Foreigner, Page 3

  Light from the lamp flame seemed to lap at the walls. Quavering specters danced behind her. Novato tried to shut it all out, to concentrate on her work. She’d been here a thousand times, she reminded herself. A thousand times. There were no ghosts here. Nothing to fear.

  Those terrorclaws had rattled her…

  Be calm. There was no reason to be afraid.

  What was that?

  A sound?

  Ridiculous.

  But there it was again.

  Someone calling her name, perhaps?

  Novato’s tail swished as she turned around—

  Her heart skipped a beat—

  God, no!

  But it was too late.

  She knocked over her lamp, the glass housing shattering. Thunderbeast oil spilled everywhere. Flames shot up as the puddle ignited. Novato backed away from the inferno.

  A voice.

  Just at the limit of perception, a voice.

  Afsan craned his neck, trying to hear. Around him all was darkness, but from somewhere in that abyss came the voice.

  The tone was doleful, plaintive, and the words were elusive. Afsan thought he could catch the occasional pronoun—“I,” “you,” “we”—but that was all. The rest was a lilting blur, rising and falling like heavy sighs.

  Afsan ran toward the voice, ran the way he had ages ago when he could see. The sound of his feet slapping the ground echoed behind him, drowning out the very words he was desperate to hear. He stopped, but his heart was pounding deafeningly now. Cupping a hand behind each earhole, he tried to isolate the mournful voice. Earlier it had been to the left. Now, maddeningly, it seemed to be behind him. He ran again, back the way he’d come.

  More snatches of speech: “I.” “You.” “We.” The rest was a smudge of sound, unintelligible, lost on the wind.

  Afsan stopped running again, cocked his head, strained to listen. It seemed now that the dim voice was up ahead. He hurried in that direction but already it was clear that the source was moving yet again. “Wait!” cried Afsan as the source of the sound shifted again. “Wait for me!”

  He ran until he could run no more. The voice was still too far away for him to catch anything more than the odd isolated word.

  “I—”

  From behind him now. Afsan pivoted and ran to the rear.

  “You—”

  The left! He hurried in that direction.

  “We—”

  The right.

  Again and again, forever.

  The creature staring out at Toroca and Captain Keenir looked something like a Quintaglio. All the same parts were there: two arms ending in five-fingered hands; two legs ending in feet with three toeclaws and a heel spur; a tail, triangular in cross section, hanging off the back; a thick, dexterous neck with, in males, as this one apparently was, the folds of an uninflated dewlap suspended from the front; a head looking round in full view but front-heavy with a drawn-out muzzle in profile; two nostrils at the tip of the muzzle; small earholes; forward-facing eyes.

  And yet, at the same time, the—the other didn’t look like a Quintaglio at all. The leathery hides of Quintaglios are predominantly green, shaded with yellow and brown, and, in the very old, mottled with black. But this being was almost completely yellow, with gray highlights. And its eyes, rather than being the black of Quintaglio orbs, were pale yellow with gold irises and clearly visible pupils. The earholes, instead of being the kidney-shaped openings most Quintaglios had, were vertical slits. And the shape of the muzzle, well…it was pinched, caved in on either side, coming to a narrower and sharper point than normal for a Quintaglio. The head also seemed big for the body, and the body was thin and puny by Quintaglio standards. The net effect of all these differences in color and shape and proportion was to make the other look wrong, malformed.

  Quintaglios usually sported a decorative sash, and possibly a hat or tool belt. This creature was completely naked save for a copper necklace, two bracelets on one arm and three on the other, and a small band around his right ankle.

  The Other just stood there, head tilted slightly, hands hanging free, claws retracted. But Keenir, Captain Var-Keenir of the good ship Dasheter, continued to bob in territorial display.

  Toroca thought the sailor’s reaction a bizarre one and wondered fleetingly if the captain was only feigning the display as a form of greeting, but, no, the extended claws and the jaws hanging loosely open showing curving, serrated teeth made clear that this was a true instinctive display.

  The Other was thirty paces away, too distant to constitute an encroachment on Keenir’s territory, and he was giving no sign of replying to Keenir’s bobbing. Surely the combination of a lack of response and the distance between them would snap Keenir out of it—

  Not a chance. Keenir burst into action, his body tipped over so that his torso was held horizontally, parallel to the sands of the beach, his tail flying out behind him.

  The Other took a few beats to react…a few fatal beats. By the time he had turned around, ready to retreat into the vegetation, Keenir was almost upon him. The captain crouched low, then leapt, hurtling through the air. He landed on the Other’s narrow yellow back, slamming him into the sands.

  The captain was more than twice the Other’s size. Keenir arched his own neck, preparing for a killing bite, but the Other managed to roll the two of them onto their sides then jab his elbow into the underside of Keenir’s muzzle. Quintaglio lower jawbones aren’t fused at the front; they can split to facilitate the bolting of meat. By bringing his elbow in underneath Keenir’s jaw, the Other forced the two halves to separate—excruciating when not done under voluntary control. Keenir yelped and scrambled for his feet. The Other clawed sand, also trying to regain his footing.

  Toroca had stood frozen, startled by the sight of the Other, and confounded by Keenir’s bizarre reaction, but now he, too, sprang into action, running toward the combatants. The Other seemed not to be in the territorial frenzy of dagamant which now gripped Keenir; his elbow-to-the-chin trick had been a calculated, intelligent move. Toroca hoped that if the Other could get away, he’d do just that instead of turning to attack. Toroca ran toward them, divots of moist sand flying out behind his footfalls. He’d broken up a territorial fight once before but this would be a lot harder. Keenir was huge and powerful. A shearing bite from his massive jaws could decapitate Toroca; a blow from his arms could crush Toroca’s throat.

  Toroca was about to leap onto Keenir’s back when another strategy occurred to him. Bending low, he scooped up a handful of sand. Here, back from the breaking waves, it was mostly dry. He tossed it in Keenir’s face. Instinctively, Keenir brought his hands up to try to get the grit out of his eyes, and, in that moment, the Other made it to his feet and began to run toward the wall of vegetation. But Keenir was only momentarily distracted. Although he kept one black eye closed, grit presumably still stinging him, he rose up, a mountain of green flesh, and gave chase.

  There was no contest at all. Keenir’s stride was half again as long as the Other’s. He was upon the hapless yellow being in a few moments, the captain’s jaw swinging wide, the lower jawbones splitting apart (this time under Keenir’s direction), his curving white fangs, slick with spit, glinting in the harsh sunlight. And then, with a dart of the neck, Keenir scooped a vast track of flesh from the Other’s shoulder and back. Death was instantaneous; the Other crumpled, blood surging onto the sands. Keenir tipped his head up and let out a long, primal roar.

  Toroca surveyed the scene. The beach was covered with footprints, dents left by bodies slamming into the sand, and splatters of blood. And here, at the end of the trail, Captain Keenir crouched on top of a strange yellow corpse, his muzzle shiny and red, stringy meat caught between his teeth.

  The first encounter between Quintaglios and Others had not gone well.

  Chapter 3

  Emperor Dy-Dybo was constantly busy. His principal concern was the exodus project, but he knew it would be many kilodays before the world came to an end—indeed, the
world would doubtless outlive him. That meant he could not ignore more prosaic matters. During a typical day, Dybo dealt with many issues related to the economy, including, for example, improving bilateral trade with Edz’toolar province, whose storm-swept coast made it difficult for ships to land.

  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’toolar 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?

  Yes. Surely yes, she thought. A bend to the right here, one to the left not much farther after that. Be calm!