EIGHT - WARNING

When Nafai and Issib got home, Truzhnisha was still there. She had spent the day cooking, replenishing the meals in the freezer. But there was nothing hot and fresh for tonight’s meal. Father was not one to let his housekeeper indulge his sons.

Truzhnisha saw at once, of course, how disappointed Nafai was. “How should I have known you were coming home for supper tonight?”

“We do sometimes.”

“So I take your father’s money and buy food and prepare it to be eaten hot and fresh on the table, and then nobody comes home at all. It happens as often as not, and then the meal is wasted because I prepare it differently for freezing.”

“Yes, you overcook everything,” said Issib.

“So it will be nice and soft for your feeble jaws,” she said.

Issib growled at her-in the back of his throat, like a dog. It was the way they played with each other. Only Truzhya could play with him by exaggerating his weakness; only with Truzhya did Issib ever grunt or growl, in mockery of a manly strength that would always be out of his reach.

“Your frozen stuff is all right, anyway,” said Nafai.

“Thankyou,” she said. Her exaggerated tone told him that she was offended at what he had said. But he had meant it sincerely, as a compliment. Why did everybody always think he was being sarcastic or insulting when he was just trying to be nice? Somewhere along the way he really had to learn what the signals were that other people were forever detecting in his speech, so that they were always so sure that he was trying to be offensive.

“Your father is out in the stables, but he wants to talk to the both of you.”

“Separately?” asked Issib.

“Now, slnpuld I know this? Should I form you into a line outside his door?”

“Yes, you should,” said Issib. Then he snapped his jaws at her, like a dog biting. “If you weren’t such a worthless old goat.”

“Mind who you’re calling worthless, now,” she said, laughing.

Nafai watched in awe. Issib could say genuinely insulting things, and she took it as play. Nafai complimented her cooking, and she took it as an insult. I should go out in the desert and become a wilder, thought Nafai, Except, of course, that only women could be wilders, protected from injury by both custom and law. In fact, on the desert a wilder woman was treated better than in the city-desert folk wouidn’t lay a hand on the holy women, and they left them water and food when they noticed them. But a man living alone out on the desert was likely to be robbed and killed within a day. Besides, thought Nafai, I haven’t the faintest idea of how to live in the desert. Father and Elemak do, but even then they only do it by carrying a lot of supplies with them. Out on the desert without supplies, they’d die as fast as I would. The difference is, they’d be surprised that they were dying, because they think they know how to survive there.

“Are you awake, Nafai?” asked Issib.

“Mm? Yes, of course.”

“So you plan to keep that food sitting in front of you as a pet?”

Nafai looked down and saw that Truzhya had slid a loaded plate in front of him. “Thanks,” he said.

“Giving food to you is like leaving it on the graves of your ancestors,” said Truzhya.

They don’t say thanks,” said Nafai.

“O h, he said thanks,” she grumbled.

“Well what am I supposed to say?” asked Nafai.

“Just eat your supper,” said Issib.

“I want to know what was wrong with my saying thanks!”

“She was joking with you,” said Issib. “She w&splaying. You’ve got no sense of humor, Nyef.”

Nafai took a bite and chewed it angrily. So she was joking. How was he supposed to know that?

The gate swung open. A scuff of sandals, and then a door opening and closing immediately. It was Father, then, since he was the only one in the family who could reach his room without coming in view of the kitchen door. Nafai started to get up, to go see him.

“Finish your supper first,” said Issib.

“He didn^t say it was an emergency,” added Truzh-msha.

“He didn’t say it wasn^” answered Nafai. He continued on out of the room.

Behind him, Issib called out. “Tell him I’ll be there in a second.”

Nafai stepped out into the courtyard, crossed in front of the gate, and entered the door into Father’s public room. He wasn’t there. Instead he was back in the library, with a book in the computer display that Nafai instantly recognized as the Testament of the Oversoul, perhaps the oldest of the holy writings, from a time so ancient that, according to the stories, the men’s and women’s religions were the same.

“She comes to you in the shadows of sleep,” Nafai said aloud, reading from the first line on the screen.

“She whispers to you in the fears of your heart,” Father answered.

“In the bright awareness of your eyes and in the dark stupor of your ignorance, there is her wisdom,” Nafai continued.

“Only in her silence are you alone. Only in her silence are you wrong. Only in her silence should you despair.” Father sighed. “It’s all here, isn’t it, Nafai?”

“The Oversoul isn’t a man or a woman,” said Nafai.

“Right, yes, of course, you know all about what the Oversoul is,”

Father’s tone was so weary that Nafai decided it wasn’t worth arguing theology with him tonight. “You wanted to see me.”

“You and Issib.”

“He’ll be here in a second.”

As if on cue, Issib drifted through the door, still eating some cheesebread.

“Thank you for bringing crumbs into my library,” said Father.

“Sorry,” said Issib; he reversed direction and started floating out the door.

“Come back,” said Father. “I don’t care about the crumbs.”

Issib came back.

“There’s talk all over Basilica about the two of you.”

Nafai traded glances with Issib. “We’ve just been doing some library research.”

“The women are saying that the Oversoul is speaking to no one but you.”

“We aren’t exactly getting clear messages from it,” said Nafai. .

“Mostly we’ve just been monopolizing it by stimulating its aversive reflexes,” said Issib.

“Mmm,” said Father.

“But we’ve stopped,” said Issib. “That’s why we came home.”

“We didn’t want to interfere,” said Nafai.

“Nafai prayed, though, on the way home,” said Issib. “It was pretty impressive stuff.”

Father sighed. “Oh, Nafai, if you’ve learned anything from me, couldn’t you have learned that jabbing yourself and bleeding all over the place has nothing to do with prayer to the Oversoul?”

“Right,” said Nafai. “This from the man who suddenly comes home with a vision of fire on a rock. I thought all bets were off.”

“I got my vision without bleeding,” said Father. “But never mind. I was hoping that the two of you might have received something from the Oversoul that would help me.”

Nafai shook his head.

“No,” said Issib. “Mostly what we got from the Oversoul was that stupor of thought. It was trying to keep us from thinking forbidden thoughts.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” said Father. “I’m on my own.”

“On your own with what?” asked Issib.

“Gaballufix sent word to me through Elemak today. It seems that Gaballufix is as unhappy as I am about the situation in Basilica today. If he had known that this war wagon business would cause such controversy he would never have begun it. He said that he wanted me to set up a meeting between him and Roptat. All Gaballufix really wants now is to find a way to back down without losing face-he says that all he needs is for Roptat also to back down, so that we don’t make an alliance with anybody.”

“So have you set up a meeting with Roptat?”

“Yes,” said Father. “At dawn, at the coolhouse east of Market Gate.”

“It sounds to me,” said Nafai, “like Gaballufix has come around to the City Party’s way of thinking.”

“That’s how it sounds” said Father.

“But you don’t believe him,” said Issib.

“I don’t know,” said Father. “His position is the only reasonable, intelligent one. But when has Gaballufix ever been reasonable or intelligent? All the years I’ve known him, even when he was a young man, before he maneuvered himself into the clan leadership, he’s never done anything that wasn’t designed to advance him relative to other people. There are always two ways of doing that-by building yourself up and by tearing your rivals down. In all these years, I’ve seen that Gaballufix has a definite preference for the latter.”

“So you think he’s using you,” said Nafai. “To get at Roptat.”

“Somehow he will betray Roptat and destroy him,” said Father. “And in the end, I’ll look back and see how he used me to help him accomplish that. I’ve seen it before.”

“So why are you helping him?” asked Issib.

“Because there’s a chance, isn’t there? A chance that he means what he’s saying. If I refuse to mediate between them, then it’ll be my fault if things get worse in Basilica than they already are. So I have to take him at face value, don’t I?”

“All you can do is your best,” said Nafai, echoing Father’s own pat phrase from many previous conversations.

“Keep your eyes open,” said Issib, echoing another of Father’s epigrams.

“Yes,” said Father. “I’ll do that.”

Issib nodded wisely.

“Father,” said Nafai. “May I go with you in the morning?”

Father shook his head.

“I want to. And maybe I can see something that you miss. Like while you’re talking or something, I can be looking at other people and seeing their reactions. I could really help.”

“No,” said Father. “I won’t be a credible mediator if I have others with me.”

But Nafai knew that wasn’t true. “I think you’re afraid that something ugly will happen and you don’t want me there.

Father shrugged. “I have my fears. I am a father.”

“But I’m not afraid, Father.”

“Then apparently you’re stupider than I feared,” said Father. “Go to bed now, both of you.”

“It’s way too early for that,” said Issib.

“Then dwft go to bed.”

Father turned away from them and faced the computer display again.

It was a clear signal of dismissal, but Nafai couldn’t keep himself from questioning him. “If the Oversoul isn’t speaking to you directly, Father, why do you hope to find anything helpful in its ancient, dead words?”

Father sighed and said nothing.

“Nafai,” said Issib, “let Father contemplate in peace.”

Nafai followed Issib out of the library. “Why won’t anybody ever answer my questions?”

“Because you never stop asking them,” said Issib, “and especially because you keep asking them even when it’s clear that nobody knows the answers.”

“Well how do I know that they don’t know the answer unless I ask?”

“Go to your room and think dirty thoughts or something,” said Issib. “Why can’t you just act like a normal fourteen-year-old?”

“Right,” said Nafai. “Like I’m supposed to be the one normal person in the family.”

“Somebody’s got to do it.”

“Why do you think Meb was at the temple?”

“To pray for you to get a hemorrhoid every time you ask a question.”

“No, that’s why you were at the temple. Can you imagine Meb praying?”

“And marking up his beautiful body?” Issib laughed.

They were in the courtyard, in front of Issib’s room. They heard a footstep and turned to see Mebbekew standing in the kitchen door. The kitchen had been dark; they had assumed that Truzhnisha had gone and that no one was in there. Meb must have overheard all their conversation.

Nafai couldn’p think of anything to say. Of course, that didn’t mean he held his tongue. “I guess you didn’t stay long in the temple, did you, Meb?”

“No,” said Meb. “But I did pray, if it’s any of your business.”

Nafai was ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Issib wasn’t. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Show me a scab, then,”

“I have a question for you first, Issya,” said Meb.

“Sure,” said Issib.

“Do you have a float attached to your private lever to hold it up when you pee? Or do you just let it dribble down like a girl?”

It was too dark for Nafai to see whether Issib was blushing or not. All he was sure of was that Issib said nothing, just glided from the courtyard into his room.

“Bravely done,” said Nafai. “Taunting a cripple.”

“He called me a liar,” said Meb. “Was I supposed to kiss him?”

“He was joking.”

“It wasn’t funny.” Mebbekew went back into the kitchen.

Nafai went into his room, but he didn’t feel like going to bed. He felt sweaty, even though the night was fairly chilly. His skin itched. It had to be the residue of blood and disinfectant from the temple fountain. Nafai didn’t relish the idea of using soap on his wounds, but the slimy itchiness would be unbearable, too. So he stripped and went to the shower. This time he rinsed first, shockingly cold despite the day’s wanning of the water. And it stung bitterly to soap himself-perhaps worse now than when the wounds were first inflicted, though he knew that this was probably subjective. The pain of the moment is always the worst, Father had often said.

As he was soaping in miserable dark silence, he saw Elemak come in. He went directly into Father’s rooms, and emerged not long after to lock the gate. And not just the outer gate; the inner one, too. That wasn’t the usual thing; indeed, Nafai couldn’t remember when he had last seen the inner gate locked. Maybe there was a storm once. Or a time when they were training a dog and kept it between the gates at night. But there was neither storm nor dog now.

Elemak went into his room. Nafai pulled the cord and plunged himself again in icy water, rubbing at his wounds to get the soap out before the water stopped flowing. Curse Father for his absurd insistence on toughening his sons and making men of them! Only the poor had to bathe in a sudden flow of cold water like this!

It took two rinsings this time, with a long wet wait in the chilly breeze for the shower tank to refill. When he finally got back to his room, Nafai was chattering and shaking with the cold, and even when he was dry and dressed again, he couldn’t seem to get warm. He almost closed the door to his room, which would have triggered the heating system-but he and his brothers always competed to see who could be last to start closing the door of his room in the wintertime, and he wasn’t about to surrender that battle tonight, confessing that a little prayer had weakened him so much. Instead he pulled all his clothes out of his chest and piled them on top of himself where he lay on his mat.

There was no comfortable position for sleeping, of course, but lying on his side was least painful. Anger and pain and worry kept him from sleeping easily; he felt as though he hadn’t slept at all, listening to the small sounds of the others getting ready for sleep, and then the endless silence of the courtyard at night. Now and then a birdcall, or a wild dog in the hills, or a soft restless sound from the horses in the stable or the pack animals in the barns.

And then he must have slept, or how else could he have woken up so suddenly, startled. Was it a sound that woke him? Or a dream? What was he dreaming, anyway? Something dark and fearful. He was trembling, but it wasn’t cold-in fact, he was sweating heavily under his pile of clothing,

He got up and tossed the clothes back into his chest. He tried to be quiet about opening and closing the box-he didn’t want to waken anyone else. Every movement caused him pain. He must be fevered, he realized-he had the stiffness in his muscles, and the hotness under his covers. And yet his thinking seemed remarkably clear, and all his senses. If this was a fever, it was a strange one, for he had never felt so vivid and alive. In spite of the pain-or because of it-he felt as though he would hear it if a mouse ran across a beam in the stable.

He walked out into the courtyard and stood there in silence. The moon wasn’t up yet, but the stars were many and bright on this clear night. The gate was still locked. But why had he wondered? What was he afraid of? What had he seen in his dream?

Meb’s and Elya’s doors were closed. What a laugh- here I am, wounded and sore, and I keep my door open, while these two go ahead and close their doors like little children.

Or maybe it’s only little children who care about such meaningless contests of manliness.

It was colder than ever outside, and now he had cooled off the feverishness that had made him get up. But still he didn’t return to his room, though he meant to. In fact, it finally dawned on him that he had already decided several times to return to his room, and each time his mind had wandered and he hadn’t taken a step.

The Oversoul, he thought. The Oversoul wants me to be up. Perhaps wants me to be doing something. But what?

At this point in the month, the fact that the moon had not yet risen meant that it was a good three hours before dawn. Two hours, then, before Father was supposed to arise and go to his rendezvous at the cool house, where the plants from the icy north were nurtured and propagated.

Why was the meeting being held there)

Nafai felt an inexplicable desire to go outside and look northeast across the Tsivet Valley toward the high hills on the other side, where the Music Gate marked the southeast limit of Basilica. It was silly, and the noise of opening the gates might waken someone. But by now Nafai knew that the Oversoul was involved with him tonight, trying to keep him from going back to bed; couldn’t this impulse to go outside also come from the Oversoul? Hadn’t Nafai prayed today-couldn’t this be an answer? Wasn’t it possible that this desire to go outside was like the impulse Father had felt, that took him from the Desert Road to the place where he saw the vision of fire?

Wasn’t it possible that Nafai, too, was about to receive a vision from the Oversoul?

He walked smoothly, quietly to the gate and lifted the heavy bar. No noises; his senses and reflexes were so alert and alive that he could move with perfect silence. The gate creaked slightly as he opened it-but he didn’t have to open it widely in order to slip through.

The outer gate was more often used, and so it worked more easily, and quietly, having been better maintained. Nafai stepped outside just as the moon first showed an arc over the top of the Seggidugu Mountains to the east. He headed out to walk around the house to where he could see the cool house, but before he had taken a few steps he realized that he could hear a sound coming from the traveler’s room.

As was the custom in all the households in this part of the world, every house had a room whose door opened to the outside and was never locked-a decent place where a traveler could come and take refuge from storm or cold or weariness. Father took the obligation of hospitality to strangers more seriously than most, pro- viding not ju^t a room, but also a bed and clean linen, and a cupboard provisioned with traveling food. Nafai wasn’t sure which servant had responsibility for the room, but he knew it was often used and just as often replenished. So he should not be surprised at the idea that someone might be inside.

And yet he knew that he must stop at the door and peer inside.

Scant light fell into the traveler’s room from the crack in the door. He opened it wider, and the light spilled onto the bed, where he found himself looking into the wide eyes of-Luet.

“You,” he whispered.

“You,” she answered. She sounded relieved.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Who’s with you?”

“I’m alone,” she said. “I wasn’t sure who I was coming to. Whose house. I’ve never been outside of the city walls before.”

“When did you get here?”

“Just now. The Oversoul led me.”

Of course. “To what purpose?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “To tell my dream, I think. It woke me.”

Nafai thought of his own dream, which he couldn’t remember.

“I was so-glad,” she said. “That the Oversoul had spoken again. But the dream was terrible.”

“What was it?”

“Is it you I’m supposed to tell?” she asked.

“I should know?” he answered. “But I’m here.”

“Did the Oversoul bring you out here?”

With the question put so directly, he couldn’t evade it. “Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll tell you. It makes sense, actually, that it be your family. Because there are so many people who hate your father because of his vision and his courage in proclaiming it.”

“Yes,” he said. And then, to prompt her: “The dream.”

“I saw a man alone on foot, walking in the straight. He was walking through snow. Only I knew that it was tonight, even though there’s not a speck of snow on the ground. Do you understand how I can know something, even though it’s different from what the dream actually shows me?”

Remembering the conversation on the portico a week ago, Nafai nodded.

“So there was snow, and yet it was tonight. The moon was up. I knew it was almost dawn. And as the man walked along, two men wearing hoods sprang out into the road in front of him, holding blades. He seemed to know them, in spite of the hoods. And he said, ‘Here’s my throat. I carry no weapon. You could have killed me at any time, even when I knew you were my enemy. Why did you need to deceive me into trusting you first? Were you afraid that death wouldn’t bother me enough, unless I felt betrayed?’“

Nafai had already made the connection between her dream and Father’s meeting, only a few hours away. “Gaballufix,” said Nafai.

Luet nodded. “Now I understand that-but I didn’t until I realized this was your father’s house.”

“No-Gaballufix arranged a meeting for Father and Roptat and him this morning, at the coolhouse.”

“The snow,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s always got frost in the corners.”

“And Roptat,” she whispered. “That explains-the next part of the dream.”

Tell me,”

“One hooded man reached out and uncovered the face of his companion. For a moment I thought I saw a grin on his face, but then my vision clarified and I realized it wasn’t his face that had the smile. It was his throat, slit clear back to the spine. As I watched him, his head lolled back and the wound in his throat opened completely, as if it were a mouth, trying to scream. And the man-the one that was me in the dream-”

“I understand,” said Nafai. “Father.”

“Yes. Only I didn’t know that.”

“Right,” said Nafai. Impatiently, urging her to get on with it.

“Your father, if it was your father, said, ‘I suppose it will be said that I killed him.’ And the hooded man says, ‘And you did, in very truth, my dear kinsman.’“

“He would say that,” said Nafai. “So Roptat is supposed to die, too.”

“I’m not done,” said Luet. “Or rather, the dream wasn’t finished. Because the man-your father-said, ‘And who will they say killed me? And the hooded one said, ‘Not me. I’d never lift a hand against you, for I love you dearly. I will merely find your body here, and your bloody-handed murderers standing over it.’ Then he laughed and disappeared back into the shadows.”

“So he doesn’t kill Father.”

“No. Your father turned around then and saw two other hooded men standing behind him. And even though they didn’t speak or lift their hoods, he knew them. I felt this terrible sadness. ‘You couldn’t wait,’ he said to the one. “You couldn’t forgive me,’ he said to the other. And .then they reached out with their blades and killed him.”

“No, by the Oversoul,” said Nafai. “They wouldn’t do it.”

“Who? Do you know?”

“Tell no one of this last part of the dream,” said Nafai. “Swear it to me with your most awful oath.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” she said.

“My brothers are all home tonight,” said Nafai. “Not lying in wait for Father.”

“Is that who the hooded men are, then? Your brothers?”

“No!” he said. “Never.”

She nodded. “I’ll give you no oath. Only my promise. If your father is saved from death by my having come here, then I’ll tell no one else of this part of the dream.”

“Not even Hushidh,” he said.

“But I make you another promise,” she said. “If your father dies, I’ll know that you didn’t warn him. And that the hooded ones in the dream included you -because to know of the plot and fail to warn him is exactly the same as holding the charged-wire blade in your own hands.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” said Nafai. He was angry for a moment, that she would think he needed to be taught the ethics of this situation. But then his thoughts moved on, as Luet’s warning clarified other things that had happened that day. “That’s why Meb went to pray,” said Nafai, “and why Elya locked the inner gate. They knew-or maybe they just suspected something-and yet they were afraid to tell. That’s what the dream meant-not that they would ever lift a hand against Father, but rather that they knew and were afraid to warn him.”

She nodded. “It often works that way in dreams,” she said. “That would be a true meaning, and it doesn’t empty my head when I think that thought.^

“Maybe the Oversoul itself doesn’t know.”

She reached out and patted his hand. It made him feel like a child, even though she was younger and much smaller than he. He resented her for it.

“The Oversoul knows,” she said.

“Not everything,” he said.

“Everything that can be known,” she said. She walked to the door of the traveler’s room. “Tell no one that I came,” she said.

“Except Father,” he said.

“Can’t you say that it was your dream?”

“Why?” asked Nafai. “Your dream he would believe. Mine would be-nothing to him.”

“You underestimate your father. And the Oversoul, too, I think. And yourself.” She stepped out into the moonlit yard in front of the house. She started to turn right, heading for Ridge Road.

“No,” he whispered, catching her arm-small and frail indeed, she was a girl so young and little-boned. “Don’t pass in front of the gate.”

She gave him a questioning look, eyes wide, reflecting the moon, which was half-risen now over his shoulder.

“Perhaps I woke someone when I opened it,” he explained.

She nodded. “I’ll go around the house on the other side.”

“Luet,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Will you be safe, going home now?”

“The moon is up,” she said. “And the guard at the Funnel Gate will give me no trouble. The Oversoul made him sleep when I passed before.”

“Luet,” he said, calling her back again.

Again she stopped, waited for his words.

“Thank you,” he said. The words were nothing compared to what he felt in his heart. She had saved his father’s life-and it was a brave thing for a girl who had never left the city to come all this way in the starlight, guided only by a dream.

She shrugged. “The Oversoul sent me. Thank her .” Then she was gone.

Nafai returned to the gate, and this time deliberately made some noise coming in and latching it. If one of his brothers was listening or watching, he didn’t want his return to surprise him. Let him hear and go back to his room before I come through the inner gate.

As he had hoped, the courtyard was empty when he returned. He went straight to Father’s room, through the public room and the library to the private place where he slept alone. There he lay on the bare floor, without a mat of any kind, his white beard spilling onto the stone. Nafai stood there a moment, imagining the throat cut open and the beard stained brownish red with the gush of blood.

Then he noticed that Father’s eyes were shining. He was awake.

“Are you the one?” whispered Father.

“What do you mean?” asked Nafai.

Father sat up, slowly, wearily. “I had a dream. It was nothing-just my fear.”

“Someone else had a dream tonight,” said Nafai. “I talked to her just now in the traveler’s room. But it’s better if you tell no one that she was here.”

“Who?”

“Luet,” he said. “And her dream was to warn you of the meeting tonight. There’s murder waiting for you if you go.”

Father sprang to his feet and turned on the light. Nafai blinked in the brightness of it. “Then it wasn’t just a dream I had.”

“I’m beginning to think there are no meaningless dreams,” said Nafai. “I also dreamed, and it woke me, and the Oversoul brought me outside to talk to her.”

“Murder waiting for me. I can guess the rest. He’ll murder Roptat also, and make it look like one of us killed the other, and then someone else killed the murderer, and only then will Gaballufix arrive, probably with several believable witnesses who can swear that the murders took place before Gabya arrived. They’ll tell of how shocked he was by the bloody scene. Why didn’t I see it myself? How else could he get me and Roptat to the same place at the same time, with no followers or witnesses about?”

“So you won’t go,” said Nafai.

“Yes,” said Father. “I’ll go, yes.”

“No!”

“But not to the coolhouse,” said Father. “Because my dream showed me something else.”

“What?”

“Tents,” he said. “My tents, spread wide in the desert sun. If we stay, Gaballufix will only try again, in some other way. And-there are other reasons for leaving. For getting my sons out of this city before it destroys them.”

Nafai knew that Father’s dream must have been terrible indeed. Did it show him that one of his sons would kill him? That would explain Father’s first words-Are you the one?

“So we’re going into the desert?”

“Yes,” said Father.

“When?”

“Now, of course.”

“Now? Today?”

“Now, tonight. Before dawn. So we’re over the ridge before his men can see us.”

“But won’t we pass right by Gaballufix’s household, where Twisting Trail crosses Desert Road?”

“There’s a back way,” said Father. “Not the best for camels, but we’ll have to do it. It puts us on Desert Road well past Gabya’s place. Now come, help me waken your brothers.”

“No,” said Nafai.

Father turned to him, puzzlement making him hesitate to express his anger at being disobeyed.

“Luet asked-that no one be told it was her. And she was right. They shouldn’t know about me, either. It should be your dream.”

“Why?” asked Father. “To have three be touched tonight by the Oversoul-”

“Because if it’s your dream, then they’ll wonder what you know, what you saw. But if there are others, then to them it will seem that we’re fooling and manipulating you. They’ll argue. They’ll resist you. And you have to bring them with you, Father.”

Father nodded. “You’re very wise,” he said. “For a boy of fourteen.”

But Nafai knew he was not wise. He simply had the benefit of knowing the rest of Luet’s dream. If Meb and Elya stayed behind, they would be wholly swallowed up in Gaballufix’s machinations. They would lose what decency remained in them. And there must be goodness in them. Perhaps they even planned to warn Father. Maybe that’s why Elya closed the inner gate, so that he’d be wakened by the noise Father made as he left-then he could come out and warn Father not to go!

Or perhaps he meant only to follow Father, so he could be right behind him when he came upon Roptat’s murdered body in the ice house.

No! cried Nafai inside himself. Not Elemak. It’s monstrous of me even to think that he could do that. My brothers are not murderers, not one of them.

“Go to your room,” said Father. “Or better still, to the toilet. And then come out and set an example of silent obedience. Not to me-to Elya. He knows how to pack for this kind of trip.”

“Yes, Father,” said Nafai.

At once he moved briskly from Father’s room, through the library and public room, and out into the courtyard. Elemak’s and Mebbekew’s doors were still closed. Nafai headed for the latrine, with its two walls leaving it open to the courtyard. He was only just there when he heard Father knocking on Mebbekew’s door. “Wake up, but quietly,” said Father. Then again, on Elemak’s. “Come out into the courtyard.”

He heard them all come out-Issib, too, though no one called him directly.

“Where’s Nyeft” asked Issib.

“Using the latrine,” said Father.

“Now that’s an idea,” said Meb.

“You can wait a moment,” said Father.

Nafai came out of the stall, letting the toilet wash itself automatically behind him. At least Father hadn’t made them live in a completely primitive way.

“Sorry,” said Nafai. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” Meb glowered at him, but too sleepily for Nafai to take it as a threat of a fight to come.

“We’re leaving,” Father said. “Out into the desert.”

“All of us?” asked Issib.

“I’m sorry, yes,” said Father. “You’ll be in your chair. It’s not the same as your floats, I know, but it’s something.”

“Why?” asked Elemak.

“I was warned by the Oversoul in a dream,” said Father.

Meb made a contemptuous noise and started back for his room.

“You will stand and listen,” said Father, “because if.you stay, it will not be as my son.”

Meb stood and listened, though his back was still toward Father.

“There’s a plot to kill me,” said Father. “This morning.

I was to go to a meeting with Gaballufix and Roptat, and there I was going to die.”

“Gabya gave me his word,” said Elemak. “No harm to anyone.”

So Elemak called Gaballufix by his boy-name now, did he?

“The Oversoul knows his heart better than his own mouth does,” said Father. “If I go, I’ll die. And even if I don’t, it will be only a matter of time. Now that Gaballufix has determined to kill me, my life is worthless here. I would stay in the city if I thought some purpose would be served by my dying here-I’m not afraid of it. But the Oversoul has told me to leave.”

“In a dream,” said Elemak.

“I don’t need a dream to tell me that Gaballufix is dangerous when he’s crossed,” said Father, “and neither do you. When I don’t shdw up at the coolhouse this morning, there’s no telling what Gaballufix will do. I must already be out on the desert when he discovers it. We’ll take Redstone Path.”

“The camels can’t do it,” said Elemak.

“They can because they must,” said Father. “We’ll take enough to live for a year.”

“This is monstrous, “ said Mebbekew. “I won’t do it.”

“What do we do after a year?” asked Elemak.

“The Oversoul will show me something by then,” said Father.

“Maybe things will have calmed down in Basilica enough to return,” suggested Issib.

“If we go now,” said Elemak, “Gaby^ will think you betrayed him, Father.”

“Will he?” said Father. “And if I stay, he’ll betray me?

“Said a dream.”

“Said my dream,” said Father. “I need you. Stay if you want, but not as my son.”

“I did fine not as your son,” said Mebbekew.

“No,” said Elemak. “You did fine pretending not to be his son. But everyone knew.”

“I lived from my talent.”

“You lived from theatre people’s hope of getting your father to invest in their shows-or you, in the future, out of your inheritance.”

Mebbekew looked like he had been slapped. “You too, is that it, Elya?”

“I’ll talk to you later,” said Elemak. “If Father says we’re going then we’re going-and we have no time to lose.” He turned to Father. “Not because you threatened to disinherit me, old man. But because you’re my father, and I won’t have you going out into the desert with nothing but these to help you stay alive.”

“I taught you everything you know, Elya,” said Father.

“When you were younger,” said Elemak. “And we always had servants. I assume we’re leaving them all behind.”

“Dismissing the household servants,” said Father. “While you ready the animals and the supplies, Elya, I’ll leave instructions for Rashgallivak.”

For the next hour Nafai worked with more hurry than he had ever thought possible. Everyone, even Issib, had tasks to perform, and Nafai admired Elemak all over again for his great skill at this sort of thing. He always knew exactly what needed to be done, and who should do it, and how long it should take; he also knew how to make Nafai feel like an idiot for not learning his tasks more quickly, even though he was sure that he was doing at least as well as anyone could expect, considering that it was his first time.

At last they were ready-a true desert caravan, with nothing but camels, though they were the most temperamental of the pack animals, and the least comfortable to ride. Issib’s chair was strapped to one side of a camel, bundles of powdered water on the other. The water would be for emergencies later; on the first part of their journey Father and Elemak knew all the watering places, and besides, an autumn occasional rain fell on the desert, and there would be ample water. Next summer, though, it would be drier, and then it would be too late to come back to Basilica for the precious powder. And what if they were followed, chased into untracked sections of the desert? Then they might need to pour some of the powder into a pan, light it, and watch it burn itself into water, taking oxygen from the air to accomplish it. Nafai had tasted it once-foul stuff, tinny and nasty with the chemicals used to bind the hydrogen into powdered form. But they’d be glad of it if they ever needed it.

It was Issib’s chair that would bring the least gladness. Nafai knew that this journey would be hardest on Issya, deprived of his floats, and bound into the chair. The floats made him feel as though his own body were light and strong; in the chair, he felt gravity pressing him down, and it took all his strength to operate the controls. At the end of a day in the chair Issya was always wan and exhausted. How would it be for day after day, week after week, month after month? Maybe he would grow stronger. Maybe he would grow weaker. Maybe he would die. Maybe the Oversold would sustain him.

Maybe angels would come and carry them to the moon.

It was still a good hour before dawn when they set out. They had been quiet enough that none of the servants had been wakened-or perhaps they had^ but since nobody asked them to help and they weren’t interested in volunteering for whatever mad task was going on at this hour of the night, they discreetly rolled over and went back to sleep.

Redstone Path was murderously treacherous, but the moonlight and Elemak’s instructions made it possible. Nafai was again filled with admiration for his eldest brother. Was there nothing Elya couldn’t do? Was there any hope of Nafai ever becoming so strong and competent?

At last they crossed Twisting Path, right at the crest of the highest ridge; below them stretched the desert. The first light of dawn was already strong in the east, but they had made good enough time. It was downhill now, still difficult, but not long until they reached the great plateau of the western desert. No one would follow them easily here-no one from the city, anyway. Elemak passed out pulses to all of them and made them practice aiming the tightbeam light at rocks he pointed out. Issib was pretty useless-he couldn’t hold the pulse steady enough-but Nafai was proud of the fact that he held his aim better than Father.

Whether he could actually kill a robber with it was another matter. Surely he wouldn’t have to. They were on the Oversoul’s errand here in the desert, weren’t they? The Oversoul would steer the robbers away from them. Just as the Oversoul would lead them to water and food, when they ran out of their traveling supplies.

Then Nafai remembered that this whole business began because the Oversoul wasn’t as competent as it used to be. How did he know the Oversoul could do any of those things? Or that it even had a plan? Yes, it had sent Luet to warn them, and had wakened Nafai to go hear the warning, and had sent Father his own dream. But that didn’t mean that the Oversoul actually had any intention of protecting them or even of leading them anywhere except away from the city. Who knew what the Oversoul’s plans were? Maybe all it needed was to get rid of Wetchik and his family.

With that grim thought, Nafai sat high above the desert, his leg hooked around the pommel of his saddle, as he searched in all directions for robbers, for pursuers from the city, for any strange thing on the road, for signs from the Oversoul. The only music was Mebbekew’s complaints and Elemak’s orders and the occasional splat-ting as the camels voided their bowels. Nafai’s beast, oblivious to any worries except where to put its feet, continued its rolling gait onward into the heat of day.

NINE - LIES AND DISGUISES

With the moon up, it was much easier for Luet to find her way back into the city than it had been for her to get to Wetchik’s house. Besides, now she knew her destination; it’s always easier to return home than to find a strange place.

Oddly, though, she didn’t feel a sense of danger until she got back into the city itself. The guard at the Funnel Gate was away from his post-perhaps he had been caught sleeping, or perhaps the Oversold made him think of some sudden errand. Luet had to smile to herself at the thought of the Oversoul troubling herself to make a man feel an urgent need to void his bladder, just for Luet’s safe passage.

Within the city, though, the moon was less help. In fact, since it hadn’t yet risen very high, it cast deep shadows, and the north-south streets were still in utter blackness at street level. Anyone might be abroad at this hour. Tolchocks were known to be abroad much earlier in the night, when there were still many women abroad in the streets. Now, though, in the loneliest hours before dawn, there might be much worse than tolchocks about.

“Isn’t she the pretty one?”

The voice startled her. It was a woman, though, a husky-voiced woman. It took a moment for Luet to find her in the shadows. “I’m not pretty,” she said. “In the darkness your eyes deceived you.”

It had to be a holy woman, to be on the street at this hour. As she stepped from the dark corner where she had taken shelter from the night breeze, the woman’s dirty skin showed a bit paler than the surrounding shadow. She was naked from face to foot. Seeing her, Luet felt the cold of the autumn night. As long as Luet had been moving, she had kept warm from the exercise. Now, though, she wondered how this woman could live like this, with no barrier between her skin and the chilling air except for the dirt on her body.

Mother was a wilder, thought Luet. I was born to such a one as this. She slept in the desert when I was in her womb, and carried me, as naked as she was, into the city to leave me with Aunt Rasa. Not this one, though. My mother, wherever she is, is not a holy woman anymore. Only a year after I was born she left the Oversoul to follow a man, a farmer, to a hardscrabble life in the rocky soil of the Chalvasankhra Valley. Or so Aunt Rasa said.

“Beautiful are the eyes of the holy child,” intoned the woman, “who sees in the darkness and burns with bright fire in the frozen night.”

Luet permitted the woman to touch her face, but when the cold hands started to pull at her clothing, Luet covered them with her own. “Please,” she said. “I am not holy, and the Oversoul doesn’t shield me from the cold.”

“Or from the prying eyes,” said the holy woman. “The Oversoul sees you deep, and you are holy, yes you are.”

Whose were the prying eyes? The Oversoul’s? The eyes of men who sized up women as if they were horses? Gossips’ eyes? Or this woman’s? And as for being holy-Luet knew better. The Oversoul had chosen her, yes, but not for any virtue in herself. If anything, it was a punishment, always to be surrounded by people who saw her as an oracle instead of a girl. Hushidh, her own sister, had once said to her, “I wish I had your gift; everything is so clear to you.” Nothing is clear to me, Luet wanted to say. The Oversoul doesn’t confide in me, she merely uses me to transmit messages that I don’t understand myself. Just as I don’t understand what this holy woman wants with me, or why-if the Oversoul sent her-she was sent to me.

“Don’t be afraid to take him beside the water,” said the holy woman.

“Who?” asked Luet.

“The Oversoul wants you to save him alive, no matter what the danger. There is no sacrilege in obeying the Oversoul.”

“Who?” asked Luet again. This confusion, this dread that she must decode the puzzle of these words or suffer some terrible loss-was this how others felt when she told them of her visions?

“You think all the visions should come to you ,” said the holy woman. “But some things are too clear for you to see yourself. Eh?”

I think nothing of the kind, holy woman. I never asked for visions, and I often wish they had come to other people. But if you’re going to insist on giving me some message, then have the decency to make it as intelligible as you can. It’s what I try to do,

Luet tried to keep her resentment out of her voice, but she could not resist insisting on a clarifying answer. “Who is this him that you keep talking about?”

The woman slapped her sharply across the face. It brought tears to Luet’s eyes-tears as much of shame as of pain. “What have I done?”

“I have punished you now for the defiling you will do,” said the holy woman. “It’s done, and no one can demand that you pay more.”

Luet didn’t dare ask questions again; the answer was not to her liking. Instead she studied at the woman, trying to see if there was understanding in her eyes. Was this madness after all? Did it have to be the true voice of the Oversoul? So much easier if it was madness.

The old woman reached her hand toward Luet’s cheek again. Luet recoiled a little, but the woman’s touch was gentle this time, and she brushed a tear from the hollow just under Luet’s eye. “Don’t be afraid of the blood on his hands. Like the water of vision, the Oversoul will receive it as a prayer.”

Then the holy woman’s face went slack and weary, and the light went out of her eyes. “It’s cold,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m too old,” she said.

Her hair wasn’t even gray, but yes, thought Luet, you are very, very old.

“Nothing will hold,” said the holy woman. “Silver and gold. Stolen or sold.”

She was a rhymer. Luet knew that many people thought that when a holy woman went a-rhyming, it meant that the Oversoul was speaking through her. But it wasn’t so-the rhyming was a sort of music, the voice of the trance that kept some of the holy women detached from their bleak and terrible life. It was when they stopped rhyming that there was a chance they might speak sense.

The holy woman wandered away, as if she had forgotten Luet was there. Since she seemed to have forgotten where her sheltered corner was, Luet took her by the hand and led her back there, encouraged her to sit down and curl up against the wall that blocked the wind. “Out of the wind,” whispered the holy woman. “How they have sinned.”

Luet left her there and went on into the night. The moon was higher now, but the better light did little to cheer her. Though the holy woman was harmless in herself, she had reminded Luet of how many people there might be, hiding in the shadows. And how vulnerable she was. There were stories of men who treated citizens the way that the law allowed them to deal with the holy women. But even that was not the worst fear.

There is murder in the city, thought Luet. Murder in this place, not holiness, and it is Gaballufix who first thought of it. If not for the vision and warning I carried for the Oversold, good men would have died. She shuddered again at the memory of the slit throat in her vision.

At last she came to the place where the Holy Road widened out as it descended into the valley, becoming, not a road, but a canyon, with ancient stairs carved into the rock, leading directly down to the place where the lake steamed hot with a tinge of sulphur. Those who worshiped there always kept that smell about them for days. It might be holy, but Luet found it exceedingly unpleasant and never worshiped there herself. She preferred the place where the hot and cold waters mixed and the deepest fog arose, where currents swirled their varying temperatures all around her as she floated ori the water. It was there that her body danced on the water with no volition of her own, where she could surrender herself utterly to the Oversold.

Who was the holy woman speaking about? The “him” with blood on his hands, the “he” that she could take by the waters-presumably the waters of the lake.

No, it was nothing. The holy woman was one of the mad ones, making no sense.

The only man she could think of who had blood on his hands was Gaballufix. How could the Oversoul want such a man as that to come near the holy lake? Would the time come when she would have to save Gaballufix’s life? How could such a thing possibly fit in with the purposes of the Oversoul?

She turned left onto Tower Street, then turned right onto Rain Street, which curved around until she stood before Rasa’s house. Home, unharmed. Of course. The Oversoul had protected her. The message she had delivered was not the whole purpose the Oversoul had for her; Luet would live to do other work. It was a great relief to her. For hadn’t her own mother told Aunt Rasa, on the day she put Luet as an infant into Rasa’s arms, “This one will live only as long as she serves the Mother of Mothers?” The Mother of Mothers had preserved her for another night.

Luet had expected to get back into Aunt Rasa’s house without waking anyone, but she hadn’t taken into account how the new climate of fear in the city had changed even the household of the leading housemistress of Basilica. The front door was locked on the inside. Still hoping to enter unobserved, she looked for a window she might climb through. Only now did she realize that all the windows facing the street were solely for the passage of light and air-many vertical slits in the wall, carved or sculpted with delicate designs, but with no gap wide enough to let even the head and shoulders of a child pass through.

This is not the first time there has been fear in Basilica, she thought. This house is designed to keep someone from entering surreptitiously in the night. Protection from burglars, of course; but perhaps such windows were designed primarily to keep rejected suitors and lapsed mates from forcing their way back into a house that they had come to think of as their own.

The provisions that kept a man from entering also barred Luet, slight as she was. She knew, of course, that there was no way to get around the sides of the house, since the neighboring structures leaned against the massive stone walls of Rasa’s house.

Why didn’t she guess that getting back inside would be so much harder than getting out? She had left after dark, of course, but well before the house quieted down for the evening; Hushidh knew something of her errand and would keep anyone from discovering her absence. It simply hadn’t occurred to either of them to arrange how Luet would get back in. Aunt Rasa had never locked the front door before. And later, after the Oversold had made the guard doze on the way out and had kept him away from the gate entirely on her return, Luet had assumed that the Oversoul was smoothing the way for her.

Luet thought of staying out on the porch all night. But it was cold now. As long as she had been walking, it was all right, she had stayed warm enough. Sleep, though, would be dangerous. City women, at least those of good breeding, did not own the right clothing for sleeping out of doors. What the holy women did would make her ill.

There might be another way, however. Wasn’t Aunt Rasa’s portico on the valley-side of the house completely open? There might be a way to climb up from the valley. Of course, the area just east of Rasa’s portico was the wildest, emptiest part of the Shelf-it wasn’t even part of a district, and though Sour Street ran out into it, there was no road there; women never went that way to get to the lake.

Yet she knew that this was the way she must go, if she was to return to Aunt Rasa’s house.

The Oversoul again, leading her. Leading her, but telling her nothing.

Why not? asked Luet for the thousandth time. Why can’t you tell me your purpose? If you had told me I was going to Wetchik’s house, I wouldn’t have been so fearful all the way. How did my fear and ignorance serve your purpose? And now you send me around to the wild country east of Aunt Rasa’s house-for what purpose? Do you take pleasure in toying with me? Or am I too stupid to understand your purpose? I’m your homing dove, able to carry your messages but never worth explaining them to.

And yet, despite her resentment, a few minutes she stepped from the last cobbles of Sour Street onto the grass and then plunged into the pathless woods of the Shelf.

The ground was rugged, and all the gaps and breaks in the underbrush seemed to lead downward, away from Rasa’s portico and toward the cliffs looming over the canyon of the Holy Road. No wonder that even the Shelf women built no houses here. But Luet refused to be led astray by the easy paths-she knew they would disappear the moment she started following them. Instead she forced her way through the underbrush. The zarosel thorns snagged at her, and she knew they would leave tiny welts that would sting for days even under a layer of Aunt Rasa’s balm. Worse, she was bone-weary, cold, and sleepy, so that at times she caught herself waking up, even though she had not been asleep. Still-she had set herself on this course, and she would finish.

She came into a small clearing where bright moonlight filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead. In a month all the leaves would be gone and these thickets would not be half so forbidding. Now, though, a patch of light came like a miracle, and she blinked.

In that eyeblink, the clearing changed. There was a woman standing there.

“Aunt Rasa,” whispered Luet. How did she know to come looking for me here? Has the Oversold spoken again to someone else?

But it was not Aunt Rasa, after all. It was Hushidh. How could she have made such a mistake?

No. Not a mistake. For now Hushidh had changed again. It was Eiadh now, that beautiful girl from Hushidh’s class, the one that poor Nafai was so uselessly in love with. And again the woman was transformed, into the actress Dol, who had been so very famous as a young girl; she was one of Aunt Rasa’s nieces, and in recent years had returned to the house to teach. Once it was said that Dolltown was named after her (though it had been named such for ten thousand years at least), she was so beautiful and broke so many hearts; but she was in her twenties now, and the features that, when she was a girl, made women want to mother her and ravished the eyes of men were not so astonishing in a woman. Still, Luet would give half her life if during the other half she could be as delicately, sweetly beautiful as Dol.

Why is the Oversoul showing me these women?

From Dol the apparition changed to Shedemei, another of Aunt Rasa’s nieces. If anything, though, Shedya was the opposite of Dol and Eiadh. At twenty-six she was still in Aunt Rasa’s house, helping to teach science to the older students as her own reputation as a geneticist grew. Most nights she actually slept in her laboratory, many streets away, instead of her room in Rasa’s house, but still she was a strong, quiet presence there. Shedemei was unbeautiful; not so ugly as to startle the onlooker, but deeply plain, so that the longer one studied her face the less attractive it became. Yet her mind was like a magnet, drawn to truth: as soon as it came near enough, she would leap to it and cling. Of all Aunt Rasa’s nieces, she was the one that Luet most admired; but Luet knew that no more had she the wit to emulate Shedemei than she had the beauty to follow Dol’s career. The Oversoul had chosen to send her visions to one who had no other use to the world.

The woman was gone. Luet was alone in the clearing, and she felt again as if she had just awakened.

Was this only a dream, the kind that comes when you don’t even know that you’re asleep?

Behind where the apparitions had stood, she saw a single light burning in the dark of earliest morning. It had to be on Aunt Rasa’s portico-in that direction there could be no other source of light. Maybe the vision had been right thus far. Aunt Rasa was awake, and waiting for her.

She pushed forward into the brush. Low twigs swiped at her, thorns snagged at her clothing and her skin, and the irregular ground deceived her, causing her to trip and stumble. Always, though, that light was her beacon, drawing her on until at last it went out of sight as she drew under the lip of Rasa’s portico.

It rose in a single sheet of weathered stone, sheer from base to balustrade, with no handholds. And it was at least four meters from the ground to the top. Even if Aunt Rasa was there waiting for her, there’d be no way to climb up, not without calling for servants. And if she was going to have to disturb the house anyway, she might as well have pulled the bellcord at the front door!

. It happened that after having been forced this way and that by the rough ground of the forest, Luet had finally approached Rasa’s house almost from the south. Most of the face of the portico was hidden from her. It was possible that the house had been built with some access from the portico to the wood. Surely the builders had planned for more than a mere view of the Rift Valley. And even if there was no deliberate access, there had to be a spot where she would have some hope of climbing up.

Making her way around the curved stone surface, Luet at last found what she had hoped for-a place where the broken ground rose higher in relation to the portico. Now the top of the balustrade was only an arm’s length out of her reach. And, as she reached up to try to find a handhold in the gaps of the balustrade, she saw Aunt Rasa’s face, as welcome as sunrise, and her arms reaching down for her.

If Luet had been any larger, Aunt Rasa probably could not have lifted her weight; but then, had she been larger she might have climbed up without help.

When at last she sat on the bench with Aunt Rasa half-cradling her, on the verge of weeping with relief and exhaustion, Aunt Rasa asked the obvious question. “What under the moon were you doing out there instead of coming to the front door like any other student coming back home after hours? Were you so afraid of a reprimand that you thought it would be better to risk your neck in the woods at night?”

Luet shook her head. “In the wood I saw a vision,” she said. “But I might have seen it anyway, so coming around that way was probably my own foolishness.”

Then there was nothing for Luet to do but tell Aunt Rasa about all that had happened-the vision she had told to Nafai, warning of the plot to murder Wetchik; the words of the holy woman in the dark street; and finally the vision of Rasa and a few of her nieces.

“I cant think what such a vision might mean,” said Rasa. “If the Oversoul didn’t tell you , how can! guess?”

“I don’t want to guess anything anyway,” said Luet. “I don’t want any more visions or talk of visions or anything except I hurt all over and I want to go to bed.”

“Of course you do, of course,” said Aunt Rasa. “You can sleep, and leave it to Wetchik and me to think what course of action to take now. Unless he was stupid enough to decide that honor required him to keep that treacherous rendezvous at the coolhouse.”

A terrible thought occurred to Luet. “What if Nafai didn’t tell him?”

Aunt Rasa looked at her sharply. “Nafai, not want his father about a plot against his life? You’re speaking of my son.”

What could that mean to Luet, who had never known her mother and whose father could be any man in the city, with the most brutish men the likeliest candidates? Mother and son-it was a connection that held no particular authority for her. In a world of faithless promises, anything was possible.

No, it was her weariness telling her to trust no one. She was doubting Aunt Rasa’s judgment here, not just Nafai’s faithfulness. Obviously her mind was not fiinc-tioning clearly. She allowed Aunt Rasa to half-lead, half-carry her up the stairs to Rasa’s own room, and place Luet on the great soft bed of the mistress of the house, where she slept almost before realizing where she was.

“Out all night,” said Hushidh.

Luet opened one eye. The light coming through the window was very bright, but the air had a chill in it. Full day, and Luet was only waking now.

“And then not even the brains to come in the front door.”

“I don’t always rely on my brains,” said Luet quietly.

“That much I knew,” said Hushidh. “You should have taken me with you.”

“Two people are always more obvious than one.”

“To Wetchik’s house! Didn’t it occur to you that I might actually know the way there and back?”

“I didn’t know that was where I was going.”

“Alone at night. Anything could have happened. And you binding me with that foolish oath to tell no one. Aunt Rasa almost skinned me alive and hung me out to dry on the front porch when she realized that I must have known you were gone and didn’t tell her.”

“Don’t be cross with me, Hushidh.”

“Whole city’s in turmoil, you know.”

A sudden fear stabbed through her. “No, Hushidh- don’t tell me there was murder after all!”

“Murder? Not likely. Wetchik’s gone, though, him and his sons all, and Gaballufix is claiming that it was because he uncovered Wetchik’s plot to murder him and Roptat at a secret meeting that Wetchik arranged at his cool-house near Music Gate.”

“That’s not true,” said Luet.

“Well, I didn’t think it wm” said Hushidh. “I only told you what Gaballufix’s people are saying. His soldiers are thick in the streets.”

“I’m so tired, Hushidh, and there’s nothing I can do about any of this.”

“Aunt Rasa thinks you can do something,” said Hushidh. “That’s why she sent me to wake you.”

“Did she?”

“Well, you know her. She sent me up twice to see if poor Luet is still getting some of that rest she needs so much.’ The third time I finally caught on that she was waiting for you to wake up but didn’t have the heart to give instructions for me to do it.”

“How thoughtful of you to read between the lines, my darling jewel of a big sister.”

“You can nap again later, my sweet yagda-berry of a little sister.”

It took only moments to wash and dress, for Luet was young enough that Aunt Rasa did not insist on her learning how to make hair and clothing graceful and dignified before appearing in public. As a child, she could be her scrawny, gawky self, which certainly took less effort. When Luet got downstairs, Aunt Rasa was in her salon with a man, a stranger, but Rasa introduced him at once.

“This is Rashgallivak, dear Luet. He is perhaps the most loyal and trustworthy man alive, or so my beloved mate has always said.”

“I have served the Wetchik estate all my life,” said Rashgallivak, “and will do so until I die. I may not be of the great houses, but I am still a true Palwashantu.”

Aunt Rasa nodded. Luet wondered whether she was supposed to hear this man with belief or with irony; Rasa seemed to be trusting him, however, and so Luet gave her tentative trust as well.

“I understand that it was you who brought warning,” said Rashgallivak.

Luet looked at Aunt Rasa in surprise. “He’ll tell no one else,” said Aunt Rasa. “I have his oath. We don’t want to involve you in the politics of murder, my dear. But Rash had to know it, so that he didn’t think my Wetchik had lost his mind. Wetchik left him detailed instructions, you see, to do something quite mad.”

“Close everything down,” said Rashgallivak. “Dismiss all but the fewest possible employees, sell off all the pack animals, and liquidate the stock. I’m to hold only the land, the buildings, and the liquid assets, in untouchable accounts. Very suspicious, if my master is innocent. Or so some would say. Do say.”

“Wetchik’s absence wasn’t known for half an hour before Gaballufix was at Wetchik’s house, demanding as the head of the Palwashantu clan that all the property of the Wetchik family be turned over to him. He had the audacity to refer to my mate by his birth name, Volemak, as if he had forfeited his right to the family tide.”

“If my master has really left Basilica permanently,” said Rashgallivak, “then Gaballufix would be within his rights. The property can never be sold or given away from the Palwashantu.”

“And I’m trying to persuade Rashgallivak that it was your warning of immediate danger that caused Wetchik to flee, not some plot to leave the city and take the family fortune with him.”

Luet understood her duty now, in this conversation. “I did speak with Nafai,” Luet told Rashgallivak. “I warned him that Gaballufix meant to murder Wetchik and Roptat-or at least my dream certainly seemed to suggest that.”

Rashgallivak nodded slowly. “This will not be enough to bring charges against Gaballufix, of course. In Basilica, even men are not tried for acts they plotted but never performed. But it’s enough to persuade me to resist Gaballufix’s efforts to obtain the property.”

“I was mated with him once, you know,” said Rasa. “I know Gabya very well. I suggest you take extraordinary measures to protect the fortune-liquid assets particularly.”

“No one will have them but the head of the house of Wetchik,” said Rashgallivak. “Madam, I thank you. And you, little wise one.”

He said not another word, but left immediately. Not at all like the more stylish men-artists, scientists, men of governmeot and finance-whom Luet had met in Aunt Rasa’s salon before. That sort of man always lingered, until Aunt Rasa had to force their departure by feigning weariness or pretending that she had pressing duties in the school-as if her teaching staff were not competent to handle things without her direct supervision. But then, Rashgallivak was of a social class that could not reasonably contemplate mating with one like Aunt Rasa, or any of her nieces.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get more sleep,” said Aunt Rasa, “but glad that you happened to wake up at such a fortunate time.”

Luet nodded. “So much of last night I felt as if I were walking in my sleep, perhaps I only needed half as much this morning.”

“I would send you back to bed at once,” said Aunt Rasa, “but I must ask you a question first.”

“Unless it’s something we’ve studied recently in class, I won’t know the answer, my lady.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Don’t imagine that I actually understand anything about the Oversoul.”

Luet knew at once that she had spoken too flippantly. Aunt Rasa’s eyebrows rose, and her nostrils flared-but she contained her anger, and spoke without sharpness. “Sometimes, my dear, you forget yourself. You pretend to take no special honor to yourself because the Oversoul has made a seer of you, and yet you speak to me with impertinence that no other woman in this city, young or old, would dare to use. Which should I believe, your modest words or your proud manner?”

Luet bowed her head, “My words, Mistress. My manner is the natural rudeness of a child.”

Laughing, Aunt Rasa answered, ^Those words are the hardest to believe of all. I’ll spare you my questions after all. Go back to bed now-but this time in your own bed-no one will disturb you there, I promise.”

Luet was at the door of the salon when it opened and a young woman burst in, forcing her back inside the room.

“Mother, this is abominable!” cried the visitor.

“Sevet, I’m so delighted to see you after all these months-and without a word of notice that you were coming, or even the courtesy of waiting until I invited you into my salon.”

Sevet-Aunt Rasa’s oldest daughter. Luet had seen her only once before. As was the custom, Rasa did not teach her own daughters, but rather had given them to her dear friend Dhelembuvex to raise. This one, her oldest, was mated with a young scholar of some note-Vas?-but it hadn’t hampered her career as a singer with a growing reputation for having a way with pichalny songs, the low melancholy songs of death and loss that were an ancient tradition in Basilica. There was nothing of pkhalny about her now, though-she was sharp and angry, and her mother no less so. Luet decided to leave the room at once, before she overheard another word.

But Aunt Rasa wouldn’t allow it. “Stay, Luet. I think it will be educational for you to see how little this daughter of mine takes after either her mother or her Aunt Dhel.”

Sevet glared sharply at Luet. “What’s this- are you taking charity cases now?”

“Her mother was a holy woman, Sevya. I think you may even have heard the name of Luet.”

Sevet blushed at once. “I beg your pardon,” she said.

Luet had no idea how to answer, since of course Luet was a charity case and therefore mustn’t show that she had been offended by Sevens slur.

Aunt Rasa saved her from having to think of a proper response. “I will consider that pardon has been begged and granted all around, and now we may begin our conversation with perhaps a more civil tone.”

“Of course,” said Sevet. “You must realize that I came here straight from Father.”

“From your rude and offensive manner, I assumed you had spent at least an hour with him.”

“Raging, the poor man. And how could he do otherwise, with his own mate spreading terrible lies about him!”

“Poor man indeed,” said Aunt Rasa. “I’m surprised that little waif of a mate of his would have the courage to speak out against him-or the wit to make up a lie, for that matter. What has she been saying?”

“I meant you , of course, Mother, not his present mate, nobody thinks of her?

“But since I lapsed dear Gabya’s contract fifteen years ago, he can hardly regard me as having a duty to refrain from telling the truth about him.”

“Mother, don’t be impossible.”

“I’m never impossible. The most I ever allow myself is to be somewhat unlikely.”

“You’re the mother of Father’s two daughters, both of us more than slightly famous-the most famous of your offspring, and all for honorable things, though of course little Koya’s career is only at its beginning, with not a myachik of her own yet-”

“Spare me your rivalry with your sister, please.”

“It’s only a rivalry from her point of view, Mother- Idon’t even pay attention to the fact that her singing career seems a bit sluggish at the outset. It’s always harder for a lyric soprano to be noticed-there are so many of them, one can hardly tell them apart, unless one is the soprano’s own loving, loyal sister.”

“Yes, I use you as an example of loyalty for all my girls.”

For a moment Sevet’s face brightened; then she realized her mother was teasing her, and scowled. “You really are too nasty with me.”

“If your father sent you to get me to retract my remarks about this morning’s events, you can tell him that I know what he was planning from an undoubtable source, and if he doesn’t stop telling people that Wetchik was plotting murder, I’ll bring my evidence before the council and have him banned.”

“I catft-I can’t tell Father that!” said Sevet.

“Then don’t,” said Aunt Rasa. “Let him find out when I do it.”

“Banhim? Ban Father^

“If you had studied more history-though come to think of it, I doubt that Dhelya taught you all that much anyway-you’d know that the more powerful and famous a man is, the more likely he is to be banned from Basilica. It’s been done before, and it will be done again. After all, it’s Gabya, not Wetchik or Roptat, whose soldiers roam the streets, pretending to protect us from thugs that Gabya probably hired in the first place. People will be glad to see him go-and that means they’ll find it useful to believe every bit of evidence I bring,”

Sevet’s face grew grave. “Father may be a bit prone to rage and a little sneaky in business, Mother, but he’s no murderer.”

“Of course he’s not a murderer. Wetchik left Basilica and Gabya would never dare to kill Roptat without Wetchik there to blame it on. Though I think that if Gabya had known at the time that Wetchik had fled, he would certainly have killed Roptat the moment he showed up and then used Wetchik’s hasty departure as proof that my dear mate was the murderer.”

“You make Father sound like a monster. Why did you take him as a mate, then?”

“Because I wanted to have a daughter with an extraor- dinary singing voice and no moral judgment whatsoever. It worked so well that I renewed with him for a second year and had another. And then I was done.”

Sevet laughed. “You’re such a silly thing, Mother. I do have moral judgment, you know. And every other kind. It was Vasya I married, not some second-rate actor.”

“Stop sniping at your sister’s choice of mate,” said Aunt Rasa. “Kokot’s Obririg is a dear, even if he has no talent whatsoever and not the breath of a chance that Koya will actually bear him a child, let alone renew him.”

“A dear,” said Sevet. “I’ll have to remember what that word really means, now that you’ve told me.”

Sevet got up to leave. Luet opened the door for her. But Aunt Rasa stopped her daughter before she left.

“Sevya, dear,” she said. “The time may come when you have to choose between your father and me.”

“The two of you have made me do that at least once a month since I was very small. I’ve managed to sidestep you both so far, and I intend to continue.”

Rasa clapped her hands together-loudly, a sharp report like one stone striking another. “Listen to me, child. I know the dance that you’ve done, and I’ve both admired you for the way you did it and pitied you for the fact that it was necessary. What I’m saying to you is that soon-very soon-it may no longer be possible to do that dance. So it’s time for you to look at both your parents and decide which one deserves your loyalty. I do not say love, because I know you love us both. I say loyalty.”

“You shouldn’t speak to me this way, Mother,” said Sevet. “I’m not your student. And even if you succeeded in banning Father, that still wouldn’t mean I’d have to choose between you.”

“What if your father sent soldiers to silence me? Or tolchocks-which is more likely. What if it was a knife he paid for that slit your mother’s throat?”

Sevet regarded her mother in silence. “Then I’d have a pichalny song to sing indeed, wouldn’t I?”

“I believe that your father is the enemy of the Oversold, and the enemy of Basilica as well. Think about this seriously, my sad-voiced Sevet, think deep and long, because when the day of choosing comes there’ll be no time to think.”

“I have always honored you, Mother, for the fact that you never tried to turn me against my father, despite all the vile things he said about you. I’m sorry you have changed.” With great dignity, Sevet swept herself from the room. Luet, still a bit stunned by the brutal nature of the conversation under the veneer of elegant speech, was slow to follow her out the door.

“Luet,” whispered Aunt Rasa.

Luet turned to face the great woman, and trembled inside to see the tears on her cheeks.

“Luet, you must tell me. What is the Oversoul doing to us? What does the Oversoul plan?”

“I don’t know,” said Luet. “I wish I did.”

“If you did, would you tell me?”

“Of course.”

“Even if the Oversoul told you not to?”

Luet hadn’t thought of such a possibility.

Aunt Rasa took her hesitation for an answer “So,” she said. “I wouldn’t have expected otherwise-the Oversoul does not choose weak servants, or disloyal ones. But tell me this, if you can: Is it possible, is it passible, that there was no plot to kill Wetchik at all? That the Oversoul merely sent that warning to get him to leave Basilica? You must realize-I was thinking that-Lutya, what if the only thing the Oversoul was doing was getting rid of Issib and Nafai? It makes sense, doesn’t it-they were interfering with the Oversoul, keeping her so busy that she couldn’t speak to anyone but them. Might she not have sent your vision to make sure they left the city, because they were threatening to her ?”

Luet’s first impulse was to shout her denial, to rebuke her for daring to speak so sacrilegiously of the Oversoul-as if it would act for its own private benefit.

But then, on sober reflection, she remembered with what wonderment Hushidh had told her of her realization that Issib and Nafai might well be the reason for the Oversoul’s silence. And if the Oversoul thought that her ability to guide and protect her daughters was being hampered by these two boys, couldn’t she act to remove them?

“No,” said Luet. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m never sure, except of the vision itself,” said Luet. “But I’ve never known the Oversoul to deceive me. All my visions have been true.”

“But this one would still be a true instrument of the Oversoul’s will.”

“No,” said Luet again. “No, it couldn’t be. Because Nafai and Issib had already stopped. Nafai even went and prayed-”

“So I heard, but then, so did Mebbekew, Wetchik’s son by that miserable little whoreling Kilvishevex-”

“And the Oversold spoke to Nafai and woke him up, and brought him outside to meet me in the traveler’s room. If the Oversoul wanted Nafai to be still, she would have told him, and he would have obeyed. No, Aunt Rasa, I’m sure the message was real.”

Aunt Rasa nodded. “I know. I knew it was. It would just be ...”

“Simpler.”

“Yes.” She smiled ruefully. “Simpler if Gaballufix were as innocent as he pretends. But not true to character. You know why I lapsed him?”

“No,” said Luet. Nor did she want to know-by long custom a woman never told her reasons for lapsing a man, and it was a hideous breach of etiquette to ask or even speculate on the subject.

“I shouldn’t tell, but I will-because you’re one whot must know the truth in order to understand all things.”

I’m also a child, thought Luet. You’d never tell any of your other thirteen-year-olds about such things. You’d never even tell your daughter. But I, I am a seer, and so everything is opened up before me and I am forbidden to remain innocent of anything except joy.

“I lapsed him because I learned that he ...”

Luet braced herself for some sordid revelation, but it did not come.

“No, child, no. Just because the Oversold speaks to you doesn’t mean that I should burden you with my secrets. Go, sleep. Forget my questions, if you can. I know my Wetchik. And I know Gaballufix, too. Both of them, down to the deepest shadow of their souls. It was for my daughters’ sake that I wished to find some impossible thing, like Gabya’s innocence.” She chuckled. “I’m like a child, forever wishing for impossible things. Like your vision in the woods, before I drew you up to the portico. You saw all my most brilliant nieces, like a roll call of judgment.”

Brilliant? Shedemei and Hushidh, yes, but Dol and Eiadh, those women of paint and tinsel?

“I was so happy to know that the Oversoul knew them, and linked them with me and you in the vision she sent. But where were my daughters, Lutya? I wish that you had seen my Sevya and my Koya. I do wish that-is that silly of me?”

Yes. “No.”

“You should practice lying more,” said Aunt Rasa, “so you’d be better at it. Go to bed, my sweet seer.” Luet obeyed, but slept little.

In the days that followed, the turmoil in the city increased, to the point where it was almost impossible for classes to continue in Aunt Rasa’s house. It wasn’t just the constant worry, either. It was the disappearance of so many faces, especially from the younger classes. Only a few children were withdrawn because their parents disapproved of Rasa’s political stance. Children were being taken out of every teaching household, great or common, and restored to their families; many families had even closed up their houses and gone on unnamed holidays to unknown places, presumably waiting for whatever terrible day was coming to be over,

How Luet envied Nafai and Issib, safe as they were in some distant land, not having to live in constant fear in this city that had so long been known by the poets as the Mountain of Peace.

As the petition for the banning of Gaballufix gained support in the council, Gaballufix himself became bolder in the way he used his soldiers in the streets. There were more of them, for one thing, and there was no more pretense of protecting the citizenry from tolchocks. The soldiers accosted whomever they wanted, sending women and children home in tears, and beating men who spoke up to them.

“Is he a fool?” Hushidh asked Luet one day. “Doesn’t he know that everything his soldiers do gives his enemies one more reason to ban him?”

“He must know,” said Luet, “and so he must want to be banned.”

“Then hasten the day,” said Hushidh, “and good riddance to him.”

Luet waited for a vision from the Oversold, some message of warning she should take to the council. Instead the only vision that came was a word of comfort to an old woman in the district of Olive Grove, assuring her that her long-lost son was still alive, and homebound on a ship that would reach port before too long. Luet didn’t know whether to be comforted that the Oversoul still took the rime to answer the heartfelt prayers of broken-hearted women, or infuriated that the Oversoul was spending time on such matters instead of healing the city before it tore itself apart.

Then at last the most feared moment came. The doorbell clanged, and strong fists beat on the door, and when the door was thrown open, there stood a dozen soldiers. The servant who opened the door screamed, and not just because they were armed men in perilous times. Luet was among the first to come to the aid of the terrified servant, and saw what had so unnerved her. All the soldiers were in identical uniforms, with identical armor and helmets and charged-wire blades, as might be expected-but inside those helmets, each one also had an identical face.

It was Rasa’s oldest niece, Shedemei, the geneticist, who spoke to the soldiers. “You have no legitimate business here,” she said. “No one wants you. Go away.”

“I’ll see the mistress of this household or I’ll never go,” said the soldier who stood in front of the others.

“She has no business with you, I said.”

But then Aunt Rasa was there, and her voice rang clear. “Close the door in the face of these hired criminals,” she said.

At once the lead soldier laughed, and reached his hand to his waist. In an instant he was transformed before their eyes, from a youngish, dead-faced soldier to a middle-aged man with a grizzled beard and fiercely bright eyes, stout but not soft-bellied, clothed not in armor but in quietly elegant clothing. A man of style and power, who thought the whole situation was enormously amusing.

“Gabya,” said Aunt Rasa.

“How do you like my new toys?” asked Gaballufix, striding into the house. Women and girls and young boys parted to make way for him. “Old theatrical equipment, out of style for centuries, but they were in a stasis bubble in the museum and the maker machines still remembered how to copy them. Holocostumes, they’re called. All my soldiers have them now. It makes them somewhat hard to tell apart, I admit, but then, I have the master switch that can turn them all off when I want.”

“Leave my house,” said Rasa.

“But I don’t want to,” said Gaballufix. “I want to talk to you.”

“Without them^ you can speak to me any time. You know that, Gabya.”

“I knew that mce? said Gaballufix. “Truth to tell, O noblest of my mates,” my unforgotten bed-bundle, I knew that my soldiers would never impress you-I just wanted to show you the latest fashion. Soon all the best people will be wearing them.”

“Only in their coffins,” said Aunt Rasa.

“Do you want to hold this conversation in front of the children, or shall we retire to your sacred portico?”

“Your soldiers wait outside the door. The locked door.”

“Whatever you say, O mother of my duet of sweet songbirds. Though your door, with all its locks, would be no barrier if I wanted them inside.”

“People who are sure of their power don’t have to brag,” said Aunt Rasa. She led the way down the corridor as Shedemei closed and barred the front door in the soldiers’ faces.

Luet could still hear the conversation between Aunt Rasa and Gaballufix even after they turned a corner and were out of sight.

“I don’t have to brag,” Gaballufix was saying. “I do it for the sheer joy of it/

Instead of answering, though, Aunt Rasa called loudly down the corridor.

“Luet! Hushidh! Come with me. I want witnesses.”

At once Luet strode forward, with Hushidh beside her at once. Because Aunt Rasa had brought them up, they didn’t run, but their walk was brisk enough that they had turned the corner and could hear Gaballufix’s last few whispered words before they caught up. “... not afraid of your witchlets,” he was saying.

Luet gave no sign that she had heard, of course. She knew that Hushidh’s face would be even less expressive.

Out on the portico, Gaballufix made no pretense of respecting the boundary of Aunt Rasa’s screens. He strode directly to the balustrade, looking out at the view that was forbidden to the eyes of men. Aunt Rasa did not follow him, so Luet and Hushidh also remained behind the screens. At last Gaballufix returned to where they waited.

“Always a beautiful sight,” he said.

“For that act alone you could be banned,” said Aunt Rasa.

Gaballufix laughed. “Your sacred lake. How long do you think it will go unmuddied by the boots of men, if the Wetheads come? Have you thought of that-have Roptat and your beloved Volemak thought of it? The Wetheads have no reverence for women’s religion.”

“Even less than you?”

Gaballufix rolled his eyes to show tiis disdain for her accusation. “If Roptat and Volemak have their way, the Wetheads would own this city, and to them, the view from this portico would not be a view of holy land-it would all be city property, undeveloped land, potential building sites and hunting parks, and an extraordinary lake, with both hot and cold water for bathing in any weather.”

Luet was astonished that so much of the nature of the lake had been explained to him. What woman had so forgotten herself as to speak of the sacred place?

Yet Aunt Rasa said nothing of the impropriety of his words. “Bringing the Wetheads is Roptat’s plan. Wetchik and I have spoken for nothing but the ancient neutrality.”

“Neutrality! Fools and children believe in that/There is no neutrality when great powers collide!”

“In the power of the Oversold there is neutrality and peace,” said Aunt Rasa, calm in the face of his storm. “She has the power to turn aside our enemies so they see us not at all.”

“Power? Maybe he has power, all right, this Oversoul-but IVe seen no evidence that he saves poor innocent cities from destruction. How did it happen that I alone am the champion of Basilica, the only one who can see that safety lies only in alliance with Potokgavan?”

“Save the patriotic speeches for the council, Gabya. In front of me, there’s no point in hiding behind them. The wagons offered some easy profit. And as for war-you know so little about it that you think you want it to come. You think that you’ll stand beside the mighty soldiers of Potokgavan and drive off the Wetheads, and your name will be remembered forever. But I tell you that when you stand against your enemy, you’ll stand alone. No Potoku will be there beside you. And when you fell your name will be forgotten as quickly as last week’s weather.”

“Thisstorm, my dear lapsatory mate, has a name, and will be remembered.”

“Only for the damage that you caused, Gabya. When Basilica burns, every tongue of flame will be branded Gaballufix, and the dying curse of every citizen who falls will have your name in it.”

“Now who fancies herself a prophet?” said Gaballufix. “Save your poetics for those who tremble at the thought of the Oversoul. And as for your banning-succeed or fail, it makes no difference.”

“You mean that you don’t intend to obey?”

“ Me? Disobey the council? Unthinkable. No one will find me in the city after I am banned, you can be sure of that.”

But with those words he reached down and switched on his holocostume. At once he was armored in illusion, his face an undetectable mask of a vaguely menacing soldier, like any of the hundreds of others he had so equipped. Luet knew then that he had no intention of obeying a banning. He would simply wear this most perfect of disguises, so that no one could identify him. He would stay within the city, doing whatever he wanted, flouting the council’s edicts with impunity. Then the only hope of freeing the city from his rule would not be political. It would be civil war, and the streets would flow with blood.

Luet knew from her eyes that Aunt Rasa understood this. She looked steadily at the empty eyes that stared back at her from Gaballufix’s holocostume. She said nothing when he turned and left; said nothing at all, in feet, until at last Luet took Hushidh’s hand and they walked away to the edge of the portico, to look out over the Valley of Women.

“There’s nothing between them anymore,” said Hushidh. “I could see it fall, the last tie of love or even of concern. If he died tonight, she would be content.”

To Luet this seemed the most terrible of tragedies. Once these two had been joined together in love, or something like love; they had made two babies, and yet, only fifteen years later, the last tie between them was broken now. All lost, all gone. Nothing lasted, nothing. Even this forty-million-year world that the Oversold had preserved as if in ice, even it would melt before the fire. Permanence was always an illusion, and love was just the disguise that lovers wore to hide the death of their union from each other for a while.