As the day wore on, the sun moved higher and higher into the sky. The narrow crescent of the Face of God waned into nothingness. The vast dim circular bulk of its unilluminated side hung above Afsan’s head, a pale ghost of its former glory.
*15*
Afsan had been thinking of how to get an appointment to see Captain Var-Keenir. There was no doubt in the young astrologer’s mind that a hierarchy operated aboard the ship, that each member of the crew had specific responsibilities, and reported in turn to a designated individual. But, as to what that order was, Afsan had been unable to tell. Back at the palace grounds, Afsan had come up with a simple rule. If it wore a sash, call it "learned one." If it sported robes, call it "holy one." And if in any doubt, simply bob concession and get out of the way.
But the routine of the ship baffled Afsan. One day, an officer might be the lookout atop the foremast. On the next day, that same person might be working in the galley, pounding salted meats to tenderize them, and then carefully soaking them in the ship’s limited stock of blood to make the meat at least appear fresh. It was as if they rotated duties, but if there was a pattern to the rotation, Afsan had yet to perceive it.
Finally he gave up and simply decided to approach the captain directly. The Dasheter had been designed to appear sparsely populated even when carrying a full complement. That meant Afsan had to wind his way to the captain’s cabin through a maze of walls that seemed to serve no purpose except to shield one Quintaglio from another’s view. These walls seemed to creak the most as the Dasheter tossed upon the waves, as if protesting their lot in life.
At Keenir’s door, Afsan hesitated. What he had to ask was critical, and the captain’s mood had not been good of late. Afsan had overheard the captain mumbling to Nor-Gampar about how much he disliked holding station here beneath the Face of God. Not that Keenir didn’t revel in the spectacle — no, his heart was not so hard as not to be moved by the swirling maelstrom covering a quarter of the sky. But, said Keenir, a ship should sail! It should struggle into the wind, or fly like a wingfinger with a strong breeze at its back. It should move.
Well, if Keenir said yes to Afsan’s plan, he’d get all the movement he could want.
Afsan watched his own shadow flickering on the door in the lamplight, a quavering silhouette, a palsied specter. He lifted his claws to the copper plate.
Keenir’s voice was so deep as to be almost lost among the groans of the ship’s lumber. "Who’s there?"
Afsan swallowed, then spoke his own name aloud.
There was no verbal reply — did Keenir know how difficult it was to discern his voice over the sounds of the ship? Or did he simply choose to ignore a passenger — a child — invading his privacy? No, there was that ticking, the sound of Keenir’s walking stick. After a moment, the door swung open. "Well?"
Afsan bowed. "I cast a shadow in your presence."
Keenir made a grumbling sound and Afsan’s eyes were drawn to the scar on the captain’s face, still inflamed although it was fading with time. It seemed to dance in the lamplight. "What do you want?"
Afsan found himself stammering. "I need to talk to you, sir."
Keenir looked down his muzzle. Finally: "Very well. Come in." The old captain walked back into his cabin. His tail had almost completely regenerated. It was as long now as one of the captain’s grizzled arms, but still not long enough to reach the floor, and therefore of only limited aid in balancing the oldster’s tremendous bulk. The tickings of his stick marked each pace back to his worktable. Afsan marveled at how the twisted length of wood managed to support Keenir.
On the walls of the cabin hung a variety of brass instruments, including several sets of articulated arms with scales marked on them. The captain’s worktable reminded Afsan of Saleed’s, back in the basement of the palace office building. Strewn across it were charts of the planets and moons. Indeed, although it was hard to tell viewing them upside down, some of them seemed to be in Saleed’s own hand.
Keenir lowered himself onto his dayslab, the wood groaning. "What is it, eggling?"
Eggling. The word seemed destined to haunt Afsan for the rest of his days. The captain had to take him seriously — he had to!
"Captain, when do we head back?"
"You know the schedule as well as I do. A pilgrimage ship must hold directly beneath the Face for ten even-days and ten odd, unless weather or other circumstances prevent that. We’ve held this spot" — Afsan detected a certain weariness in the captain’s tone — "for seventeen of the required twenty."
"And how will we head back?"
"What do you mean, how? We’ll hoist the sails, and the steady wind — that same wind we tacked against all the way here — will blow us back." Keenir clicked his teeth in satisfaction. "You’ll see this ship move then, lad! Nothing moves faster than the good ship Dasheter when the wind is at its back!"
"And what if we went the other way?"
"What other way?"
"You know, continued on, into the wind. Continued east."
From Afsan’s vantage point, perpendicular to the crowded desk, he could see Keenir’s tail jerk behind his stool. Keenir had tried to thump it against the floor, but it didn’t reach.
"Continue on, lad? Continue on? That’s madness. We’d end up sailing upriver forever."
"How do you know that?"
Keenir puffed his muzzle in exasperation. "It’s in the books, eggling. Surely you’ve read the books!"
Afsan bowed slightly. "Of course, sir. Believe me, an apprentice does little but read. Perhaps I should try my question another way. How did the authors of the books know that the River continued on endlessly?"
Keenir blinked twice. He had obviously never thought about this. "Why, from other books, I’d warrant."
Afsan opened his mouth to speak, but Keenir raised his left hand, claws slightly extended. "Hold your tongue, boy. Grant me some intelligence. Your next question was going to be, And how did the authors of these earlier books know the truth?’ " Keenir clicked his teeth in satisfaction. "Well, they knew it through divine revelation. They knew it directly from God."
Through force of will, Afsan kept his own tail from thumping the deck in frustration. "And all knowledge is gained thus? By divine revelation?"
"Of course."
"But what of the discovery by the Prophet Larsk of the Face of God itself? That was only a hundred and fifty kilodays ago, long after the end of the age of prophecy told of in the holy writings."
"Prophets come when they are needed, lad. Obviously God beckoned Larsk on, to sail farther and farther until he came upon the Face."
’’There’s no chance Larsk simply stumbled onto the Face by accident? That he sailed so far east out of — out of curiosity?"
"Eggling! You will not speak thus of the prophet."
Afsan bowed quickly. "My apologies. I meant no blasphemy."
Keenir nodded. "Saleed said you were prone to speaking without thinking, lad."
Speaking without thinking! Afsan felt the muscles of his chest knot. Speaking without thinking! Why, I speak because I am thinking. If only others would do the same — "Honorable Captain, did you ever eat plants as a child?"
Keenir scowled. "Of course. Gave me a monstrous bellyache, too. I imagine every youngster tries to eat things he or she shouldn’t."
"Exactly. You were doing a different kind of thinking, sir. You had seen some animal — a hornface, perhaps, or an armorback, or maybe a turtle — munch away on some plant. You said to yourself, ’I wonder what would happen if I ate some plants myself.’ And you found out — you got sick. We, and the other carnivores, such as the terrorclaws and even the wingfingers, can’t eat plants. We can’t digest them."