Far-Seer

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?”

“Your latest young apprentice—Afsan, is it? He came by the temple this morning.”

Saleed let out his breath noisily. “I sent him there. He had blasphemed.”

“Well, he can’t be that bad,” said Yenalb lightly. “You’re not tossing him out on his tail like your last five.”

“My last six,” said Saleed.

“In any event, Afsan marched the River. He is cleansed.”

Saleed nodded and turned his head to look at Yenalb. “Good.”

“But he has not yet taken the pilgrimage.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s nearly up to my shoulder. A boy that size is old enough for the journey.”

“There is more to maturity than height, Yenalb. You know that.”

“Granted. But what better way for him to mature than to take the voyage? Your old creche-mate Var-Keenir is in town, did you know that?”

“Yes. Keenir and I spoke this morning.”

“The Dasheter sails in a dekaday on a pilgrimage tour.”

“I see.” Saleed pushed up into a standing posture, letting his weight fall onto his tail. The wood of his dayslab creaked in relief. “And you, Yenalb, who have seen the boy occasionally at service, have spoken to him once or twice, you feel you know what’s good for him better than I, who has been his master for half a kiloday now. Is that it?”

“Well…”

“And now you have the fangs to come in here and set me straight?”

“Saleed, I have only the boy’s welfare at heart.”

“And I do not? That’s your contention, isn’t it?”

“Well, you’re not known for being the gentlest soul—”

Saleed slapped his tail against the floor. “I am training the boy’s mind. I am teaching him to think.”

“Of course, of course. I meant no slight.”

Saleed lifted his tail from the floor and bobbed his torso once, a slow, deliberate gesture, a clear signal that he felt Yenalb had crossed into territory Saleed considered his own.

Yenalb backed away. “My apologies, astrologer. I meant to suggest that you might perhaps see fit to let Afsan voyage with Keenir.”

Saleed was not mollified. “Yenalb, perhaps you should place a little more faith in me. Ask Keenir.” He drummed his now unsheathed claws against his thigh. “He will tell you that I have already arranged for young Afsan’s passage aboard the Dashetar.”

Yenalb’s nictitating membranes fluttered over his eyes. “You have?”

“I have.”

“Saleed, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Your business here is concluded?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then perhaps you will do me the honor of withdrawing from my area.”

Swishing his tail in wonderment, Yenalb did just that.

*4*

The hunt! Afsan excitedly slapped his tail against the floor of the Hall of Worship. All young Quintaglios looked forward to joining in a pack, setting out in the ritual quest for food.

And yet, there was trepidation, too, for the hunt was difficult and dangerous. But if Afsan were to take his pilgrimage soon, then he must make arrangements to join a pack right away.

Most of the apprentices at the palace were older than Afsan—he was, after all, a relatively new arrival in Capital City—and all but a few bore the tattoo of their successful first kill. Afsan’s hand went to the left side of his head, above the earhole, the spot where the tattoo would go. Who else did he know who did not have the tattoo? Dybo.

Of course. Dybo, shorter by three finger-widths than Afsan himself. Dybo, who had such a flair for music and poetry, but who had often enlisted Afsan’s aid in his studies of mathematics and science. Dybo, whose penchant for mischief had gotten Afsan in trouble on many occasions, although, of course, Dybo himself always emerged unscathed. Dybo, the crown prince.