Afsan responded in kind. "Ah, my friend, but one of the few joys in being blind is not having to be constantly reminded of what it is that you look like."
But it turned out that Dybo wasn’t really looking to engage in a humorous exchange. "I’m serious," he said, pushing up off his dayslab, which was angled over the food table. "Your tail is dragging like a dead weight and your skin is grayish. Are you sure you didn’t pick up an infection because of your accident?"
"No, it’s not an infection," said Afsan. "I’m afraid I haven’t been sleeping well."
"What’s wrong?"
"Dreams," Afsan said. "Bad dreams."
"What about?"
Afsan leaned back on his tail. His whole body seemed weary. "There’s a dayslab two paces to your left," said Dybo.
Afsan found the angled marble sheet and lowered himself onto it. "Thank you," he said. He seemed too tired even to settle in comfortably.
"What are your bad dreams about?" Dybo asked again.
The words came out as protracted hisses. "I’m not sure. Just disjointed images, really. Trying to listen to people I can’t quite hear, for instance, who maddeningly stay just out of reach."
"That does sound frustrating."
"That it is. And every night it’s a different dream. I lie on my floor trying to sleep, but the dreams keep waking me. There’s always some point at which they become unbearable and I wake with a start, my heart pounding and my breath ragged. It happens over and over throughout the night."
"Maybe you need to eat more before you go to bed," said Dybo. "I never have trouble sleeping."
"I’ve tried that. I’ve gorged myself before retiring in hopes of forcing torpor, but the dreams come nonetheless."
Dybo slapped his belly. Although it was substantially reduced from its once-legendary girth, he’d put back a good hunk of what he’d lost before the challenge battle with the blackdeath. "I imagine your idea of gorging is something less than mine. Still, I take your point. Are you still sleeping only on odd-nights?" Just about everyone, except the very young and the very old, slept only every other night, but Afsan had long had the habit of sleeping on the night that most people were awake.
Afsan shook his head. "I’ve tried altering my sleep schedule: I’ve slept even-nights, I’ve tried sleeping every night, and only every third night. Nothing has helped."
Dybo grunted. "Have you consulted Dar-Mondark?"
"Yes. I’ve been seeing him every ten days so he can check on the healing of my injuries. He’s better with broken bones than with something as mundane as sleep. He simply said I’d eventually be so tired, my body would force itself to sleep."
"I suppose that’s true," said Dybo. "But if I can apply a lesson you taught me, that would be dealing with the effect rather than the cause, no?"
Afsan found the strength to click his teeth lightly. "Exactly. The real problem is the dreams."
Dybo was silent for a moment. "Have you tried the talking cure?"
"The what?"
"Afsan, you’ve got to have that apprentice of yours — what’s her name?"
"Pettit."
"Her. You’ve got to have her read to you on a wider range of subjects. The talking cure is all the rage, so they tell me. A savant named — oh, I never can remember names. Moklub, Mokleb, something like that. Anyway, she’s worked out this system in which people simply talk about their problems and, poof!, they go away."
Afsan sounded dubious. "Uh-huh."
"Really. She calls herself a, a — what was the word? A psych-something. Means a healer of the mind, apparently. There was a fellow from Jam’tool ar who came clear across Land to see her. He was constantly depressed. Said he felt as if the weight of his tail were hanging off the front of his head instead of his rump. Turned out that as a child, he’d stolen some jewels from his Hall of Worship. He’d completely forgotten doing that, but not only did talking with Mok-whatever help him recall it, he was even able to remember where he’d buried the stones. He dug them up, returned them to the Hall, walked the sinner’s march, and apparently feels better than he has in kilodays."
"I haven’t stolen any stones."
"Of course not. But this Mok-person says there are always hidden reasons for why we feel the way we do. She could help you uncover whatever it is that’s causing your bad dreams."
"I don’t know…"
"Ah, but that’s the whole point! You don’t know! Give it a try, Afsan. You certainly can’t go around looking like something a shovelmouth spit out."
"I thought I looked like hornface droppings."
"Depends on the light. Anyway, I need the old Afsan back. Can’t run this crazy government on my own, you know."
"Well…"
Dybo raised a hand. "No more objections. I’ll have a page round Mok-thingy up and send her to you this afternoon. You’ll be at Rockscape?"
"No, I’ve got to see the healer again this afternoon. Send her tomorrow."
"Very good."
"One thing, though," said Afsan. "If I’m sleeping when she arrives, tell her not to wake me. I can use the rest."
Dybo clicked his teeth. "Fine. Now, where’s that butcher?" The Emperor’s voice sang out. "Butcher! Meat! Meat, I say! My friend and I are hungry!"
Inside the ark, flames licked the ceiling. For once, the interior of the alien ship was brightly lit. For once, Novato saw — really saw — what it looked like.
Its blue walls appeared green in the fierce light of the flames. Their perfect smoothness was unmarred, even after all these millennia. Here and there columns of geometric markings were incised somehow into the obdurate material.
Novato was terrified, her breathing ragged, her claws glinting in the roaring flames.
Calm, she thought. Be calm.
She couldn’t douse the flames — the water in her canteen would do little against an oil fire. But the fire couldn’t really spread, either. She’d done tests on the blue material; no matter how much she heated it, it never burned. No, the blaze would exhaust itself once the oil had been consumed.
The heat was tremendous.
Novato put a hand to the tip of her muzzle, covering her nostrils. Thunderbeast oil normally burned cleanly, but with so much going up at once there was an acrid smell.
She couldn’t stay here. Quintaglios had learned much about air recently; Novato knew that open flames consumed some part of it that she needed to breathe. To remain here was to risk fainting, and although the material of the ship would not burn, Quintaglio flesh most certainly could. She backed away from the dancing flames, away from the light, into the darkness, the all-consuming darkness of the vast and empty ship.
She couldn’t hear anything except the thundering of her heart, the crackling of flames, and the clicking of her toeclaws against the floor. Turning, she confronted her own giant shadow, a shuddering silhouette on the far wall. Next to it was an open archway. Novato stepped through, the heat now on her back and tail, the normal coolness of the ship’s interior a welcome sensation on her muzzle. Her shadow moved with her, dancing along the wall like a living tapestry.
Left or right?
Why, right, of course.
No — left.
Left, yes, that was correct. Left.
She turned and took two steps forward. Her shadow disappeared as everything faded to uniform blackness.
Novato placed her left hand on the wall. Her claws were still extended. She tried to retract them but they would not return to their sheaths. So be it. She let the fluted cones lightly scrape along the wall as she began down the corridor. The sound of the spluttering flames gradually disappeared.
And then, a bend in the corridor.
Should there be a bend here?