He was also trying to resolve the dispute between the peoples of Chu’toolar and Mar’toolar. The citizens of the latter claimed that the Hahat Golarda—the ancient scroll that apportioned territories—had been misinterpreted, and that their border should run along the northern, rather than southern, edge of the Hoont’mar mountain chain. Dybo’s scholars had determined that the Mar’toolarians were correct, but it remained for him to get Len-Honlab, the ancient and stubborn governor of Chu’toolar, to concede the point.
Judicial matters also made demands on Dybo’s time. In addition to being the highest level of appeal, the Emperor had to approve or reject all laws proposed by the legislature. For instance, he’d been wrestling with a new rule that would require anyone killing an animal for food purposes inside a city to drag the uneaten part of the carcass outside the municipal boundary.
Despite these pressures, Dybo always cleared ample time to eat. Unlike most Quintaglios, who ate a major meal only every five days, Dybo liked to dig his muzzle into a steaming haunch every other afternoon. Many people requested mealtime audiences with the Emperor, common belief being that he reacted more favorably to requests when his stomach was not growling. Still, there were certain friends and advisors with whom Dybo dined regularly, and, by long custom, on every fortieth day he shared his meal with Afsan.
In his youth, Dybo had been fond of scatological insults. His age and his office had changed that, but, as Afsan entered the private room at the back of the imperial dining hall, it sounded briefly as though the old Dybo was back. “Why, Afsan,” declared the Emperor, his rich voice filling the large chamber, “you look like a pile of hornface droppings.”
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.