Far-Seer

*18*

The ship’s priest, Det-Bleen, had opined that he might be unable to bless the meat of Kal-ta-goot because tools—rope and anchor—had been used to aid in the kill. It was a weak point, though, and the hungry sailors and pilgrims didn’t seem keen on debating the issue. Keenir quickly settled it with a quotation from the Twenty-third Scroll: “That which is at hand is there by the grace of God; use it if need be, but take not a weapon with you on the hunt, for that is the coward’s way.” Well, the anchor and lifeline were simply at hand— they’d never been intended for killing—so Afsan’s use was quite acceptable, Keenir insisted. “It’s a variation on the same precept that allows us to use nets to haul aboard fish, mollusks, and aquatic lizards,” he said, seemingly taking some joy in catching Bleen in an indefensible interpretation of the scriptures. “Those animals are at hand, just waiting to be picked up. No hunt is involved, since no stalking is required. God put them there for us.” Bleen relented—somewhat reluctantly, Afsan thought—and said some words over the bobbing carcass.

The body of Kal-ta-goot had to be butchered in the water, since it was much too large to haul aboard. Once disentangled from the anchor, the corpse had floated back to the surface. Although Keenir and others had taken bites out of it, it did not bleed much. Still, enough blood had spilled to attract various aquatic predators. Mollusks, able to rise and fall in the water by adjusting the pressure in their spiral shells, used the beaks at the center of their clusters of tentacles to nip bites out of Kal’s tail and flippers.

Afsan himself, joining one of the parties in the water carving away at Kal’s body, was firmly bit on the leg by a coiled mollusk. It took much yanking by Paldook and Dybo to get the tentacles off Afsan’s leg. When they did release, the sound of the thousands of suction cups popping was like the breaking wind of a herd of plant-eaters. The bite was not severe, though: the lost flesh would regenerate within a dekaday.

They sawed through Kal’s neck at two places, severing it from the body just above the beast’s shoulders, then cutting off the horrid head, with its vicious teeth, as a trophy for Keenir.

The neck was slit horizontally to allow the removal of the body of Hadzig. Det-Bleen insisted it be brought aboard. An aquatic burial was acceptable, he said, but not here, not up ahead of the Face of God. Her corpse would have to be stowed until the ship returned to safe waters.

After that, the neck, spilling blood from both ends, was set adrift. Tentacled mollusks latched onto it immediately and soon aquatic lizards converged on it as well, their needle snouts ripping off gobbets of meat.

Afsan even saw one of the large wingfingers land on the long tubular neck, something he thought such a flyer would never do. But, after nipping off several choice hunks, the creature had no trouble regaining flight by running the length of the neck and flapping its massive furred wings a couple of times.

Much to everyone’s disappointment, Kal’s giant flippers were so full of disk-shaped bones as to be inedible. They were cut loose and floated like four flatboats toward the western horizon and the setting Face of God.

But the main body, round and sleek, was delicious. Huge sections of it were hauled aboard the Dasheter’s fore and aft hulls. Everyone was tired of the daily catch from the nets—that was mere sustenance, but this, this was hunter’s food! Meat you could sink your teeth into, flesh you could tear with your jaw. Real food, hot and bloody.

Eating such a meal did much to release pent-up frustrations, to counteract the effects of the prolonged confinement aboard the ship. When it was done, everyone was torpid, and most slept where they were, on the ship’s deck, lying down on their bulging bellies.

An even-night passed thus, as did most of the following odd-day. But, finally, it was time for the ship to move on, and, Afsan knew, it was time for him to once again seek a meeting with Captain Var-Keenir.

Keenir had been in a strange mood since Kal had been killed. Afsan had tried to catch the oldster’s eye once or twice, but Keenir had always turned his muzzle away. Afsan had hoped to get in a private word with Keenir in the captain’s office, but when he found him on the aft deck, the opportunity was too good to pass up.

“Captain, a moment of your time, please.”

Keenir looked down at Afsan for several heartbeats, his shiny black eyes seeming to stare. Afsan tried to puzzle out where the captain’s gaze was falling. At last he realized that it was on the hunter’s tattoo over Afsan’s left ear, a tattoo obtained the night all of Capital City had feasted on the thunderbeast Afsan had killed. Self-consciously Afsan brought his hand, claws sheathed, to the side of his head.

Keenir nodded at last. “When we met in Saleed’s office, you didn’t have that tattoo.”

Afsan looked down at the three claws on his feet, at the swirling grain of the wooden deck. “No, sir, I did not.”

“So, in the short time between then and when we left on this voyage, you went on your first hunt.”

“That’s right.”

“I heard a story one night while I was staying in Capital City at The Orange Wingfinger. It was a story of an apprentice at the palace being the hero of a hunt for a giant thunderbeast.”

Afsan lifted his head, looking now over the stern of the Dasheter at the Face of God, its top half brightly lit, the dark bottom just touching the western horizon. “Stories are often exaggerated.”

“So I thought at the time. But you were also the hero of the hunt for Kal-ta-goot, or so I’ve been told by those who saw the events unfold from a more stable position than my own.”

“The hunting party is as creche-mates, Captain.”

“That’s what they say, yes. Afsan, your heroism saved my life.”

“It was nothing.”

“My life? Or your deed?” Keenir clicked his teeth. “I’d like to think that in either case, that’s not true. You can be sure Saleed and the Empress herself will hear of what happened. I am in your debt.”

The wind, as always, was blowing steadily; the ship rolled port and starboard. Afsan steeled his courage. “Then do as I requested, Captain. Continue sailing east. Chasing Kal has brought us farther than any ship has ever gone. If my calculations are right, it will actually now take us less time to continue on this way to Land than it would to turn around—to turn tail—and head back.”

Keenir looked like he was about to speak. Afsan pushed ahead. “You can’t cite food as a problem. The leftover meat of Kal is being salted now; the kill has released the hunting urge for dekadays to come. And you can’t claim that the waters here are unsafe because we are beyond the Face of God. We met the worst demon imaginable, a monster from the darkest nightmares, and we beat it. We—” Afsan almost said, We don’t need God to look out for us, but he knew that would be pressing his luck. He closed his mouth and looked intently up at the captain.

Keenir’s own gaze had wandered off to the water, spreading out in all directions to all horizons. The Dasheter’s great red sails snapped in the breeze. Afsan felt his heart racing, felt an itching at the base of his claws, as he waited for the answer. Suddenly Keenir’s eyes went wide. He turned to Afsan and lifted his left hand with claws out on the two fingers closest to his thumb, the remaining two fingers spread but with claws sheathed, the thumb across his palm.

Afsan recognized the gesture. He’d seen it every day on his cabin door in the carvings of the Original Five Hunters and had even practiced it a bit, wondering what it meant. With a shrug, he raised his own left hand and duplicated the hand sign.

And then the inexplicable happened. Var-Keenir, Master Mariner, Captain of the Dasheter, bent low from the waist, balancing his bulk with his stubby tail and his walking stick, and nodded total concession to Afsan. “I’ll order the course change,” he said, and left.