Odd, thought Afsan, that a ship that often retraced the journey of the prophet would sport carvings from the cult of the hunters, a cult Larsk himself had diminished from being the major religion of the people to just a series of rites adhered to mostly by those, like Jal-Tetex, who hunted regularly. Still, the Dasheter was not exclusively a pilgrimage ship.
The cabin behind the carved door was small, with a workbench, a single lamp, a trough for storage, a bucket full of water, and a small window, currently covered by a leather curtain. There was plenty of room for sleeping on the floor.
Afsan unpacked his sack, filling the trough with most of its contents. On the desk, he placed his sky charts, his prayer books, and some other books he’d borrowed from Saleed for pleasure reading. In the center of it all, he placed Saleed’s traveler’s crystal.
On the back of the door was the promised schedule of chores. Nothing too complicated: galley duties, cleaning the decks, and so on. He walked across the cabin, pulled back the curtain over the porthole, and stared out at the busy docks.
Suddenly his door creaked open. Afsan felt a twitching at the tips of his fingers, but checked the reflex immediately. Only a member of The Family would enter a room without warning. Turning around, he said, “Ho, Dybo.”
“Ho, yourself, you muddied tail of a shovelmouth.” The prince placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “Not bad.”
“Yours is bigger, no doubt.”
Dybo clicked his teeth. “No doubt.”
“When do we sail?”
“Any moment,” said Dybo. “That’s why I came to get you. Come on, let’s go up on deck.” Without waiting for Afsan’s reply, Dybo headed out the doorway. Sometimes, Afsan reflected, he really does act like a prince. Afsan followed. Although Dybo was rotund, he was still much less bulky than an old Quintaglio, so the timbers of the deck made no special groaning under his weight.
They went up the ramp and out onto the main deck. Crew-members were hurrying about, making final preparations. Captain Var-Keenir was walking back and forth, his face still hideously scarred, his tail still shy of its proper length, his steps still aided by a cane. He shouted orders in that incredibly deep and gravelly voice of his. “Lock off that line!” “Stow that cable!” “Angle that sail!” It appeared to Afsan that the crew already had everything under control, that Keenir was really just working off his own impatience. Since he had no tail to lean back on, he couldn’t do many of the jobs himself. But at last Keenir called out the order everyone was waiting for: “Hoist the anchor!”
Five mates worked the wheel that pulled the thick metal chain aboard. As soon as the anchor lifted free of the harbor’s floor, Afsan felt the ship move. The mates continued hoisting until they’d brought the five-pointed holdfast onto the deck. A large puddle spread from it.
Quintaglios worked the rigging for the sails, and the great ship sped along, but, Afsan noticed, not to the east, but rather to the northeast. Of course: the ship would have to tack into the wind, zigzagging its way up the River, sailing alternately northeast then southeast, crisscrossing to the Face of God.
Soon, thought Afsan, looking far ahead, soon I will know your secrets.
*10*
Afsan restrained himself for all of the first day of the voyage, although he saw Keenir several times, his cane ticking against the creaking timbers. Keenir would often go up to the pointed bow and use his cross staff to measure angles in the sky, making sure the Dasheter was on the right course. The captain had looked at Afsan once with an expression that might have been recognition. But the voyage would last many days—130 or so out to the Face of God, 10 beneath the Face, and perhaps 110 to return. Afsan knew his chances of success were better if he did not seem greedy.
He watched Land dwindle as the sailing ship moved farther upriver. The Ch’mar volcanoes made a jagged line like Quintaglio teeth.
It wasn’t long before Land disappeared beneath the horizon. Gone was Capital City and every other place Afsan had ever been. All that was left was water, choppy and blue. The red sails whipped in the steady wind, a wind strong enough to make Afsan close his eyes when he faced into it.
That first night was even-night, when Afsan normally slept. In fact, half of those aboard were being told to sleep that night, in an effort to keep the confined population—eight crewmembers and twenty-two pilgrims—out of each other’s way. But even with his porthole open, Afsan was unable to slip into unconsciousness. The sounds of the ship, the yawing back and forth—it was all too strange for a youngster from Carno. He lay on his belly on the floor, waiting for the night to end.
Every now and then Afsan would hear a tapping coming from above, growing fainter and fainter, then progressively louder, a wooden tick-tick-tick against the background sounds of the ship. Afsan eventually figured out what it was: the captain’s walking stick striking the deck. He seemed to be pacing, endlessly pacing.
At last morning came, heralded, even here, far out in the River, by the calls of wingfingers. But these were louder calls than those Afsan was used to hearing back on Land—deeper calls, the calls of much larger flyers. Afsan stretched, growled to himself, and rose.
Water was plentiful aboard the Dasheter—bucketfuls could be hauled aboard easily. It was somewhat salty, but nothing that Afsan’s salt glands, between his eyes and nostrils, couldn’t handle. Excess salt would be eliminated from the small openings over his pre-orbital fenestrae, on either side of his muzzle. That gland was the only part of his body he really had to wash regularly, the only part that might give off an unpleasant odor. As for the rest of his thick, dry skin he simply rinsed off any visible dirt. Then he donned his sash, yellow and brown, colors worthy of an apprentice, and headed out of his quarters, up the groaning ramp, and onto the deck.
The sun was rising on the eastern horizon, up ahead, with almost visible speed. The Dasheter’s red sails snapped salutes at the dawn.
Some crewmembers were hauling food nets aboard. The morning’s catch included fish; some small aquatic lizards, their shapes streamlined like those of the fish; and several coiled mollusks, clusters of tentacles sticking out from their ornate shells. Some of the mollusks, already dying, were squirting ink onto the Dasheter’s deck.
Afsan wasn’t hungry, but others were. They grabbed things to eat, trying to get them still wiggling, with some fight left in them. First to go were the aquatic reptiles. The dorsal fin was the best part, since it was solid meat, completely free of bone. A mate named Nor-Gampar grabbed one with both hands, seizing its long, toothed snout in his left, and gripping it just above the tail with his right. In one shearing bite the delectable fin was gone. Afsan watched long enough to see if Gampar would then help himself to everybody’s second favorite part— the upper portion of the tail fin. It, too, was solid meat, for the reptile’s backbone bent downward and reinforced only the lower prong of the tail. Gampar did indeed bite that off next.
Afsan walked across the connecting piece that joined the Dasheter’s fore and aft diamond hulls. It rose up like a bridge spanning a creek, and as he got higher above the waterline the swaying of the ship seemed even more pronounced. Spray hit his face.
On the foredeck he found Keenir, standing hands on hips, near the point of the bow, looking out at the waters ahead.