Robert Sawyer - Far-Seer

“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 my 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 Face 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 your 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.

“Then I shall go arrange it.” And with that, Yenalb turned tail. Afsan watched the old priest’s back as he disappeared down a corridor.

Det-Yenalb made his way out into the blue-white light of day. He paused on the ramp leading down from the Hall of Worship, reflexively sniffing the air. The palace grounds were huge. They had to be.

The veneer of civilization, thought the priest. He snorted. God had told us to live and work together, but even to this day, it’s hard for us to do so.

The territorial instinct was strong, and although the creche masters worked to break it in the egglings, no one ever lost it completely. Yenalb could sense the others around him, smell their skin, hear the clicks of their claws on the paving stones. There across the courtyard, young Henress, smaller even than this Afsan, the problem child from Carno. And, there, flopped on her belly under a flowering tree, old Bal-Hapurd, torpid after a meal. Normally Yenalb would take the shortest path to Saleed’s office, since all but the Empress would move out of his way, conceding territory to the priest. But dealing with Saleed required planning. Yenalb took a circuitous route, avoiding everyone. He could not afford to have his concentration disturbed by his own reflex responses to others in his path.

At last he entered the palace offices, went down the spiral marble staircase, passed the Tapestries of the Prophet—pausing to bow territorial concession to the likeness of Larsk and to shield his eyes from the lying demons that formed a ring around the tapestry—and finally stopped at the golden keetaja -wood door to Saleed’s office. Yenalb took a moment to admire the astrologer’s cartouche. The symbols were much the same as in Yenalb’s own. That was proper, for was not the study of the stars, planets, and moons akin to the study of God. But there was something about the layout of Saleed’s that Yenalb found appealing.

Yenalb’s claws drummed against the small strip of metal at edge of the door. The clicking they made against the copper was quiet enough not to be threatening, but distinctive enough that anyone on the other side would realize that someone wanted to come in. Saleed made a questioning bark, Yenalb identified himself, and permission to enter was granted. The priest pressed on the fluted brass bar that opened the door.

Saleed, taller by a handspan than Yenalb—the result of the twenty kilodays difference in their ages—was lying on his dayslab, his belly pressed against the wooden boards. The slab was at an angle halfway between horizontal and vertical, taking Saleed’s weight off his legs and tail. Supported by a stone pedestal, the slab came up to Saleed’s shoulders, letting his head look comfortably down onto his desk, and his spotted arms dangle down onto the desktop, angled to be parallel to dayslab.

Saleed had twin pots built into his desk, one for ink, the other for solvent. He was finishing a glyph at the end of one line on a sheet of writing leather, the ink-dipped claw of his longest left finger steady and firm as it delineated the intricacies of a scientific symbol Yenalb did not recognize. Yenalb bowed territorial concession to the astrologer; Saleed replied by lifting his hands to show that, except for the one he was using for writing, his claws were sheathed.

“I cast a shadow in your presence, honorable astrologer,” said Yenalb.

“And I in yours,” replied Saleed without warmth.

There was silence between them for a moment. At last, impatience honing his words, Saleed spoke again. “And what business do you have with me?”