Robert Sawyer - Far-Seer

Afsan’s shovelmouth was nowhere to be seen. Had The One gotten away safely?

But no. At last Cadool spotted Afsan, on his side, lying in the dirt. He was surrounded by a ring of hunters, muzzles out, teeth bared, forming a living shield around The One, even in the panic of the landquake not willing to leave him. His tail was a bloody pulp, apparently having been trampled by some beast in a panic to escape before the hunters had been able to protect him.

The ground heaved again, and Afsan looked briefly like he was convulsing. If only that were true, thought Cadool, at least it would mean he was still alive. There was blood on his face and a huge bruise on the side of his chest.

Cadool pushed against the spikes, commanding his mount to tip its head. Grabbing a spike halfway down the frill, he swung himself to the ground and hurried over to Afsan.

The hunter closest to Cadool bowed concession and got out of his way, opening up the protective ring. Cadool rushed in, stones still rippling beneath him. He placed his palm above the end of Afsan’s muzzle to see if he was still breathing. He was. Cadool mumbled four syllables of Lubalite prayer, then spoke Afsan’s name aloud.

No response. Cadool tried again.

Finally, faintly, confused: “Who?”

“It’s me. Pal-Cadool.”

“Cadool…?”

“Yes. Can you stand?”

“I don’t know.” Afsan’s voice was hissy, faint. “It’s a landquake, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Cadool. “The fight is over, at least for now. The loyalists are running for safety.” Most of the hunters had run off, too, but Cadool was glad that Afsan hadn’t been able to see that shameful sight. “You must try to stand.”

Afsan raised his muzzle from the ground. A small groan escaped his throat. “My chest hurts.”

“I’m going to touch you; let me help.”

Cadool’s hand went under Afsan’s left arm. He saw that Afsan was too dazed or too weak to have his claws respond to the intrusion. He rolled the ex-astrologer slightly, then gently brought his other hand under Afsan’s other arm. The ground rattled again, and Cadool simply held Afsan until it subsided. The screams of the Quintaglios were fading; many were dead or dying, many more had retreated far from the edges of the square. Cadool dared look up. The new statue of Dybo’s mother, the late Empress Len-Lends, was directly behind them, rocking back and forth on its pedestal.

“Get up. You must get up.” Cadool helped Afsan to his feet.

Suddenly the air was split by a crack greater than any thunder. The ground shook even more violently. Even the hunters who had been shielding Afsan ran off in panic. Cadool pulled Afsan to his feet and propelled him to the left. The marble Lends crashed down, hitting exactly where Afsan had been lying. Chips of stone bit into Cadool’s leg.

He looked for the source of the massive explosion. There, in the distance, the rightmost of the Ch’mar volcanoes was erupting, black smoke spewing into the air.

“We must move quickly,” said Cadool. “Trust me; let me guide you.” He put one arm around Afsan’s shoulders and cupped Afsan’s nearest elbow with his other. They began to trot in unison, small moans escaping Afsan’s throat with every footfall.

A second explosion cut the air. Cadool glanced backwards. The top of another of the Ch’mar mountains was gone. The sky was filled with a hail of pebbles, some even falling this far away, here in the square.

Head over heels, cobblestones scraping skin, landing in a heap with Afsan…

“I’m sorry, Afsan!” Cadool shouted above the roar from the volcano, “I wasn’t watching as carefully as I should. Come; the Ch’mar peaks are erupting.” He grabbed Afsan’s arm, hoisted him to his feet. But Afsan’s pace was more cautious now, holding them both back. Cadool tried as best he could to keep them moving.

Through his pain and despite the exploding mountains, Afsan heard something. He lifted his muzzle. A sound was coming at them from the direction of the harbor.

Alternating loud and soft, bells and drums, bells and drums, the sound he’d grown sick of during his pilgrimage—the identification call of the Dasheter .

“Cadool,” said Afsan, some strength returning to his voice, “we must hurry to the harbor.”

The roar behind them continued. “What? Why?”

“I hear the Dasheter . We can escape by water.”

Cadool changed course immediately. “It’ll take us a while to get there.”

“I know we don’t have much time,” said Afsan. “I’ll try not to slow us down.”

Cadool’s firm hand propelled them on. “I was wondering what had become of Var-Keenir. He had pledged to be here for the march of the Lubalites. Trouble upon the waves must have delayed him.”

“He’s here now,” said Afsan. “Hurry!”

They ran through the streets of Capital City. Some Quintaglios seemed to be going the same way they were; others ran in different directions. Afsan heard the wails of children as they passed the creche.

At last he felt a cold wind on his face; the same steady wind that, thankfully, was blowing the smoke from the volcanoes away from the city. It meant they were out of the lee of the buildings, and must now be overlooking the harbor.

“It’s there, Afsan,” said Cadool. “I see the Dasheter .” They started down the long ramp to the docks. “The waves are higher than I’ve ever seen; Dasheter is rocking back and forth like—”

“Like a student bowing concession to everyone he passes,” said Afsan, finding the strength to click his teeth once. “I know that feeling well. Hurry!”

As they got closer to the docks, Afsan could hear the crashing of the waves, louder now than the roar of the volcanic explosions to the west.

“Careful,” shouted Cadool. “We’re about to step on the gangway.” There were several others on the adabaja planks, jostling to get aboard. This was no time for worrying about the niceties of territoriality.

Afsan felt spray on his face, and almost lost his balance as he stepped onto the little bridge of planks leading up to the ship, swaying, swaying—

Up ahead, Cadool saw a short, pudgy figure scurrying up the gangway.

Dybo.

The Emperor escaping. Cadool thought briefly about rushing forward and pushing him into the choppy water before he could make it to the ship’s foredeck.

And there, up on deck, old Var-Keenir helping the Emperor board!

Of course. Keenir had been cut off aboard the Dasheter for some sixty days. At the time he had left Capital City, The One hadn’t yet been blinded. All Keenir knew was that Dybo’s intervention had saved Afsan from being executed in the throne room by Yenalb—

Suddenly the ropes holding the gangway to the dock snapped. The planks swung across the open space, and Afsan and Cadool were dunked into the water.

“Climb!” Cadool shouted. Afsan’s mangled tail was still bleeding, and the waters around him were stained red from it. Guided by Cadool, Afsan grabbed hold of the first plank, his claws digging into the slippery wood, gaps having appeared between each board as they began to slip down the ropes. He hauled himself up, hand over hand. Cadool did the same. Up above on the deck, looking over the railing, Cadool could see Keenir and Dybo. Much to his surprise, both were leaning over the side, helping those still on the dangling gangway get over the railing and onto the ship. Afsan and he pulled higher and higher, the planks like thick rungs in a ladder. The Dasheter rocked. Cadool felt his knuckles smash as the gangway slapped against the ship’s hull.