Free Far-Seer by Robert J. Sawyer Page B

stood by one of the cargo ships, long horns projecting from above their eyes and the tips of their nose beaks, a great frill of bone rising from the back of each head to shield the neck. Nearby, a small thunderbeast was being used as a crane, a cradle hanging from its long neck lifting what looked like a blast furnace off the deck of a three-mast ship. Wingfingers swirled in the air above the beach, individuals occasionally swooping down to snatch something to eat.
    Quintaglios were milling about, too. Merchants from Capital City, crowding closer than protocol would normally allow, were shouting offers at the captains of the cargo ships. They were trying to secure the best of the latest shipments of copper and brass tools from Fra’toolar, of gold bracelets and pendants bearing the marks of workers from the Cape of Belbar, and of that rarest of commodities, cloth, from the plantgrowers of the Mar’toolar plains.
    The Dasheter , with its double-diamond hulls, was easy to spot among the other ships. Its four masts — two on the port side of the forehull, two on the starboard side of the afthull — stood higher than any of the others in the harbor.
    Most of these ships moved cargo from coastal communities. They could be small since they put into port every few days, letting passengers and crew off to run and hunt. Afsan remembered the story of the Galadoreter , blown far out into the River by a storm, unable to land for dekadays. With no way to release the territorial instinct, the crew had fought until everyone aboard had died in a crazed territorial battle. The ship, its decks littered with rotting Quintaglio carcasses half eaten by wingfingers, had blown back to shore near the mining town of Parnood.
    But the Dasheter was a long-voyage vessel. Even though meant to carry only thirty people, it was huge. Afsan looked down at its twin hulls: two vast diamonds joined by a short connecting piece. Everywhere, space was maximized. True, a Quintaglio would feel uncomfortable penned in any place that was not clearly his or her own territory, but the four decks of the Dasheter afforded as many square paces per person as possible. Intellectually one would always know that others were nearby but if tricked physiologically into feeling alone, instinct should be kept at bay.
    The Dasheter ’s vast red sails were angled parallel to the steady wind caused by Land’s travel down the River, preventing them from moving the ship. In the center of each sail was an emblem of the Prophet Larsk, for it was his famous voyage that the Dasheter was going to retrace. The first sail had Larsk’s cartouche; the second, his name in ancient stone-glyphs; the third, his head silhouetted against the swirling Face of God, an image derived from the famed Tapestries of the Prophet that hung not far from Saleed’s office; and the fourth, the crest of the Pilgrimage Guild, founded by Larsk himself, and to which Var-Keenir and all other mariners of note belonged.
    “It’s a beautiful ship,” said Dybo.
    Afsan nodded. “That it is.”
    Coming up from the harbor was the Dasheter’s identification call. Loud: five bells; two drums. Soft: five bells; two drums. Loud: five bells; two drums. Over and over again.
    “The journey will take a long time,” said Dybo.
    “Anything worthwhile takes time,” said Afsan.
    Dybo looked at him. “My, aren’t we profound today.” He clicked his teeth in humor. “But, yes, I suppose you’re right. Still, it’s frustrating. Why does God look down upon the world from so far away?”
    “She’s protecting us, no? Looking out for obstacles upriver, making sure the way is safe.”
    “I suppose,” said Dybo. “Still, why does She never come and look directly down on Land? There are dangers here, too.”
    “Well, perhaps She feels that the people here are well looked after by the Empress. It is, after all, through God’s divine will that your mother rules.”
    Dybo looked out at the water. “Yes, indeed,” he