“You are Afsan?” the priest said, his voice liquid and unpleasant.
Afsan blinked. “Yes.”
“You took a pilgrimage aboard the
Dasheter
?”
“You know I did, Your Grace. You helped arrange it.”
“Answer yes or no. You took a pilgrimage aboard the
Dasheter
, a sailing vessel captained by one Var-Keenir?”
“Yes.” At the far right, one of those in the sash of a staff member was writing into a small leather booklet. A transcript of the proceedings?
“You claim to have made a discovery while on this voyage?”
“Yes. Several discoveries.”
“And what were those discoveries?”
“That the world is round.” There was a sharp hiss from several members of the assembly. “That the object we call the Face of God is really just a planet.” Tails swished back and forth like snakes. Individuals exchanged worried glances.
“You really believe this?” said Yenalb.
“The world is round,” said Afsan. “We did indeed sail continuously to the east, leaving from Capital City here on the east coast of Land and arriving back, simply by continuing in a straight line, at the Bay of Three Forests on the west coast.”
“You are mistaken,” Yenalb said flatly.
Afsan felt a tingling at the tips of his fingers. “I am not mistaken. Dybo was there. He knows.”
Yenalb slapped his tail against the floor. The sharp cracking echoed throughout the chamber. “You will refer to the Emperor as His Luminance.”
“Fine. His Luminance knows.” Afsan moved his head so that there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind: he was looking directly at Dybo. “Don’t you?”
Dybo said nothing. Yenalb pointed at Afsan. “I say again, you are mistaken.”
“No, Your Grace. I am not.”
“Eggling, you risk…”
“A moment, please,” said a wheezy voice. It was the senior advisor, seated on Dybo’s right. He rose with a hiss. Every movement seemed to be an effort for him. His caved-in chest heaved constantly. He was not all that old, but his breathing was ragged — some respiratory ailment, Afsan guessed. The advisor nodded at the clerk who had been taking notes, and that one put down his book and held his inked claw at his side. The advisor’s gait was slow, accompanied at every step by a hissing breath. At last he was close to Afsan. He looked Afsan in the face for several heartbeats, then spoke quietly in a protracted wheeze that only Afsan could hear. “Tell them you are mistaken, boy. It’s your only hope.”
“But I’m not…”
“
Shush
!”
Afsan tried again in a faint volume. “But I’m not mistaken!”
The advisor stared at him again, his breath noisy, ragged. At last he said quietly, “If you value your hide, you will be.” He turned and headed back to his
katadu
bench, his steps slow and pained. One of those wearing an orange and blue sash helped him sit down.
Yenalb, looking irritated at this interruption, turned to face Afsan again. “As I said, you are mistaken.”
Afsan was quiet for a moment, but then said softly, “I am not.” He saw the wheezing advisor close his eyes.
“You are. We have heard how the
Dasheter
engaged a serpent, how the ship was tossed and turned. You, and the others, were simply confused by what had occurred. You are not a mariner, after all. You’re not used to the tricks the open water can play on one’s mind.”
“I am not mistaken,” Afsan said again, more firmly.
“You must be!”
“I am not.”
One of the other priests spoke. “His muzzle shows no blue.”
Afsan clicked his teeth in satisfaction. It was as plain as the muzzle on his face: he was telling the truth. If he were lying, the inflammation of the muzzle’s skin would give him away. Everyone in the room had to see that, had to know that despite Yenalb’s ranting Afsan was telling the truth!
“He is
aug-ta-rot
, then,” said Yenalb. “A demon. Only a demon could lie in the light of day.”
Afsan spluttered. “A demon — ?”
“Just as shown in the Tapestries of the Prophet,” declared Yenalb. “Just as described in the scriptures. A demon!”
Fingers sprouted claws on half the assembled group. “A demon…”
“For God’s sake,” said Afsan, “I am not a demon.”
“And what,” said Yenalb, his voice dangerously edged, “do you know of God?”
“I mean…”
“You said God was a fraud, a natural phenomenon, simply a planet.”
“Yes, but…”
“And now you invoke the Almighty to disprove your demonhood?”
Afsan looked left and right. Some of the assembled group had started bobbing up and down. The word “demon” passed from individual to individual.
“I am an astrologer!” cried Afsan. “A scholar!”
“Demon,” said the crowd, harsh and low. “Demon.”
“I’m telling the truth!”
“Demon.” A chant. “Demon.”
“A demon among us!” said Yenalb, spinning, his robes flowing about him. “A demon in our midst!”
“Demon,” repeated the crowd. “
Demon
.”
“A demon who denounces our religion!” Yenalb’s tail slapped the floor.
“
Demon. Demon
.”
Afsan’s claws were out, his nostrils flared. Wild pheromones were free in the room.
“A demon who profanes our God!” Yenalb’s wide mouth hung open, a rictus of ragged teeth.
“
Demon. Demon. Demon
.”
“A demon who has no right to live!”
Afsan felt the crowd surge forward, felt his own instincts coming to the fore, felt the room spinning about him…
“No!”
Dybo’s voice shook the foundations of the room. Through clouded vision, Afsan saw that the Emperor was now on his feet.
Yenalb, crouched for a leap, turned his head to look at Dybo. “But Your Luminance — he is
poison
.”
“No. Everyone is to hold their positions. The first to move will answer to me.”
Afsan felt his body relaxing. “Dybo…”
But the Emperor did not deign to look at him. He turned his back, tail falling off the edge of the pedestal. “Shut him away.”
*30*
Afsan thought he knew the basement of the palace office building well. After all, Saleed had worked there, as had many other court officials. But this was a part of it he had never seen. Two guards led him down a steep ramp into a dimly lit warren of rooms. Some of them had no doors at all, and seemed to be used for equipment storage. Others did have doors, of rough-hewn and pale
galamaja
wood, bearing the cartouches of service departments including janitorial and food preparation.
At the end of one corridor was a door whose cartouche depicted a triangle, three different-sized squares and two circles, all surrounded by a large square border. Afsan tried to fathom religious or royal symbolism in this, but finally realized it simply meant “miscellaneous storage.” The door swung open, its hinges creaking as it did so, and Afsan was ushered in. It was a dank room measuring about ten paces by six. In it were some wooden crates, a broken wooden gear almost as tall as Afsan — it looked to be a damaged part from a water wheel — a single lamp hanging from the wall, and a shed snake’s skin lying in one corner.
The guards turned to go.
“Wait,” said Afsan. “What I’ve been saying is the truth.”
No response.
“Please. You’ve got to listen to me.”
One guard had exited. The other turned as if to speak to Afsan, thought better of it, and walked out as well, closing the splintery door behind him.
Afsan knew the door would be unlocked — the only reason to put a lock on a door would be to keep dangerous things away from children, and he couldn’t imagine youngsters being allowed to play in this grungy part of the palace basement. But no doubt the taciturn and burly guards stood just outside, in case Afsan tried to leave.
What will become of me?
Afsan thought.
They can’t leave me here forever.
He wandered about the room, his tail swishing in the dust on the floor. He had assumed Dybo would be his ally, thought that once the Emperor had heard what Afsan had to say, all resources would be committed to the problem.
Time is running out
, Afsan thought, and then, with a shudder, he realized that it wasn’t just running out for the world. It was also running out for him personally.
Do they really think I’m a demon?
Yes, the scrolls told of such beasts from ancient times, and again of the
aug-ta-rot
nay-sayers, who had ultimately been slain because they refused to listen to Larsk. But surely those tales were mere fantasy.
How can they be so blind, so terribly blind?
Afsan wasn’t the only one who knew the truth. Keenir knew it. Dybo knew it. The passengers and crew of the
Dasheter
— at least those with enough mathematics and brains to understand what they had seen — knew it, too. And Novato, sweet Novato, she also knew it.
Would they all remain silent? What punishments could be inflicted upon them if they did not?
Crime.
It was an odd word, an ancient word. Afsan had read about crimes in books from the past. During the great famine 380 kilodays ago, when half the plants died of plague, and, afterward, half the animals, there had been crimes, Quintaglios stealing food from other Quintaglios. He remembered the old punishment. Hands were cut off. In the 400 days it took to generate a new hand, the malefactor would usually learn his or her lesson.
Would they cut off my hands?
It would be painful and awkward, but they would grow back. Who among those who knew would talk, would spread the word? Afsan felt sick at the thought of Novato, who created such magnificent instruments, losing her hands for even a short time. And Keenir had just finished regenerating a tail. At his age, that was a strain. One could suffer only so many such losses before the parts regenerated in malformed ways.
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.”