it, could never even suggest it in public. But it was a disturbing thought.

  Once again, he spent the rest of the night awake.

  *31*

  Pal-Cadool knew the trick. He walked to the far side of the giant stone cairn that supported the Hunter’s Shrine. Back there, its base hidden by carefully planted bushes, a stairway had been built. Quintaglios disliked stairs — the steps caused their tails to drag or bounce — but they did have their uses. Cadool parted the shrubbery and made his way up. It was still a long climb, but he reached the top only slightly out of breath, and the steady east-west wind cooled him quickly.

  As a butcher, Cadool knew bones well. He always admired the structure of the Shrine, the special juxtapositions of femurs and clavicles, of tail vertebrae and chest riblets.

  Inside, he could see hunt leader Jal-Tetex. She stood on the far side of the floating sphere of Quintaglio skulls. The wind was whipping too loudly for Tetex to hear Cadool’s approach. The butcher tipped his body in homage to the skull of Hoog, patron of his craft, one of the five brown and ancient skulls at the center of the sphere. Then he spoke aloud. "Permission to enter your territory, Tetex?"

  Tetex had been leaning back on her tail. She turned now, and Cadool saw in her hand a leather-bound volume. Embossed on its cover was the cartouche of Lubal: this was one of the forbidden books of Lubalite rites, a new edition, apparently, made possible by the recent introduction of printing presses. Still, no government-authorized press had produced that book.

  "Hahat dan, Cadool," said Tetex, making no effort to hide the book. "You’re late."

  "My duties at the palace interfered, I’m afraid." He clicked his teeth. "When Emperor Dybo calls for something to eat, all other business must be put aside."

  Tetex nodded. "Before stuffing Dybo, did you get a chance to see The One?"

  "Yes. I took him food."

  "He is well?"

  "He’s frightened and confused, but holding up."

  "Fear is the counselor," said Tetex. "He is wise." She looked across Land, spreading out far below. "Now that you’ve spoken with him, have you any doubts?"

  "None. Keenir was right. And so were you. He must be The One. He told me something today, something only The One would know."

  "What?"

  "He said the world is coming to an end."

  Tetex’s head snapped around to look Cadool dead on. "Are you sure?"

  "He was quite plain. In three hundred kilodays or so, the world will end."

  "Still that far away? But it is as the Book of Lubal said: ’One will come among you to herald the end; heed him, for those who do not are doomed.’ "

  Cadool made the ceremonial sign of acquiescence at the mention of Lubal’s name. "It was all I could do to keep from touching him when he said it. I had my doubts until then, but no more."

  "Does he know that you know who he is?"

  "Tetex, I don’t think he knows who he is. But I didn’t give anything away. Of his own volition, he pledged his life to the cause."

  Silence, save for the shrieking wind. Then Tetex spoke: "When I saw him on that first hunt, I knew he was special. I’d never seen a novice hunter with such skill, such determination."

  "That thunderbeast he brought down was a giant indeed."

  "A giant? Cadool, for the first time, I thought I was going to die. There was no way we could defeat that monster — none! But Afsan succeeded. He saved us all. When Keenir returned with his stories about Afsan killing a serpent that attacked the Dasheter, and that fellow Drawo from Carno told us about Afsan bringing down a fangjaw on his own, I was sure. ’And The One will defeat demons of the land and of the water; blood from his kills will soak the soil and stain the River.’ "

  "But now they call Afsan himself a demon," said Cadool. "He was almost killed in the ruling room yesterday. Dybo’s feelings are the only thing keeping Afsan alive, and who knows how long it will be before the imperial advisors convince Dybo to put him to death."

  "But to kill a Quintaglio…"

  "It’s been done before, Tetex. In Larsk’s time, the hunters who didn’t ac
cept his claims were executed."

  Tetex nodded solemnly. "You’re right. We must act quickly."

  "Has word gone out with our newsriders?"

  "They leave tonight."

  "And Keenir?"

  "He’s loading provisions aboard the Dasheter now. At dawn, he’ll set sail for the west coast to fetch Lubalites from there. When he landed there with Afsan, he told many hunters the story of Afsan killing the great serpent. He’s sure that most will agree to come back here with him."

  "That’s still fifty days or so, round trip, even for the Dasheter." said Cadool.

  "That it is. But it’ll take at least that long for any of those who the newsriders contact to assemble here. Everyone who knows the hand sign will receive the special call."

  "Where will we gather?"

  "At the ruins of the temple of Lubal, on the far side of the Ch’mar peaks."

  Cadool’s tail swept in a wide arc. "I hate that place — buildings half buried under lava flows."

  "But no one goes there anymore; it’s an ideal spot to wait for the others."

  Cadool nodded. "I suppose." He looked back at the floating sphere of skulls. "Afsan himself did not know the hand sign."

  Tetex blinked. "He didn’t?"

  "Not really."

  "Did you show it to him?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, he knows it now," said Tetex.

  "And that’s enough?"

  "We must pray that it is. There’s little we can do for him without greater numbers. He has to hold on for sixty-one days."

  Cadool looked puzzled. "Sixty-one?"

  Tetex patted the cover of the book she held. "That will bring us to the traditional date of the feast of Lubal. At the fifth daytenth, we’ll march into the Capital."

  *32*

  Except for Cadool, who came once more with food, Afsan had no visitors for the next fourteen days. It was clear what was being done. Those who held sway with Dybo hoped the isolation would make him more willing to accede to their wishes. But a Quintaglio could take a lot of isolation before being disturbed by it. In fact, after the confines of the Dasheter, and the continual company of the delegation from Carno on his trip here, Afsan found being left alone with his thoughts a welcome change.