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“Eyes are the senses’ gluttons,” Onimi chortled. “They always want more, but they often tell us less.”

But brighter lights came up, revealing the thing.

Sleek, that was the first impression. The glasslike surface curved into four long lozenges that sharpened almost to needles on one end and ended rounded on the other. The lobes were joined around a central axis, though she could not see how. She was reminded of the taaphur, a sea creature that existed now only as a genetic blueprint in the memory qahsa of the shapers and in its biotechnological derivatives.

Damaged, that was the second impression. The life that hummed beneath her fingers flickered in some places and was absent in others, where the hull—yes, hull—had gone dark.

“This is a ship,” Nen Yim murmured, more to herself than to the useless Onimi. “A living ship, but not Yuuzhan Vong. This came from one of the infidel peoples?”

“Folds the mystery, and folds again to crumple, our chart is all torn.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Nen Yim asked, impatiently.

For answer, Onimi reached for her. Her tendrils prickled, bumps rose on her flesh, and her nostrils flared.

But he did not touch her. He handed her something instead—a small, portable qahsa.

“Secrets are like knives,” he said softly. “Of your tongue a secret make, and your mouth is cut.”

He left, then, and she watched him go with disdain. Idiotic, to warn her of secrets. She was a heretic, a heretic secretly kept by the Supreme Overlord. Everything she did was done in obscurity.

“Master Nen Yim?”

Nen Yim looked up from the qahsa. Her junior assistant Qelah Kwaad stood a few feet away, a look of great concern on her face.

“Adept,” Nen Yim acknowledged softly.

“I hope it is not too impertinent, but my project—”

“I will examine your progress in due time,” Nen Yim said. “My time.”

Qelah Kwaad’s tendrils retracted a bit. “Yes, Master Yim,” she replied.

“And, Adept?”

“Yes, Master Yim?”

“I understand you are not used to the presence of Onimi and the effect he can have. But I will not have my subordinates laughing behind my back. Is that understood?”

The adept’s eyes grew round with consternation.

“Master Yim, you cannot believe—”

“Do not use the word can in reference to me, Adept, in either the affirmative or negative form. What I can and cannot do is entirely beyond your control.”

“Yes, Master.”

Nen Yim sighed. “It is bad enough, Adept, that we have to bear the presence of such an abomination. It is worse to let him know he has caused amusement.”

“I understand, Master Yim. But—why? Why must we bear his presence at all? He is a Shamed One, cursed by the gods.”

“He is Supreme Overlord Shimrra’s jester, and, when it pleases him, his emissary.”

“I don’t understand. How can such a thing be? A jester, yes, but to entrust him with secret information—”

“What secret information might that be, Adept?” Nen Yim asked sharply.

“Your pardon, Master Yim, but the jester came, took you to the restricted area, and you returned with a portable qahsa. It seems obvious that he revealed something to you.”

Nen Yim studied the adept appraisingly.

“Just so,” she said. “You are correct. But perhaps you ought to concentrate more on your work and less on my activities.”

Again, the adept looked abashed.

“You have great promise, Qelah Kwaad,” Nen Yim said. “But in this place, we must all take care. We live outside the world of our people, and this place has rules of its own.”

The adept straightened. “I am proud of my service here, Master. The Supreme Overlord has vindicated what the other shapers see as heresy.”

“He has not,” Nen Yim said. “Not publicly. Nor will he. Have you not noticed the guards?”

“Of course we are guarded. Our work is of great importance. If the infidels learn of us, they will surely try to destroy us.”

“That is true,” Nen Yim told her. “But a wall that keeps something out can also keep something in. No warrior, no priest, no outside shaper will ever learn what we do here. Shimrra values our heresy,