TWO - OPPORTUNITY

THE DREAM OF THE WATERSEER

Luet had never tried to have an emergency dream before, and so it had never occurred to her that she couldn’t just go to sleep and dream because she wished it. Quite the contrary-the sense of urgency was no doubt what had kept her awake and made it impossible for her to dream. She was furious and ashamed that she hadn’t been able to learn anything from the Oversoul before Aunt Rasa had to make a decision about what to do with that soldier, Smelost. What made it worse was that, even though the Oversoul had told her nothing, she was certain that sending Smelost to the Gorayni was a mistake. It seemed too simple, to think that because Gaballufix had been an enemy of the Gorayni, the Gorayni would automatically welcome Gaballufix’s enemy and give him sanctuary.

Luet had wanted to speak up and tell her, “Aunt Rasa, the Gorayni aren’t necessarily our friends.” She might even have said so, but Rasa had rushed out of the house with Vas and there was nothing to do but watch as Smelost gathered up the food and supplies the servants brought for him and then slipped out the back way.

Why couldn’t Rasa have thought just a moment more? Wouldn’t it have been better to send Smelost out into the desert to join Wetchik? But he wasn’t the Wetchik anymore, was he? He was nothing but Volemak, the man who had been Wetchik until Gaballufix stripped him of the tide-when?-only yesterday. Nothing but Volemak-yet Luet knew that Volemak, of all the great men of Basilica, was the only one who was part of the Oversoul’s plans.

The Oversoul had begun all these problems by giving Volemak his vision of Basilica on fire. She had warned him that an alliance with Potokgavan would lead to the destruction of Basilica. She hadn’t promised that Basilica could trust the Gorayni to be friends. And from what Luet knew of the Gorayni-the Wetheads, as they were called, from the way they oiled their hair-it was a bad idea to send Smelost to ask for refuge. It would give the wrong impression to the Gorayni. It would lead them to think that their allies were not safe in Basilica. Might that not entice them to do exactly what everyone wanted to keep them from doing-invade and conquer the city.

No, it was a mistake to send Smelost. But since Luet didn’t reach this conclusion as a waterseer, but rather reached it through her own reasoning, no one would listen to her. She was a child, except when the Oversoul was in her, and so she only had respect when she was not herself. It made her angry, but what could she do about it, except hope that she was wrong about Smelost and the Gorayni, and then wait impatiently until she turned fully into a woman?

What worried her perhaps even more was that it was unlike Rasa to reach such a faulty conclusion. Rasa seemed to be acting out of fear, acting without thinking. And if Rasa’s judgment was clouded, then what could Luet count on?

I want to talk to someone, she thought. Not her sister Hushidh-dear Shuya was very wise and kind and would listen to her, but she simply didn’t care about anything outside Basilica. That was the problem with her being a raveler. Hushidh lived in the constant awareness of all the connections and relationships among the people around her. That web-sense was naturally the most important thing in her life, as she watched people connect and detach from each other, forming communities and dissolving them. And underlying all was Shuya’s powerful awareness of the fabric of Basilica itself. She loved the city-but she knew it so well, focused so closely on it that she simply had no idea of how Basilica related to the world outside. Such relationships were too large and impersonal.

Luet had even tried to discuss this with her, but Hushidh fell asleep almost at once. Luet couldn’t blame her. After all, it was nearly dawn, and they had missed hours of sleep in the middle of the night. Luet herself should be asleep.

If only I could talk with Nafai or Issib. Nafai especially- be can talk with the Oversoul when he’s awake. He may not get the visions that I get, he may not see with the depth and clarity of a waterseer, but he can get answers. Practical, simple answers. And he doesn’t have to be able to fall asleep to get them. If only he were here. Yet the Oversoul sent him and his father and all his brothers away into the desert. That’s where Smelost should have gone, definitely. To Nafai. If only anyone knew where he was.

At last, at long last Luet’s frenzied thoughts jumbled into the chaotic mentation of sleep, and from her fitful sleep a dream came, a dream that she would remember, for it came from outside herself and had meaning beyond the random firings of her brain during sleep.

“Wake up,” said Hushidh.

“I am awake,” said Luet.

“You’ve answered me that twice already, Lutya, and each time you stay asleep. It’s morning, and things are even worse than we thought.”

“If you said that every time I woke up,” said Luet, “then no wonder I went back to sleep.”

“You’ve slept long enough,” said Hushidh, and then proceeded to tell her all about what happened at Kokor’s house the night before.

Luet could hardly grasp that such things could actually happen-not to anyone connected with Rasa’s house. Yet it wasn’t just rumor. “That’s why Vas took Aunt Rasa with him,” said Luet.

“You have such a bright mind in the morning.”

Her thoughts were coming so sluggishly that it took Luet a moment to realize that Hushidh was being ironic. “I was dreaming,” she said, to explain her stupid-ness.

But Hushidh wasn’t interested in her dream. “For poor Aunt Rasa the nightmare starts when she wakes up.”

Luet tried to think of a bright spot. “At least she has the comfort of knowing Kokor and Sevet were auntied out to Dhelembuvex-it won’t reflect on her house-”

“Won’t reflect . . . ! They’re her daughters, Lutya. And Auntie Dhel was over here with them all the time as they were growing up. This has nothing to do with how they were raised. This is what it means to be the daughters of Gaballufix. How deliciously ironic, that the very night he dies, one of his daughters strikes the other dumb with a blow to the throat.”

“Sweet kindness flows with every word from your lips, Shuya.”

Hushidh glared at her. “You’ve never loved Aunt Rasa’s daughters, either, so don’t get pure with me.”

The truth was that Luet had no great interest in Rasa’s daughters. She had been too young to care, when they last were in Rasa’s house. But Hushidh, being older, had clear memories of what it was like to have them in the house all the time, with Kokor actually attending classes, and both of them surrounded by suitors. Hushidh liked to joke that the pheromone count couldn’t have been higher in a brothel, but Hushidh’s loathing for Kokor and Sevet had nothing to do with their attractiveness to men. It had to do with their vicious jealousy of any girl who had actually earned Rasa’s love and respect. Hushidh was no rival to them, and yet they had both persecuted her mercilessly, taunting her whenever the teachers couldn’t hear, until she became virtually a ghost in Rasa’s house, hiding until the moment of class and rushing away afterward, avoiding meals, shunning all the parties and frolics, until Kokor and Sevet finally married at a mercifully young age- fourteen and fifteen, respectively-and moved out. Sevet was already a noted singer even then, and her practicing-and Kokor’s-had filled the house like bird-song. But neither she nor Kokor had brought any true music to Rasa’s house. Rather the music returned when they finally left. And Hushidh remained quiet and shy around everyone except Luet. So of course Hushidh cared more when Rasa’s daughters played out some bitter tragedy. Luet only cared because it would make Aunt Rasa sad.

“Shuya, all this is only scandal. What’s being said about that soldier? And about Gaballufix’s death?”

Hushidh looked down in her lap. She knew that Luet was, in effect, rebuking her for having given false priority to trivial matters; but she accepted the rebuke, and did not defend herself. “They’re saying that Smelost was Nafai’s co-conspirator all along. Rashgallivak is demanding that the council investigate who helped Smelost escape from the city, even though he wasn’t under a warrant or anything when he left. Rasa is trying to get the city guard put under the control of the Palwashantu. It’s very ugly.”

“What if Aunt Rasa is arrested as Smelost’s accomplice?” said Luet.

“Accomplice in what?” said Hushidh. Now she was Hushidh the Raveler, discussing the city of Basilica, not Shuya the schoolgirl, telling an ugly story about her tormentors. Luet welcomed the change, even if it meant Hushidh’s acting so openly astonished at Luet’s lack of insight. “How insane do you think people actually are? Rashgallivak can try to whip them up, but he’s no Gaballufix-he doesn’t have the personal magnetism to get people to follow him for long. Aunt Rasa will hold her own against him on the council, and then some.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Luet. “But Gaballufix had so many soldiers, and now they’re all Rashgal-livak’s. . . .”

“Rash isn’t well-connected,” said Hushidh. “People have always liked him and respected him, but only as a steward-as Wetchik’s steward, particularly-and they aren’t likely to give him the full honor of the Wetchik right away, let alone the kind of respect that Gaballufix was given as head of the Palwashantu. He doesn’t have half the power he imagines he has-but he has enough to cause trouble, and it’s very disturbing.”

Luet was fully awake at last, and crawled off the foot of her bed. She remembered that there was something she must tell. “I dreamed,” she said.

“So you said.” Then Hushidh realized what she meant. “Oh. A little late, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not about Smelost. About something-very strange. And yet it felt more important than any of what’s going on around us.”

“A true dream?” asked Hushidh.

“I’m never sure, but I think so. I remember it so clearly, it must come from the Oversoul.”

“Then tell me as we go to breakfast. It’s nearly noon, but Aunt Rasa told the cook to indulge us since we were up half the night.”

Luet pulled a gown over her head, slipped sandals on her feet, and followed Hushidh down the stairs to the kitchen. “I dreamed of angels, flying.”

“Angels! And what is that supposed to mean, except that you’re superstitious in your sleep?”

“They didn’t look like the pictures in the children’s books, if that’s what you mean. No, they were more like large and graceful birds. Bats, really, since they had fur. But with very intelligent and expressive faces, and somehow in the dream I knew they were angels.”

“The Oversoul has no need of angels. The Oversoul speaks directly to the mind of every woman.”

“And man, only hardly anybody listens anymore, just as you’re not listening to me, Shuya. Should I tell you the dream or just eat bread and honey and cream and figure that the Oversoul has nothing to say that might interest you?”

“Don’t be nasty with me, Luet. You may be this wonderful waterseer to everybody else, but you’re just my stupid little sister when you get snippy like this.”

The cook glared at them. “I try to keep a kitchen full of light and harmony” she said.

Abashed, they took the hot bread she offered them and sat at the table, where a pitcher of cream and a jar of honey already waited. Hushidh, as always, broke her bread into a bowl and poured the cream and honey on it; Luet, as always, slathered the honey on the bread and ate it separately, drinking the plain cream from her bowl. They both pretended to detest the way the other ate her food. “Dry as dust,” whispered Hushidh. “Soggy and slimy,” answered Luet. Then they both laughed aloud.

“Much better,” said the cook. “You should both know better than to quarrel.”

With her mouth full, Hushidh said, “The dream.”

“Angels,” said Luet.

“Flying, yes. Hairy ones, like fat bats. I heard you the first time.”

“Not fat.”

“Bats, anyway.”

“Graceful,” said Luet. “Soaring, that’s how they were. And then I was one of them, flying and flying. It was so beautiful and peaceful. And then I saw the river, and I flew down to it and there on the riverbank I took the clay and made a statue out of it.”

“Angels playing in the mud?”

“No stranger than bats making statues,” Luet retorted. “And there’s milk slobbering down your chin.”

“Well, there’s honey on the tip of your nose.”

“Well, there’s a big ugly growth on the front of you head-oh, no, that’s your-”

“My face, I know. Finish the dream.”

“I made the clay soft by putting it in my mouth, so that when I-as an angel, you understand-when I made the statue it contained something of me in it. I think that’s very significant.”

“Oh, quite symbolic, yes.” Hushidh’s tone was playful, but Luet knew she was listening carefully.

“And the statues weren’t of people or angels or anything else. There were faces on them sometimes, but they weren’t portraits or even things. The statues just took the shape that we needed them to take. No two of them were alike, yet I knew that at this moment, the statue I was making was the only possible statue I could make. Does that make sense?”

“It’s a dream, it doesn’t have to.”

“But if it’s a true dream, then it must make sense.”

“Eventually, anyway,” said Hushidh. Then she lifted another gloppy spoonful of bread and milk to her mouth.

“When we were done,” said Luet, “we took them to a high rock and put them in the sun to dry, and then we flew around and around, and everyone looked at each other’s statues. Then the angels flew off and now I wasn’t with them anymore, I wasn’t an angel, I was just there, watching the rocks where the statues stood, and the sun went down and in the dark-”

“You could see in the dark?”

“I could in my dream” said Luet. “Anyway, in the nighttime these giant rats came, and each one took one of the statues and carried it down, into holes in the ground, all the way to deep warrens and burrows, and each rat that had stolen a statue gave it to another rat and then together they gnawed at it, wet it down with their spit and rubbed it all over themselves. Covered themselves with the clay. I was so angry, Hushidh. These beautiful statues, and they wrecked them, turned them back into mud and rubbed it-even into their private parts, everywhere”

“Lovers of beauty,” said Hushidh.

“I’m serious. It broke my heart.”

“So what does it mean?” asked Hushidh. “Who do the angels represent, and who are the rats?”

“I don’t know. Usually the meaning is obvious, when the Oversoul sends a dream.”

“So maybe it was just a dream.”

“I don’t think so. It was so different and so dear, and I remember it so forcefully. Shuya, I think it’s perhaps the most important dream I’ve ever had.”

“Too bad nobody can understand it. Maybe it’s one of those prophecies that everybody understands after it’s all over and it’s too late to do anything about it.”

“Maybe Aunt Rasa can interpret it.”

Hushidh made a skeptical face. “She’s not at her best at the moment.”

Secretly Luet was relieved that she wasn’t the only one to notice that Rasa wasn’t making the best decisions of her life right now. “So maybe I won’t tell her, then.”

Suddenly Hushidh smiled her tight little smile that showed she was really pleased with herself. “You want to hear a wild guess?” she said.

Luet nodded, then began taking huge bites of her long-ignored bread as she listened.

“The angels are the women of Basilica,” said Hushidh. “All these millennia here in this city, we’ve shaped a society that is delicate and fine, and we’ve made it out of a part of ourselves, the way the bats in your dream made their statues out of spit. And now we’ve put our works to dry, and in the darkness our enemies are going to come and steal what we’ve made. But they’re so stupid they don’t even understand that they’re statues. They look at them and all they see are blobs of dried mud. So they wet it down and wallow in it and they’re so proud because they’ve got all the works of Basilica, but in feet they have nothing of Basilica at all.”

“That’s very good,” said Luet, in awe.

“I think so, too,” said Hushidh.

“So who are our enemies?”

“It’s simple,” said Hushidh. “Men are.”

“Not, that’s too simple,” said Luet. “Even though this is a city of women, the men who enter Basilica contribute as much as the women do to the works of beauty we make. They’re part of the community, even if they can’t own land or stay inside the walls without being married to a woman.”

“I was sure it meant men the moment you said they were giant rats.”

The cook chortled over the stew she was making for dinner.

“Someone else,” insisted Luet. “Maybe Potokgavan.”

“Maybe just Gaballufix’s men,” said Hushidh. “The tolchoks, and then his soldiers in those horrible masks.”

“Or maybe something yet to come,” said Luet. And then, in despair. “Or maybe nothing to do with Basilica at all. Who can tell? But that was my dream.”

“It doesn’t exactly tell us where we should have sent Smelost.”

Luet shrugged. “Maybe the Oversoul thought we had brains enough to figure that out on our own.”

“Was she right?” asked Hushidh.

“I doubt it,” said Luet. “Sending him to the Gorayni was a mistake.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Hushidh. “Eating your bread dry-now that’s a mistake.”

“Not for those of us who have teeth,” said Luet. “We don’t have to sog our bread to make it edible.”

Which led to a mock argument that got silly and loud enough that the cook threw them out of the kitchen, which was fine because they were finished with breakfast anyway. It felt good, for just a few minutes, to play together like children. For they knew that, for good or ill, they would both be involved in the events that were swirling in and near Basilica. Not that they wanted to be involved, really. But their gifts made them important to the city, and so they would do their best to serve.

Luet dutifully went to the city council and told her dream, which was carefully recorded and handed over to the wise women to be studied for meanings and portents. Luet told them how Hushidh had interpreted it, and they thanked her kindly and as much as told her that having dreams was fine-any idiot child could do that- but it took a real expert to figure out what they meant.

IN KHLAM, AND NOT IN A DREAM

It was a hot dry storm from the northwest, which meant it came across the desert, not a breath of moisture in it, just sand and grit and, so they said, the ground-up bones of men and animals that had got caught in the storm a thousand kilometers away, the dust of their flesh, and, if you listened closely, the howling of their souls as the wind bore them on and on, never letting go of them, either to heaven or to hell. The mountains blocked the worst of the storm, but still the tents of Moozh’s army shuddered and staggered, the flaps of the tents snapped, the banners danced crazily, and now and then one of them would whip away from the ground and tumble, pole and all, along a dirty trampled avenue between the tents, some poor soldier often trying to chase it down.

Moozh’s large tent also shuddered in the wind, despite its blessing from the Imperator. Of course the blessing was completely efficacious . . . but Moozh also made sure the stakes were pounded in hard and deep. He sat at the table by candlelight, gazing wistfully at the map spread out before him. It showed all the lands along the western shores of the Earthbound Sea. In the north, the lands of the Gorayni were outlined in red, the lands of the Imperator, who was of course the incarnation of God on Earth and therefore entitled to rule over all mankind, etc. etc. In his mind’s eye Moozh traced the unmarked boundaries of nations that were at least as old as the Gorayni, and some of them much older, with proud histories-nations that now did not exist, that could not even be remembered, because to speak their names was treason, and to reach out and trace their old boundary on this map would be death.

But Moozh did not have to trace the boundary. He knew the borders of his homeland of Pravo Gollossa, the land of the Sotchitsiya, his own tribe. They had come across the desert from the north a thousand years before the Gorayni, but once they had been of the same stock, with the same language. But in the lush well-watered valleys of the Skrezhet Mountains the Sotchitsiya had settled down, had ceased both wandering and war, and become a nation of free men. They learned from the people around them. Not the Ploshudu or the Khlami or the Izmennikoy, for they were tough mountain people with no culture but hunger and muscle and a will to live despite all. Rather the Sotchitsiya, the people of Pravo Gollossa, had learned from the traders who came to them from Seggidugu, from Ulye, from the Cities of the Plain. And above all the caravanners from Basilica, with their strange songs and seeds, images in glass and cunning tools, impossible fabrics that changed colors with the hours of the day, and their poems and stories that taught the Sotchitsiya how wise and refined men and women spoke and thought and dreamed and lived.

That was the glory of Pravo Gollossa, for it was from these caravanners that they learned of the idea of a council, with decisions made by the vote of the councilors who had themselves been chosen by the voice of the citizens. But it was also from these Basilican caravanners that they learned of a city ruled by women, where men could not even own land . . . and yet the city did not collapse from the incompetence of women to rule, and the men did not rebel and conquer the city, and women were able not only to vote but also to divorce their husbands at the end of every year and marry someone else if they chose. The constant pressure of those ideas wore down the Sotchitsiya and turned the once-strong warriors and rulers of the tribe into woman-hearted fools, so that in Moozh’s great-grandfather’s day they gave the vote to women, and elected women to rule over them.

That was when the Gorayni came, for they knew that the Sotchitsiya had at last become women in their hearts, and so were no longer worthy to be free. The Gorayni brought their great army to the border, and the women of the council-as many males as females, but all women nonetheless-voted not to fight, but rather to accept Gorayni overlordship if the Gorayni would allow them to rule themselves in all but military matters. It was an unspeakable surrender, the final castration of the Sotchitsiya, their humiliation before all the world, and Moozh’s own great-grandfather was the delegate who worked out the terms of their surrender with the Gorayni.

For fifty years the agreement stood-the Sotchitsiya governed themselves. But gradually the Gorayni military began to declare more of Sotchitsiya affairs to be military matters, until finally the council was nothing but a bunch of frightened old men and women who had to petition the Imperator for permission to pee. Only then did any of the Sotchitsiya remember their manhood. They threw out the women who ruled them and declared themselves to be a tribe agaia, desert wanderers again, and swore to fight the Gorayni to the last man. It took three days for the Gorayni to defeat these brave but untrained rebels on the battlefield, and another year to hunt them down and kill them all in the mountains. After that there was no pretense that the Sotchitsiya had any rights at all. It was forbidden to speak the Sotchitsiya dialect; children who were heard speaking it had the privilege of watching their parents’ tongues cut off, one centimeter for each offense. Only a few of the Sotchitsiya remembered their own language anymore, most of them old and many of them tongueless.

But Moozh knew. Moozh had the Sotchitsiya language in his heart. Even though he was the most successful, the most dangerous of the Imperator’s generals, in his heart he knew his true language was Sotchitsiya, not Gorayni. And even though his many victories in battle had brought the great coastal nations of Uslavat and Ulye under the Imperator’s dominion, even though his clever strategy had brought the thorny mountain kingdoms of Plosh and Khlam to obedience without a single pitched battle, Moozh’s secret was that he loathed the Imperator and defied him in his heart.

For Moozh knew that the Imperator truly was God in the flesh, for better than most, Moozh could feel the power of God trying to control him. He had felt it first in his youth, when he sought a place in the Gorayni army. God didn’t speak to him when he learned to be a strong soldier, his arms and thighs heavy with muscle, able a drive a battleaxe through the spine of his enemy and cleave him in half. But when Moozh imagined himself as an officer, as a general, leading armies, then came that heavy stupid feeling that made him want to forget such dreams. Moozh understood-God knew his hatred of the Imperator, and so was determined that one like Moozh would never have power beyond the strength of his arms.

But Moozh refused to capitulate. Whenever he sensed that God was making him forget an idea, he clung to it-he wrote it down and memorized it, he made a poem of it in the Sotchitsiya language so he could never forget. And thus, bit by bit, he built up in his heart his own rules of warfare, guided every step of the way by God, for whatever God tried to prevent him from thinking, that was what he knew that he must think of, deeply and well.

This secret defiance of God was what brought Moozh out of the ranks and made him a captain when his regiment was in danger of being overrun by the pirates of Revis. All the other officers had been killed, yet when Moozh thought of taking command and leading the few men near him in a counterattack against the flank of the uncontrolled, victorious Reviti, he felt that dullness of mind that always told him that God did not want him to pursue the idea. So he shouted down the voice of God and led his men in a foolhardy charge, which so terrified the pirates that they broke and ran, and the rest of the Gorayni took heart and followed Moozh in hot pursuit of them until they caught them on the riverbank and killed them all and burned their ships. They had brought Moozh for a triumph of the city of Gollod itself, where the Imperator had rubbed the camelmilk butter into his hair and declared him a hero of the Gorayni. But in his heart, Moozh knew that God had no doubt planned to have some loyal son of the Gorayni achieve the victory. Well, too bad for the Imperator-if the incarnation of God didn’t understand that he had just oiled the hair of his enemy, then so much the worse for him.

Step by step Moozh had risen in command, until now he was at the head of a vast army. Most of his men were quartered in Ulye now, it was true, for the Imperator had commanded that they delay the attack against Nakavalnu until calm weather a month from now, when the chariots could be used to good advantage. Here in Khlam he had only a regiment, but that was all that was needed. Step by step he would lead the Gorayni onward, taking nation after nation along the coast until all the cities had fallen. Then he would face the armies of Potokgavan.

And then what? Some days Moozh thought that he would take his vengeance by orchestrating a complete and utter defeat for the armies of the Gorayni. He would gather all their military might into one place and then contrive to have them all slaughtered, himself among them. Then, with the Gorayni broken and Potokgavan having their will throughout the plain- then the Sotchitsiya would rise up and claim their freedom.

On other days, though, Moozh imagined that he would destroy the army of Potokgavan, so that along the entire western coast of the Earthbound Sea there was no rival to contest the supremacy of the Gorayni. Then he would stand before the Imperator, and when the Imperator reached out to smear the camelmilk butter on his hair, Moozh would slice off his head with a buck knife, then take the camelhump cap and put it on his own head, and declare that the empire that had been won by a Sotchitsiya would now be ruled by the Sotchitsiya. He would be Imperator, and instead of being the incarnation of God he would be the enemy of God, and the Sotchitsiya would be known as the greatest of men, and no longer as a nation of women.

These were his thoughts as he studied the map, while the storm flung sand at his tent and tried to tear it out of the ground.

Suddenly he came alert. The sound had changed. It wasn’t just the wind; someone was scratching at his tent. Who would be so stupid as to walk about in this weather? He felt a sudden stab of fear-could it be the assassin sent by the Imperator, to prevent him from the treachery that God surely knew was in his heart?

But when he untied the flap and opened it, no assassin came in with a flurry of sand and hot wind. Instead it was Plod, his dear friend and comrade in arms, and another man, a stranger, in military garb that Moozh did not recognize.

Plod himself fastened the tent closed again-it would have been improper for Moozh to do it, with a junior officer present who could do it for him. So Moozh had a few moments to study the stranger. He was no soldier, not really-his breastplate was sturdy, his blade sharp, his clothing was fine, and he bore himself like a man. But his skin was soft-looking and his muscles lacked the hardness of a man who has wielded a sword in battle. He was the kind of soldier who stood guard at a palace or a toll road, bullying the common people but never having to face a charging horde of enemies, never having to run behind a chariot, hacking to death any who escaped the blades that whirred on the hubs of the chariot wheels.

“What portal do you guard?” asked Moozh.

The man looked startled, and he glanced back at Plod.

Plod only laughed. “No one told him anything, poor man. Did you think you could face General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno and keep anything secret from his eyes?”

“My name is Smelost,” said the soft soldier, “and I bring a letter from Lady Rasa of Basilica.”

He spoke the name as though Moozh should have heard of it. That’s how these city people were, thinking that fame in their city must mean fame all over the world.

Moozh reached out and took the letter from him. Of course it was not written in the block alphabet of Gorayni-which they had stolen from the Sotchitsiya centuries ago. Instead it was the flowery vertical cursive of Basilica. But Moozh was an educated man. He could read it easily.

“It seems this man is our friend, dear Plod,” said Moozh. “His life isn’t safe in Basilica because he helped an assassin escape-but the assassin was also our friend, since he killed a man named Gaballufix who was in favor of Basilica forming an alliance with Potokgavan and leading the Cities of the Plain in war against us.”

“Ah,” said Plod.

“To think we never guessed how many dear and tender friends we had in Basilica,” said Moozh.

Plod laughed.

Smelost looked more than a little ill at ease.

“Sit down,” said Moozh. “You’re among friends. No harm will come to you now. Find him some ale to drink, will you, Plod? He may be a common soldier, but he brings us a letter from a fine lady who has nothing but love and concern for the Imperator.”

Plod unhooked a flagon from the back tentpole and gave it to Smelost, who looked at it in puzzlement.

Moozh laughed and took the flagon out of Smelost’s hands and showed him how to rest it on his arm, tip it up, and let the stream of ale fall into his mouth. “No fine glasses for us in this army, my friend. You’re not among the ladies of Basilica now.”

“I knew that I was not,” said Smelost.

“This letter is so cryptic, my friend,” said Moozh. “Surely you can tell us more.”

“Not much, I fear,” said Smelost, swallowing a mouthful of ale. It was far sweeter than beer, and Moozh could see that he didn’t like it much. Well, that hardly mattered, as long as Smelost got enough of the drug concealed in it that he’d speak freely. “I left before anything had come clear.” He was lying, of course, thinking that he ought not to say more than Lady Rasa had said.

But soon Smelost overcame his reticence and told Moozh far more than he ever meant to. But Moozh was careful to pretend that he already knew most of it, so that Smelost would not feel he had betrayed any secrets when he thought back on the conversation and how much he had told.

There was obviously much confusion in Basilica at the moment, but the parts of the picture that mattered to Moozh were very clear. Two parties, one for alliance with Potokgavan, one against it, had been struggling for control of the city. Now the leaders of both parties were dead, killed on the same night, possibly by the same assassin, but, in Smelost’s opinion, probably not. Accusations of murder were flying wildly; a weak man now controlled one group of hired soldiers who would now wander the streets uncontrolled, while the official city guard was under suspicion because this man, Smelost, had let the suspected assassin sneak out of the city two nights ago.

“What should we expect of a city of women?” said Moozh, when the story was done. “Of course there’s confusion. Women are always confused when the violence begins.”

Smelost looked at him warily. That was the sweet thing about the drug that Plod had given him-the victim was quite capable of believing that he was still being clever and deceptive, even as he poured out his heart on every subject. Moozh, of course, had immunized himself to the effects of the drug years ago, which was why he had no qualms about taking a mouthful of ale from the same flagon. He was also sure that Plod had no idea that Moozh was immune, and more than once he had suspected that Plod had given him some of the drug, whereupon Moozh always made a point of sharing a few harmless but indiscreet-sounding revelations- usually just his personal opinion of a few other officers. Never anything incriminating. Just enough to let Plod think the drug had worked its will on him.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Moozh. “Nothing against the women, but they can’t help their own biology, can they? It’s the way they are-when the violence begins, they must rush to a male to find protection, or they’re lost, wouldn’t you say?”

Smelost smiled wanly. “You don’t know the women of Basilica, then.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Moozh. “I know all women, and the women I don’t know, Plod knows-isn’t that right, Plod?”

“Oh, yes,” said Plod, smiling.

Smelost glowered a little but said nothing.

“The women of Basilica are frightened right now, aren’t they? Frightened and acting hastily. They don’t like these soldiers running the streets. They fear what will happen if no strong man is there to control them- but they fear just as much what will happen if a strong man does come. Who knows how things will turn out, once the violence starts? There’s blood on the street of Basilica. A man’s head has drunk the dust of the street through both halves of his neck, as we say in Gollod. There’s fear in every womanly heart in Basilica, yes, there is, and you know it.”

Smelost shrugged. “Of course they’re afraid. Who wouldn’t be?”

“A man wouldn’t be,” said Moozh. “A man would smell the opportunity. A man would say, When others are afraid then anyone who speaks boldly has a chance to lead. Anyone who makes decisions, anyone who acts can become the focus of authority, the hope of the desperate, the strength of the weak, the soul of the spiritless. A man would act”

“Act,” Smelost echoed.

“Act boldly? said Plod.

“And yet ... you have come to us with a letter from a woman pleading for protection.” Moozh smiled and shrugged.

Smelost immediately tried to defend himself. “Was I supposed to stand trial for having done what I knew was right?”

“Of course not. What-to be tried by women?” Moozh looked at Plod and laughed; Plod took the cue and joined in. “For acting as a man must act, boldly, with courage-no, you shouldn’t stand trial for that.”

“So I came here,” said Smelost.

“For protection. So you could be safe, while your city is in fear.”

Smelost rose to his feet. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

In an instant Plod’s blade was poised at Smelost’s throat. “When the General of the Imperator is seated, all men sit or they are treated as assassins.”

Smelost gingerly lowered himself back into his chair.

“Forgive my dearest friend Plod,” said Moozh. “I know you meant no harm. After all, you came to us to be safe, not to start a war!” Moozh laughed, staring in Smelost’s eyes all the time, until Smelost also forced himself to laugh.

Smelost clearly hated it, to be forced to laugh at himself for seeking protection instead of acting like a man.

“But perhaps I’ve misunderstood you,” said Moozh. “Perhaps you didn’t come, as this letter says, just for yourself. Perhaps you have a plan in mind, some way that you can help your city, some strategem whereby you can ease the fears of the women of Basilica and keep them safe from the chaos that threatens them.”

“I have no plan,” said Smelost. “Ah,” said Moozh. “Or perhaps you don’t yet trust us enough to tell it to us.” Moozh looked sad. “I understand. We’re strangers, and this is your city at stake, a city that you love more than life itself. Besides, what you would need to ask of us is far greater than a common soldier would ordinarily dare to ask a general of the Gorayni. So I will not press you now. Go-Plod will show you to a tent where you can drink and sleep, and when this storm dies down you can bathe and eat, and by then perhaps you’ll feel confident enough of me to tell me what you want us to do, to save your beautiful and beloved city from anarchy.”

As soon as Moozh finished talking, he gave a subtle hand signal and then leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, pretending to be a bit saddened by Smelost’s reluctance to help. Plod caught the hand signal, of course, and immediately rushed Smelost out of the tent and back out into the storm.

As soon as they were outside, Moozh leapt to his feet and stood hunched over the table, studying the map. Basilica-so for to the south, but in the highest part of the mountains, right up against the desert, so that it would be possible to get there from here through the mountains. In two days, if he took only a few hundred men and pressed them hard. Two days, and he could easily be in possession of the greatest city of the Western Shore, the city whose caravanners have made their language the trading argot of every city and nation from Potokgavan to Gorayni. Never mind that Basilica had no meaningful army. What mattered was how it would seem to the Cities of the Plain-and to Potokgavan. They would not know how few and weak the Gorayni army would be. They would know only that the great General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno had stolen a march, conquered a city of legend and mystery, and now, instead of being a hundred and fifty kilometers north, beyond Seggidugu, now he loomed over them, could watch their every move from the towers of Basilica.

It would be a devastating blow. Knowing that Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno would watch their fleet arrive and have plenty of time to bring his men down from Basilica and slaughter their army as it tried to land, Potokgavan would not dare to send an expeditionary force to the Cities of the Plain. And as for the cities themselves, they would surrender one by one, and soon Seggidugu would find itself surrounded, with no hope of succor from Potokgavan. They would make peace on any terms they could get. There probably wouldn’t even be a battle-complete victory, at no cost, all because Basilica was in chaos and this soldier had come to tell Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno of his glorious opportunity.

The tent flap reopened and Plod came back in. “The storm is dying down,” he said.

“Very good,” said Moozh.

“What was all that about?” said Plod.

“What?”

“That nonsense you were saying to that Basilican soldier.”

Moozh could not imagine what Plod was talking about. Basilican soldier? He had never seen a Basilican soldier in his life.

But Plod glanced at one of the chairs, and now Moozh vaguely remembered that not long ago someone had sat in that chair. Someone ... a Basilican soldier? That would be important-how could he have forgotten?

I didn’t forget, thought Moozh. I didn’t forget. God has spoken, God has tried to make me stupid, but I refuse. I will not be forced into obedience.

“How do you assess the situation?” he asked. It would never do to let Plod think that Moozh was actually confused or forgetful.

“Basilica is for away,” said Plod. “We can give this man sanctuary or kill him or send him back, it hardly matters. What is Basilica to us?”

Poor fool, thought Moozh. That’s why you’re merely the dear friend of the general, and not the general yourself, though I know you long to be. Moozh knew what Basilica was. It was the city of women whose influence had castrated his ancestors and cost them their freedom and their honor. It was also the great citadel poised above the Cities of the Plain. If Moozh could possess it, he wouldn’t have to fight a single battle-his enemies would collapse before him. Was this the plan that he had had before, the one that God was trying to make him forget?

“Write this down,” said Moozh.

Plod opened his computer and began to press the keys to record Moozh’s words.

“Whoever is master of Basilica is master of the Cities of the Plain.”

“But Moozh, Basilica has never exercised hegemony over those cities.”

“Because it’s a city of women,” said Moozh. “If it were ruled by a man with an army, that would be a different story.”

“We could never get there to take it,” said Plod. “All of Seggidugu lies between us and Basilica.”

Moozh looked at the map and another part of his plan came back to his mind. “A desert march.”

“During the month of western storms!” cried Plod. “The men would refuse to obey!”

“In the mountains there’s shelter. There are plenty of mountain roads.”

“Not for an army,” said Plod.

“Not for a large army,” said Moozh, making up the plan as he went along.

“You could never hold Basilica against Potokgavan with the size army you could bring,” said Plod.

Moozh studied the map for a moment longer. “But Potokgavan will never come, not if we already hold Basilica. They won’t know how large an army we have, but they will know that we can see the whole coastline from there. Where would they dare to bring their fleet, knowing we could see them from far off and greet them at the shore, to cut them apart as they land?”

Plod finished typing, then studied the map himself. “There’s merit in that,” he said.

Why is there merit in it? Moozh asked silently. I haven’t the faintest idea why I have this plan, except that a Basilican soldier apparently came here. What did he tell me? Why does this plan have merit?

“And with the present chaos in Basilica, you could probably take the city.”

Chaos in Basilica. Good. So I wasn’t wrong-the Basilican soldier apparently let me know of an opportunity.

“Yes,” said Plod. “We have the perfect excuse for doing it, too. We aren’t coming to invade, but rather to save the people of Basilica from the mercenary soldiers who are wandering their streets.”

Mercenary soldiers? The idea was absurd-why would Basilica have mercenary soldiers running loose? Had there been a war? God had never made Moozh so forgetful that he couldn’t remember a whole war!

“And the immediate provocation-the murders. The blood was already flowing-we had to come, to stop the bloodshed. Yes, that will be plenty of justification for it. No one can criticize us for attacking the city of women, if we come to save them from blood in the streets.”

So that’s my plan, thought Moozh. A very good one it is. Even God can’t stop me from carrying it out. “Write it up, Plod, and have my aides draw up detailed orders for a thousand men to march in four columns through the mountains. Only three days’ worth of supplies-the men can carry it on their backs.”

“Three days!” said Plod. “And what if something goes wrong?”

“Knowing they have but three days’ worth of food, dear Plod, the men will march very fast indeed, and they will allow nothing to delay them.”

“What if the situation has changed at Basilica, when we arrive? What if we meet stout resistance? The walls of Basilica are high and thick, and chariots are useless in that terrain.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’ll bring no chariots, isn’t it? Except perhaps one, for my triumphal entry into the city-in the name of the Imperator, of course.”

“Still, they might resist, and we’ll arrive with scarcely any food to spare. We can’t exactly besiege them!”

“Well have no need to besiege them. We have only to ask them to open the gates, and the gates will open.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so,” said Moozh. “When have I been wrong before?”

Plod shook his head. “Never, my dear friend and beloved general. But by the time we get the Imperator’s permission to go there, the chaos in the streets of Basilica may well have been settled, and it will take a much larger army than a thousand men to force the issue.”

Moozh looked at him in surprise. “Why would we wait for the Imperator’s permission?”

“Because the Imperator forbade you to make any attack until the stormy season is over.”

“On the contrary,” said Moozh. “The Imperator forbade me to attack Nakavalnu and Izmennik. I am not attacking them. I’m passing them by on their left flank, and marching as swift as horses through the mountains to Basilica, where again I will not attack anybody, but will rather enter the city of Basilica to restore order in the name of the Imperator. None of this violates any order of the Imperator.”

Plod’s face darkened. “You are interpreting the words of the Imperator, my general, and that is something only the intercessor has the right to do.”

“Every soldier and every officer must interpret the orders he is given. I was sent to these southlands in order to conquer the entire western shore of the Earthbound Sea-that was the command the Imperator gave to me, and to me alone. If I failed to seize this great opportunity that God has given me”-ha!-”then I would be disobedient indeed.”

“My dear friend, noblest general of the Gorayni, I beg you not to attempt this. The intercessor will not see it as obedience but as insubordination.”

“Then the intercessor is no true servant of the Imperator. “

Plod immediately bowed his head. “I see that I have spoken too boldly.”

Moozh knew at once that this meant Plod intended to tell the intercessor everything and try to stop him. When Plod meant to obey, he did not put on this great pretense of obedience.

“Give me your computer,” said Moozh. “I will write the orders myself.”

“Don’t shame me,” said Plod in dismay. “I must write them, or I have failed in my duty to you.”

“You will sit with me here,” said Moozh, “and watch as I write the orders.”

Plod flung himself to his knees on the carpets. “Moozh, my friend, I’d rather you kill me than shame me like this.”

“I knew that you didn’t intend to obey me,” said Moozh. “Don’t lie and say you did.”

“I meant to delay,” said Plod. “I meant to give you time to reconsider. Hoping that you’d realize the grave danger of opposing the Imperator, especially so soon after you dreamed a dream that was contemptuous of his holy person.”

It took a moment for Moozh to remember what Plod was referring to; then his rage turned cold and hard indeed. “Who would know of that dream, except myself and my friend?”

“Your friend loved you enough to tell the dream to the intercessor,” said Plod, “Iest your soul be in danger of destruction without your knowing it.”

“Then my friend must love me indeed,” said Moozh.

“I do,” said Plod. “With all my heart. I love you more than any man or woman on this Earth, excepting God alone, and his holy incarnation.”

Moozh regarded his dearest friend with icy calm. “Use your computer, my friend, and call the intercessor to my tent. Have him stop on the way and bring the Basilican soldier with him.”‘

“I’ll go and get them,” said Plod.

“Call them by computer.”

“But what if the intercessor isn’t using his computer right now?”

“Then we’ll wait until he does.” Moozh smiled. “But he will be using it, won’t he?”

“Perhaps,” said Plod. “How would I know?”

“Call them. I want the intercessor to hear my interrogation of the Basilican soldier. Then he’ll know that we must go now, and not wait for word from the Imperator.”

Plod nodded. “Very wise, my friend. I should have known that you wouldn’t flout the will of the Imperator. The intercessor will listen to you, and he’ll decide.”

“We’ll decide together? said Moozh.

“Of course.” He pressed the keys; Moozh made no effort to watch him, but he could see the words in the air over the computer well enough to know that Plod was sending a quick, straightforward request to the intercessor.

“Alone,” said Moozh. “If we decide not to act, I want no rumors to spread about Basilica.”

“I already asked him to come alone,” said Plod.

They waited, talking all the time of other things. Of campaigns in years past. Of officers who had served with them. Of women they had known.

“Have you ever loved a woman?” asked Moozh.

“I have a wife,” said Plod.

“And you love her?”

Plod thought a moment. “When I’m with her. She’s the mother of my sons.”

“I have no sons,” said Moozh. “No children at all, that I know of. No woman who has pleased me for more than a night.”

“None?” asked Plod.

Moozh flushed with embarrassment, realizing what Plod was remembering. “I never loved her? he said. “I took her-as an act of piety.”

“Once is an act of piety,” said Plod, chuckling. “Two months one year, and then another month three years later-that’s more than piety, that’s sainthood”

“She was nothing to me,” said Moozh. “I took her only for the sake of God.” And it was true, though not in the way Plod understood it. The Woman had appeared as if out of nowhere, dirty and naked, and called Moozh by name. Everyone knew such women were from God. But Moozh knew that when he thought of taking her, God sent him that stupor that meant it was not God’s will for Moozh to proceed. So Moozh proceeded anyway, and kept the woman-bathed her, and clothed her, and treated her as tenderly as a wife. All the while he felt God’s anger boiling at the back of his mind, and he laughed at God. He kept the woman with him until she disappeared, as suddenly as she had come, leaving all her fine clothing behind, taking nothing, not even food, not even water.

“So that wasn’t love,” said Plod. “God honors you for your sacrifice, then, I’m sure!” Plod laughed again, and for good fellowship Moozh also joined in.

They were still laughing when there came a scratching at the tent, and Plod leapt to open it. The intercessor came in first, which was his duty-and an expression of his faith in God, since the intercessor always left himself available to be stabbed in the back, if God did not protect him. Then a stranger came in. Moozh had no memory of ever having seen the man before. By his garb he was a soldier of a fine city; by his body he was a soft soldier, a gate guard rather than a fighting man; by his familiar nod, Moozh knew that this must be the Basilican soldier, and he must indeed have spoken with him, and left the conversation on friendly terms.

The intercessor sat first, and then Moozh; only then could the others take their places.

“Let me see your blade,” Moozh said to the Basilican soldier. “I want to see what kind of steel you have in Basilica.”

Warily the Basilican arose from his seat, watching Plod all the while. Vaguely Moozh remembered Plod with a blade at the Basilican’s throat; no wonder the man was wary now! With two fingers the man drew his short sword from its sheath, and handed it, hilt first, to Moozh.

It was a city sword, for close work, not a great hewing sword for the battlefield. Moozh tested the blade against the skin of his own arm, cutting only slightly, but enough to draw a line of blood. The man winced to see it. Soft. Soft.

“I’ve thought about what you said, sir,” the Basilican said.

Ah. So I gave him something to think about.

“And I can see that my city needs your help. But who am I to ask for it, or even to know what help would be right or sufficient? I’m only a gate guard; it’s only the sheerest chance that I got caught up in these great affairs.”

“You love your city, don’t you?” asked Moozh, for now he knew what he must have told the man. I am sharp enough even on my bad days, Moozh thought with some satisfaction. Sharp enough to lay God-proof plans.

“Yes, I do.” Tears had suddenly come to the man’s eyes. “Forgive me, but someone else asked me that, just before I left Basilica. Now I know by this omen that you are a true servant of the Oversoul, and I can trust you.”

Moozh gazed steadily into the man’s eyes, to show him that trust was appropriate indeed.

“Come to Basilica, sir. Come with an army. Restore order in the streets, and drive out the mercenaries. Then the women of Basilica will have no more fear.”

Moozh nodded wisely. “An eloquent and noble request, which in my heart I long to fulfill. But I am a servant of the Imperator, and you must explain the situation in your city to the intercessor here, who is the eyes and ears and heart of the Imperator in our camp.” As he spoke, Moozh rose to his feet, facing the intercessor, and bowed. Behind him he could hear Plod and the Basilican soldier also standing and bowing.

Surely Plod is clever enough to know what I plan to do, thought Moozh with a thrill of fear. Surely his knife is even now out of its sheath, to be buried in my back. Surely he knows that if he does not do this, the Basilican blade I hold in my hands will snake out and take his head clean off his shoulders as I rise.

But Plod was not that clever, and so in a moment his blood gouted and spattered across the tent as his body collapsed, his head flopping about on the end of the half-severed spine.

Moozh’s blow had been so quick, so smooth, that neither the Basilican nor the intercessor quite understood how Plod came to be so abruptly dead. That gave Moozh plenty of time to drive the Basilican blade upward under the intercessor’s ribs, finding his heart before the intercessor could speak a word or even raise himself from his chair.

The Moozh turned to the trembling Basilican.

“What is your name, soldier?”

“Smelost, sir. As I told you. I’ve lied about nothing, sir.”

“I know you haven’t. Neither have I. These men were determined to stop me from coming to the aid of your city. That’s why I brought them here together. If you wanted me to help you, I had to kill them first.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

“No, not whatever I say. Only the truth, Smelost. These men were both spies set to watch every move I made, to hear every word I spoke, and judge my loyalty to the Imperator constantly. This one”-he pointed at Plod-”interpreted a dream I had as a sign of disloyalty, and told the intercessor. It would only have been a matter of time before they reported me and I lost my command, and then who would have come to save Basilica?”

“But how will you explain their deaths?” asked Smelost.

Moozh said nothing.

Smelost waited. Then he looked again at the bodies. “I see,” he said. “The blade that killed them was mine.”

“How much do you love your city?” asked Moozh.

“With all my heart.”

“More than life?” asked Moozh.

Gravely Smelost nodded. There was fear in his eyes, but he did not tremble.

“If my soldiers think I killed Plod and the intercessor, they will tear me to pieces. But if they think-no, if they know that you did it, and I killed you for it- then they will follow me in righteous indignation. I’ll tell them that you were one of the mercenaries. I will besmirch your name. I will say you were a traitor to Basilica, trying to prevent me from going to the city’s aid. But because they believe those lies about you, they will follow me there and we will save your city.”

Smelost smiled. “It seems that my fate is to be thought a worse traitor the better I serve my city.”

“It is a terrible day when a man must choose between being thought loyal, and being loyal in fact, but that day has come to you.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Moozh almost wept with admiration for the courage and honor of the man, as he explained the simple play they would put on. If I did not serve a higher cause, thought Moozh, I would be too ashamed to deceive a man of such honor as yourself. But for the sake of Pravo Gollossa I will do any terrible thing.

A moment later, in a lull in the windstorm, Moozh and Smelost both began to bellow, and Moozh let out a high scream that witnesses would later swear was the death cry of the intercessor. Then, as soldiers stumbled out of their tents, they saw Smelost, already bleeding from a wound in his thigh, lurch from the general’s tent, carrying a short sword dripping with blood. “For Gaballufix! Death to the Imperator!”

The name of Gaballufix meant nothing to the Gorayni soldiers, though soon enough it would be rich with meaning. What they cared about was the latter part of Smelost’s shout-death to the Imperator. No one could say such a thing in a Gorayni camp without being flayed alive.

Before anyone could reach him, though, the general himself staggered from the tent, bleeding from his arm and holding his head where he must have been struck a blow. The general-the great Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozh-no, called Moozh whenever they thought he could not hear-held a battle-ax in his left arm-his left, not his right!-and struck downward into the base of the assassin’s neck, cleaving him to the heart. He should not have done it; everyone knew he should have let the man be taken and tortured to punish him. But then, to their horror, the general sank to his knees-the general with ice in his veins instead of blood-he sank to his knees and wept bitterly, crying out from the depths of his soul, “Plodorodnuy, my friend, my heart, my life! Ah, Plod! Ah, Plod, God should have taken me and left you!”

It was a grief both glorious and terrible to behold, and without speaking a word openly about it, the soldiers who heard his keening resolved to tell no one of his blasphemous suggestion that perhaps God might have ordered the world improperly. When they entered the tent they understood perfectly why Moozh had forgotten himself and killed the assassin with his own hand, for how could any mortal man see his dearest friend and the intercessor both so cruelly murdered, and still contain his rage?

Soon the story spread through the camp that Moozh was taking a thousand fierce soldiers with him on a forced march through the mountains, to take the city of Basilica and destroy the party of Gaballufix, a group of men so daring and treacherous that they had dared to send an assassin against the general of the Gorayni. Too bad for them that God so dearly loved the Gorayni that he would not permit their Moozh to be slain by treachery. Instead God had caused Moozh’s heart to be filled with righteous wrath, and Basilica would soon know what it meant to have God and the Gorayni as their overlords.

THREE - PROTECTION

THE DREAM OF THE ELDEST SON

The camels had all gathered under the shade of the large palm fronds that Wetchik and his sons had woven into a roof between a group of four large trees near the stream. Elemak envied them-the shade was good there, the stream was cool, and they could catch the breeze, so the air was never as stuffy as it was inside the tents. He was done with his work for the morning, and now there was nothing useful to do during the heat of the day. Let Father and Nafai and Issib drip their sweat all over each other as they huddled around the Index of the Oversoul in Father’s tent. What did the Oversold know? It was just a computer-Nafai himself said that, in his adolescent fanatic piety-so why should Elemak bother with a conversation with a machine? It had a vast library of information ... so what? Elemak was done with school.

So he sat in the hot shade of the southern cliff, knowing that he would have at most an hour of rest before the sun rose high enough that the shade would disappear, and he would have to move. That didn’t really bother Elemak-in fact, on his caravans he had counted on that to awaken him, so that he didn’t sleep overlong during the day when they rested at oases. What made him so angry that he felt it like a pain in his stomach all the time was the fact that it was all so useless. They were not traveling, they were merely waiting here in the desert-and for what? For nothing. The Oversoul said that Basilica would be destroyed, that the world of Harmony was going to collapse in war and terror. It was laughably unlikely that any such thing would happen. The world had gone forty million years without being devastated by war. Now, for the first time, two great empires were on the verge of collision, and the Over-soul was treating it as if it were some cosmic event.

I could have understood leaving Basilica, he told himself, if we had taken our fortune with us and gone to another city and started over. What was vital in the plant trade was the knowledge inside Father’s and my heads, not the buildings or the hired workers. We could have been rich. Instead we’re here in the desert, we lost our entire fortune to my half-brother Gaballufix, and now Nafai has murdered him and we can never go back to Basilica again, or if we did, we’d be poor so why bother?

Except that even poverty in Basilica would be better than this meaningless waiting out here in the desert, in this miserable little valley that barely supported the troop of baboons downstream of them. Even now he could hear them barking and hooting. Beasts that couldn’t decide whether to be men or dogs. That’s exactly what we are now, only we didn’t even have the sense to bring mates with us when we left, so we can’t even form a reasonable tribe.

Despite the arrhythmic noises of the baboons and the occasional snorting of the camels, Elemak soon slept. He woke moments later, or so it felt; he could feel the burning heat of the sun on his clothing, so he assumed that the sun had wakened him. But no, it was something else; there was a shadow moving near him. With his eyes closed he thought of where his knife was and remembered how the ground was near him. Then, with a sudden rush of movement, he was on his feet, his long knife in his hand, squinting in the bright sunlight to see where his enemy was.

“It’s only me!” squeaked Zdorab.

Elemak put away his knife in disgust. “You don’t come up silently when a man is asleep in the desert. You can get yourself killed that way. I assumed you were a robber.”

“But I wasn’t all that quiet,” said Zdorab reasonably. “In fact, you were noisy yourself. Dreaming, I expect.”

That bothered Elemak, that he had not slept silently. But now that Zdorab mentioned it, he remembered that he bad dreamed, and he remembered the dream with remarkable clarity. In fact he had never had such a dear dream, not that he remembered, anyway, and it made him think. “What was I saying?” asked Elemak.

“I don’t know,” said Zdorab. “It was more of a mumble. I came up here because your father asked to see you. I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise.”

It was true. Zdorab was the consummate servant, invisible most of the time, but always ready to help-even when he was completely incompetent, which was usually the case here in the desert, where the skills of a treasurer were quite useless. “Thanks,” said Elemak. “I’ll come in a minute.”

Zdorab waited for just a moment-that hesitation that all good servants acquired sooner or later, that single moment in which the master could think of something else to tell before they left. Then he was gone, shambling clumsily down the shale slope and then across the dry stony soil to Wetchik’s tent.

Elemak pulled up his desert robe and peed out in the open, where the sun would evaporate his urine in moments, before too many flies could gather. Then he headed for the stream, took a drink in his cupped hand, splashed water into his face and over his head, and only then made his way to where Father and all the others were waiting.

“Well,” said Elemak as he entered. “Have you learned everything the Oversoul has to teach you?”

Nafai glared at him with his typical look of disapproval. Someday Elemak knew he’d have to give Nafai the beating of his life, just to teach him not to get that expression on his face, at least not toward Elemak. He had tried to give him that beating once before, and he had learned that next time he’d have to do it away from Issib’s chair, so the Oversoul couldn’t take control of it and interfere. But for now there was nothing to be gained by letting Nafai’s snottiness get under his skin; so Elemak pretended not to notice.

“We need to start hunting for meat,” said Father.

Elemak immediately let his eyes half close as he thought of what that meant. They had brought enough supplies for eight or nine months-for a year, if they were careful. Yet Father was talking about needing to hunt. That could only mean that he didn’t expect to get anywhere civilized within a year.

“How about shopping for groceries in the Outer Market,” said Meb.

Elemak agreed wholeheartedly, but said nothing as Father lectured Meb on the impossibility of returning to Basilica any time soon. He waited until the little scene had played itself out. Poor Meb-when would he learn that it’s better to remain silent except to say what will accomplish your purpose?

Only when silence had returned did Elemak speak up. “We can hunt,” he said. “This is fairly lush country, for desert, and I think we could probably bring in something once a week-for a few months.”

“Can you do it?” asked Father.

“Not alone,” said Elemak. “If Meb and I hunt every day, we’ll find something once a week.”

“Nafai too,” said Father.

“No!” moaned Mebbekew. “He’ll just get in the way.”

“I’ll teach him,” said Elemak. “For that matter, I don’t imagine Meb will be worth anything more than Nafai at first. But you have to tell them both-when we’re hunting, my word is law.”

“Of course,” said Father. “They’ll do exactly what you tell them, and nothing more.”

“I’ll take each of them every other day,” said Elemak. “That way I won’t have to put up with their arguing with each other.”

Mebbekew glared at him with loathing-so subtle, Meb, no wonder you were such a successful actor-but Nafai only looked at the carpet on the floor of the tent. What was he thinking? No doubt conniving to find some way to turn this to his advantage.

Sure enough, Nafai lifted up his head and spoke solemnly to Elemak. “Elya, I’m sorry I’ve given you cause to think that’s what I’d do, if you took Meb and me at once. If having us both come at once would be more efficient, I can promise I’ll not say a word of argument, either to you or Meb.”

Just like the little sneak, to make himself look so pious and cooperative, when Elemak knew that he would be snotty and argumentative the whole way, no matter what he promised now. But Elemak said nothing, as Father quietly praised Nafai’s attitude, then told him that Elya’s decision would stand. They would go hunting with Elya one at a time. “You’ll learn better one on one, I assure you,” said Father.

At times like this Elemak almost believed that Father saw through Nafai’s righteous act. But it wasn’t so; in a moment Father would go off talking about what the Oversoul wanted, and then he and Nafai would be as thick as thieves.

Thinking of thieves made Elemak remember how Zdorab had wakened him a few moments ago; and thinking of waking up reminded him of his vivid dream. And it occurred to him that it might be amusing to play Nafai’s game, and pretend that his dream was some vision from the Oversoul. “I was sleeping by the rocks,” said Elemak into the silence, “and I dreamed a dream.”

Immediately all eyes were on him, waiting. Elemak sized them up under heavy-lidded eyes; he saw the immediate joy on his father’s face, and was almost ashamed of the sham he was going to play-but the consternation on Nafai’s face and the utter horror on Meb’s made it well worth doing. “I dreamed a dream,” he said, “in which I saw all of us coming out of a large house.”

“Whose house was it?” asked Nafai.

“Hush and let him tell the dream,” said Father,

“A kind of house I’ve never seen before. And we didn’t come out alone-the six of us, all six of us, each came out with a woman. And there were two other men, each with a woman as well. And many children. All of us had children.”

There was silence for a long moment.

“Is that all?” asked Nafai.

Elemak said nothing, and the silence resumed.

“Elya,” said Issib. “Did I have a wife?”

“In my dream,” said Elemak, “you had a wife.”

“Did you see her face?” asked Issib. “Did you know who she was?”

Now Elemak felt truly ashamed of himself, for he could see that Issib believed that this was a true vision, and for the first time in his life it occurred to him that poor Issib, palsied as he was, nevertheless yearned for a woman as any other man might yearn, and yet had no hope of finding one who would want him. In Basilica, where women had their pick of men, it would be one piss-poor specimen of womanhood who would choose a cripple like Issib for a mate. Even if he ever managed to have sex, it would be because some jaded female was curious about him-especially with his floats, that might interest some of the more adventurous ones. But to mate with him, to bear him children, to give him father’s rights, no, that wouldn’t happen, and Issib knew it. Which meant that by telling this dream, Elemak wasn’t just manipulating Father, he was also setting Issib up for cruel disappointment. Elemak felt like shit.

“I didn’t see her face,” said Elemak. “It probably didn’t mean anything. It was just a dream.”

“It meant something,” said Father.

“It means Elemak is ridiculing us,” said Nafai. “He’s making fun of us for having visions from the Oversold.”

“Don’t call me a liar,” said Elemak softly. “If I say I dreamed, I dreamed. Whether it means anything, I can’t say. But I saw what I saw. Isn’t that what Father said? Isn’t that what you said? I saw what I saw.”

“It meant something,” said Father again. “Now an odd message I received through the Index makes perfect sense.”

Oh no, thought Elemak. What have I done?

“I have thought for some time that we couldn’t accomplish the Oversoul’s purpose without wives. And yet where could we possibly find women who would join us here?”

Where could you find men who would join you here, for that matter, Father, except that you trapped your own sons into coming with you?

“But when I asked the Oversoul, the answer I got was to wait. That’s all, just wait, which made no sense to me. Would wives sprout from the rocks? Would we mate with baboons?”

Elemak couldn’t resist a jab. “Meb already has, from time to time.”

Meb simpered.

“And now Elemak has dreamed,” Father said. “I think that is what the Oversoul wanted me to wait for- Elemak’s dream. For the answer to come to my eldest son, to my heir. So, Elya, you must think, you must remember-did you recognize any of the women in your dream?”

Father was taking this way too seriously, tying it with Elemak’s status as his eldest. Elemak had been a fool to start this whole vision business today, he could see that now; how could he have forgotten that Father was willing to ruin everybody’s lives for the sake of a vision? “No,” said Elemak, to silence him, though it wasn’t true.

“Think,” said Father. “I know that you recognized at least one.”

Elemak looked at him, startled. Had the old man started reading his mind now? “If the Oversoul has told you more about my dream than I know myself, then you tell us who they are,” said Elemak.

“I know you recognized one because you said her name. If you think hard enough, you’ll remember.”

Elemak glanced at Zdorab, who was looking at the carpet. So, thought Elemak. When Zdorab said that he understood nothing of what I said in my sleep, it wasn’t quite true. “What name?” asked Elemak. “Eiadh,” said Nafai. “Am I right?”

Elemak said nothing, but he hated Nafai for saying the name of the woman Elemak had been courting before Father dragged them out into the desert.

“It’s all right,” said Father. “I understand perfectly. You didn’t want to tell us her name for fear that we would think that your dream was just an erotic wish for the woman you loved, and not a true dream.”

Since that was exactly what Elemak thought his dream actually was, he couldn’t argue with Wetchik’s conclusion.

“But think, my sons. Would the Oversoul require you to choose strangers as your mates? You dreamed of Eiadh because the Oversoul intends her to be your mate,” said Father. “And it makes sense, doesn’t it? For you saw me with a mate as well, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Elemak, remembering. The dream was still so vivid in his mind that he could call it back, not just as a vague memory, but clearly. “Yes, and children. Young ones.”

“There is only one woman I would take as my mate,” said Father. “Rasa.”

“She’d never leave Basilica,” said Issib. “If you think she would, you don’t know Mother.”

“Ah,” said Father. “But I would never have left Basilica, either, except that the Oversoul led me. Nor would Elemak and Mebbekew, except that the Oversoul brought them.”

“Nor I,” said Zdorab.

“Could the woman you saw in your dream, the woman who was my mate . . . she was Rasa, wasn’t she?” asked Father.

Of course it was Rasa, but that didn’t prove anything. Rasa had been Father’s wife, year after year, so of course it was Rasa who would show up as his woman in Elemak’s dreams. It would take no vision from the Oversoul for that. “Perhaps,” said Elemak.

“And did you recognize any of the other women? For instance, the two other men who were strangers-could their mates have been Rasa’s daughters?”

“I don’t know your wife’s daughters all that well,” said Elemak. How far would this game have to go before he could have done with it?

“Don’t be absurd,” said Father. “They’re your nieces, aren’t they? Gaballufix’s daughters.”

“And one of them is famous,” chimed in Meb. “Sevet, the singer-you’ve seen her.”

“Yes,” said Elemak. “The wives of the two strangers were Rasa’s daughters.” Of course he knew them, and their husbands, too, Vas and Obring.

“There, you see?” said Father. “The Oversoul has given you a true vision. The women you saw are all connected with Rasa. Her daughters, and Eiadh, one of the nieces of her household. I’m sure the others are all of her household, too. So this isn’t some impossible dream that came to you because you had a hunger for venery, my son. This came from the Oversoul, because the Oversoul knows that to accomplish our purpose we must have wives who will bear us children. All of us.”

“Well,” said Elemak, “if it’s really a vision, then I’m happy enough for the Oversoul to give me Eiadh. But I think there’s a better chance of finding a falcon in a frog’s mouth than of anyone but the Oversoul ever persuading Eiadh to come out into the desert to marry a penniless, homeless man like me, with no hope of wealth.”

“You forget that the Oversoul has promised us a land of unspeakable richness,” said Father.

“And you forget that we haven’t found it yet,” said Elemak. “We’re not likely to find it, either, squatting in the desert like this.”

“The Oversoul has shown us what we must do,” said Father. “And as Nafai said to me before you left to seek the Index-if the Oversoul requires us to do something, he’ll open a way for us to do it.”

“Great idea,” said Mebbekew. “Whom will Nafai kill to get us some women?”

“That’s enough,” said Father.

“Come on,” said Mebbekew. “How else would Nafai ever get a wife, except by killing some drunk passed out on the street and stealing his blind, crippled daughter.”

To Elemak’s surprise, Nafai said nothing to Mebbekew’s gibes. Instead, the boy got up and left the tent. So, thought Elemak. Nafai isn’t entirely a child. Or else he was ashamed to have us see him cry.

“Meb,” said Issib softly, “Nafai brought the Index, and you didn’t.”

“Oh, come on,” said Mebbekew. “Can’t anybody take a joke around here?”

“It isn’t a joke to Nafai,” said Issib. “Killing Gaballufix is the most terrible thing he ever did, and he thinks about it all the time.”

“You were out of line to throw it up to him,” said Father “Don’t do it again.”

“What am I supposed to do,” Mebbekew insisted, “pretend that Nafai got the Index by saying Pity Please?”

It was time for Elemak to get Mebbekew back in line-no one else could do it, and it needed to be done. “What you’re supposed to do is shut up,” said Elemak softly.

Meb looked at him defiantly. It was all an act, though, Elemak knew. All he had to do was meet Meb’s gaze and hold it, and Meb would back down. It didn’t take long, either.

“Elemak,” said Father, “you must go back, you and your brothers.”

“Don’t put this on me” said Elemak. “If anyone can persuade Rasa, it’s you.”

“On the contrary,” said Wetchik. “She knows me, she knows I love her, she loves me too-and that didn’t bring her with me before. Do you think I didn’t suggest it? No, if anyone persuades her it will be the Over-soul. All you have to do is go and suggest it to her, wait for the Oversoul to help her understand that she must come, and then provide safe escort for her and her daughters and the young women of her household who come with her.”

“Oh, fine,” said Elemak. He could wait a long cold time for the Oversoul to persuade anybody but Father to do something as idiotic as leaving Basilica for the desert. But at least he’d be waiting in Basilica, even if he had to do it in hiding. “Should I have her bring along a servant for Zdorab, too?”

Father’s face went icy. “Zdorab isn’t a servant now,” he said. “He’s a free man, and the equal of any man here. A woman of Rasa’s household would do for him as well as for any of you, and as for that, a serving girl in Rasa’s house would also do for any of you. Don’t you understand that we’re no longer in Basilica, that the society we form now will have no room for snobbery and bigotry, for castes and classes? We will be one people, all equals, with all our children equal in the eyes of the Oversoul.”

In the eyes of the Oversoul, perhaps, but not in my eyes, thought Elemak. I’m the eldest son, and my firstborn son will be my heir as I am your heir, Father. Even if you gave up the lands and holdings that should have been my inheritance, I will still inherit your authority, and no matter where we end up settling, I will rule, or no one will. I may say nothing of this now, because I know when to speak and when not to speak. But be sure of this, Father. When you die, I will have your place-and anyone who tries to deprive me of it will follow you quickly into the grave.

Elemak looked at Issib and Meb, and knew that neither would resist him when that day came. But Nafai would cause trouble, bless his dear little heart. And Nafai knows it, thought Elemak. He knows that someday it will come down to him and me. For someday Father will try to pass his authority on to this miserable little toady of a boy, all because Nafai is so thick with the Oversoul. Well, Nafai, I’ve had a vision from the Oversoul, too-or at least Father thinks I have, which amounts to the same thing.

“Leave in the morning,” Father said. “Come back with the women who will share the inheritance the Oversoul has prepared for us in another land. Come back with the mothers of my grandchildren.”

“Mebbekew and I,” said Elemak. “No others.”

“Issib will stay home because his chair and his floats make him too conspicuous, and he increases your chances of being caught by our enemies there,” said Father. “And Zdorab will stay.”

Because you don’t quite trust him yet, thought Elemak, no matter how much you claim that he’s our equal and a free man.

“But Nafai goes with you.”

“No,” said Elemak. “He’s even more dangerous to us than Issib. They’re bound to have figured out that he killed Gaballufix-the city computer got his name on the way out of town, and the guards saw him wearing Gaballufix’s clothing. And he had Zdorab with him, to clinch the connection between him and Gab’s death. Bringing Nafai is like asking to have him killed.”

“He goes with you,” said Father.

“Why, when he only increases our danger?” demanded Elemak.

“Yes, make him say it, Elya,” said Mebbekew. “Father doesn’t want to insult you, but I don’t mind. He wants Nafai there because, as someone recently pointed out, Nafai got the Index and none of the rest of us did. He wants Nafai there because he doesn’t trust us not to just find some woman to take us in and stay in Basilica and never come back to this paradise by the sea. He wants Nafai there because he thinks Nafai will make us be good.”

“Not at all,” said Issib. “Father wants him to learn strength and wisdom by associating with his older brothers.”

No one was ever sure whether Issib was being ironic or not. Nobody believed that this was Father’s true purpose, but nobody-least of all Father-cared to deny it openly, either.

In the silence, the words that still rang in Elemak’s ears were the last ones he himself had said: Bringing Nafai is like asking to have him killed.

“All right, Father,” said Elemak. “Nafai can come with me.”

IN BASILICA, AND NOT IN A DREAM

Kokor could not understand why she should be in seclusion. For Sevet it made sense-she was recuperating from her unfortunate accident. Her voice wasn’t back yet; she was no doubt embarrassed to appear in public. But Kokor was in perfect health, and for her to have to hide out at Mother’s house made it look as if she were ashamed to come out in public. If she had deliberately injured Sevet, then perhaps such isolation might be necessary. But since it was simply an unfortunate accident, the result of a psychological disturbance due to Father’s death and the discovery of Sevet’s and Obring’s adultery, why, no one could blame Kokor. In fact, it would do her good to be seen in public. It would surely speed her recovery.

At least she should be able to go home to her own house, and not have to stay with Mother, as if she were a little girl or a mental incompetent who needed a guardian. Where was Obring? If he ever intended to make things up with her, he could begin by coming and getting her out of Mother’s unbearably staid environment. There was nothing interesting going on here. Just endless classes in subjects that hadn’t interested Kokor even when she was failing them years ago. Kokor was a woman of substance now. Father’s inheritance probably would enable her to buy a house and keep her own establishment. And here she was living with mother.

Not that she saw that much of Mother. Rasa was constantly in meetings with councilors and other influential women of the city, who were making virtual pilgrimages to see her and talk to her. Some of the meetings seemed to be somewhat tense; Rasa began to gather the idea that some people, at least, were blaming Rasa for everything. As if Mother would try to kill Father! But they remembered that it was Rasa’s current husband, Wetchik, who had his inflammatory vision about Basilica in flames, and then her former husband, Gaballufix, who put tolchoks and then mercenary soldiers on the streets of the city. And now the word was that her youngest son, Nafai, was the killer of both Roptat and Gaballufix.

Well, even if all that was true, what did that have to do with Mother? Women can’t very well control their husbands-didn’t Kokor have proof of that herself? And as for Nafai killing Father-well, even if he did it, Mother wasn’t there, and she certainly didn’t ask the boy to do it. They might as well blame Mother for what happened to Sevet, when anyone could see it was Sevet’s own fault. Besides, wasn’t Father’s death his own fault, really? All those soldiers-you don’t bring soldiers into Basilica and expect not to have violence, do you? Men never understood these things. They could turn things loose, but they were always surprised when they couldn’t tame them again at will.

Like Obring, poor fool. Didn’t he know that it wasn’t a clever thing to come between sisters? He was really more to blame for Sevet’s injury than Kokor was.

And why doesn’t anybody have any sympathy for my injury? The deep psychological harm that has come to me because of seeing Obring and my own sister like that! No one cares that I’m suffering, too, and that maybe I need to go out at night as therapy.

Kokor sat painting her face, practicing looks that might project well in her next play. For there would certainly be a next play now, once she got out of Mother’s house. Tumannu’s little attempt to blacklist her would certainly fail-there wasn’t a comedy house in Dolltown that would refuse an actress whose name was on the lips of everyone in Basilica. The house would sell out every night just from curiosity seekers-and when they saw her perform and heard her sing, they’d be back again and again. Not that she would ever dream of deliberately hurting someone in order to advance her career; but since it had happened, why not make use of it? Tumannu herself would probably be in line to beg Kokor to take the lead in a comedy.

She had drawn a little pout on her mouth that looked quite fetching. She tried it out from several angles and liked the shape of it. It was too light, though. She’d have to redden it or no one would see it past the first row.

“If you make it any rounder it’ll look as though somebody made a hole under your nose with a drill.”

Kokor turned slowly to face the intruder who stood in her doorway. An obnoxious little thirteen-year-old girl. The younger sister of that nasty bastard girl Hushidh. Mother had taken them both in as infants, out of pure charity, and when Mother made Hushidh one of her nieces the girl obviously thought she should then be taken as seriously as if she were one of the nieces of high birth who would amount to something in Basilica. She and Sevet had had such fun cutting Hushidh down to size, back when they were still students here. And now the little sister, equally a bastard, just as ugly and just as uppity, dared to stand in the doorway of the bedroom of a daughter of the house, of a highborn woman of Basilica, and ridicule the appearance of one of the famous beauties of the city.

But it would be beneath Kokor to go to the effort of putting this child in her place as she so deserved. Enough to make her go away. “Girl, there is a door. It was closed. Please restore it to its previous condition, with yourself on the other side.”

The child didn’t move.

“Girl, if you were sent with a message, deliver it and vanish.”

“Are you speaking to me?” asked the child.

“Do you see another girl here?”

“I am a niece in this house,” said the child. “Only servants are addressed as ‘girl.’ I therefore assumed that since you are rumored to be a lady who would know correct forms of address, you must have been speaking to some invisible servant on the balcony.”

Kokor rose to her feet. “I’ve had enough of you. I had enough before you came in here.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the child. “Strike me in the throat? Or is that a sport you keep within your family?”

Kokor felt an unbearable rage rise within her. “Don’t tempt me!” she cried. Then she controlled herself, penned in the anger. This girl was not worth it. If she wanted correct address, she would have it. “What’s your business here, my dear young daughter-of-a-holy-whore?”

The girl did not seem abashed, not for a moment. “So you do know who I am,” she said. “My name is Luet. My friends call me Lutya. You may call me Young Mistress.”

“Why are you here and when will you leave?” demanded Kokor. “Have I come to my mother’s house to be tormented by bastard children with no manners?”

“Have no fear of that,” said Luet. “For as I hear it, you will not be in this house another hour.”

“What are you talking about? What have you heard?”

“I came here as an act of kindness, to let you know that Rashgallivak is here with six of his soldiers to take you under the protection of the Palwashantu.”

“Rashgallivak! That little pizdook! I showed him his place when he last tried to pull this stunt, and I’ll do it again.”

“He wants to take Sevet, too. He says that you’re both in serious danger and you need protection.”

“Danger? In Mother’s house? I only need protection from obnoxious ugly little girls.”

“You are so gracious, Mistress Kokor,” said Luet. “I will never forget how you answered my thoughtfulness in bringing you this news.” She turned and left the room.

What did the girl expect? If she had come in with dignity instead of with an insult, Kokor would have treated her better. A child of such low background could hardly be expected to understand how to behave, however, so Kokor would try not to hold it against her.

Mother was being so bossy lately that she might even think that sending her and Sevet to Rashgallivak would be a good idea. Kokor would have to take steps herself to ensure that nothing of the kind occurred.

She wiped off the pout and replaced it with daypaint, then chose a particularly fragile-looking housedress and put it on with the tiniest hint of disarray, so that it would seem that she was simply on her way to the kitchen when she was surprised to discover that Rashgallivak was here to try to kidnap her.

The plan was spoiled, though, by the fact that when she stepped into the hall, there was Sevet, leaning on the arm of that wretched Hushidh girl, Luet’s older sister. How could Sevet-even with her injury-abase herself by leaning on a girl that she had once treated with such despite? Had she no shame? And yet her presence in the hall made it impossible for Kokor to ignore her. She would have to be solicitous. She would have to hover near her. Fortunately, since Sevet was already leaning on Hushidh, Kokor wouldn’t have to offer that service. It would completely spoil her freedom of action, to have Sevet leaning on her.

“How are you, poor Sevet?” asked Kokor. “I’ve wept myself hoarse over what happened. We’re so bad to each other sometimes, Sevet. Why do we do it?”

Sevet merely looked at the floor a meter ahead of her.

“Oh, I can understand why you’re not speaking to me. You’ll never forgive me for the accident. But I’ve forgiven you for what you did, and that was no accident, that was on purpose. Still, one can hardly expect you to feel forgiving yet, you’re in such pain, you poor thing. Why are you even up? I can handle this thing with Rashgallivak. I jammed his balls into his spleen the other night, and I’ll be glad to do it again.”

At that Sevet actually smiled a little. Just a trace of a smile. Or perhaps she only winced as she started jolting down the stairs.

Mother hadn’t even brought Rashgallivak into one of the sitting rooms. He was standing with his soldiers right at the door, which was still open. Mother turned and glanced at her daughters and Hushidh as they came down the hall from the stairs to the entryway.

“You can see that they are well,” Mother said to Rashgallivak. “They are safe and in good hands here. In fact, no men have come here at all, except you and these superfluous soldiers.”

“I’m not worried about what has happened,” said Rashgallivak. “I’m concerned about what might happen, and I will not leave here without Gaballufix’s daughters. They are under the protection of the Palwashantu.”

“You are welcome to keep your soldiers out in the street,” said Mother, “to prevent any tolchoks or marauders or assassins from entering our house, but you will not take my daughters. A mother’s claim is superior to the claim of a clan of men.”

While Mother and Rash continued arguing, Kokor leaned toward Sevet and, forgetting that her sister could not speak, asked her, “Why does Rashgallivak want us in the first place?”

Because Sevet couldn’t answer, Hushidh did. “Aunt Rasa is at the center of resistance to Palwashantu rule in Basilica. He thinks if he has the two of you as hostages, she will behave.”

“Then he doesn’t know Mother,” said Kokor.

“Rashgallivak is a weak man,” whispered Hushidh. “And he’s stupid at politics. If he were as smart as your father, he would have known that he could not get possession of the two of you without violence, and that violence would be against his best interests. Therefore he would never have made the request. But if for some reason he did decide to take you, he would have acted far more boldly. The two of you would already be in the grasp of two soldiers each, with the other two holding your mother at bay.”

Hushidh was no fool, after all. That had never occurred to Kokor, that Hushidh might have some attribute worthy of respect. Her idea of Father was exactly true-yet Kokor herself would never have been able to express it so clearly.

Of course, Father would also have had some kind of right to try to take her and Sevet. Not a legal right, of course, not in the city of women, but people might have understood it if he tried. What claim did Rashgallivak have? “The Oversoul must have driven Rash mad, even to try this,” whispered Kokor.

“He’s afraid,” said Hushidh. “People do strange things when they’re afraid. Your mother already has.”

Like keeping me in seclusion, thought Kokor.

Then she realized that if she had been at home with Obring, Rash would have had no trouble getting to her. Obring would have tried to fight with the soldiers, they would have knocked him down in an instant, and Kokor would have been carried off. So Mother was right to keep her in seclusion. Imagine that. “You mustn’t criticize Mother,” said Kokor. “She’s doing very well, I think.”

In the meantime, the argument between Rasa and Rash had continued, though now they were both repeating old arguments, and not always in new words. Hushidh had brought them to the very threshold of the foyer, so that they were as far as they could be from the soldiers and still be in the room. Till now Kokor had stayed with her and Sevet. Seeing the soldiers standing there, horribly identical in their holographic masks, took away her determination to show Rashgallivak what was what. He had seemed much smaller and weaker in the darkness backstage at the theatre. The soldiers made him much more menacing, and Kokor found herself admiring Mother’s courage in facing them down like this. In fact, she wondered if Mother was not being just the tiniest bit foolish. For instance, why had she called Kokor and Sevet down here to be in plain sight, within easy reach of these soldiers? Why hadn’t she kept them hidden away upstairs? Or warned them to sneak away into the woods? Perhaps this was what Hushidh meant about Mother already doing strange things because of fear.

Yet Mother didn’t seem afraid.

“I think perhaps we should leave now,” Kokor whispered to Hushidh.

“Not so,” said Hushidh. “You must stay.”

“Why?”

“Because if you tried to leave, it would alarm Rashgallivak and probably cause him to act. He would order the soldiers to detain you and all would be lost.”

“He’ll do that eventually anyway,” whispered Kokor.

“Ah, but will he wait long enough?”

“Long enough for what?”

“Think,” said Hushidh.

Kokor thought. What would mere delay profit them?

Unless someone was coming to help. But who could possibly stand against the soldiers of the Palwashantu?

“The city guard!” cried Kokor, delighted to have thought of it.

Could she help it if her words fell into a chance silence in the argument between Mother and Rash?

“What?” cried Rashgallivak. “What did you say?” He whirled and looked out the door. “There’s no one there,” he said. Then he looked at Rasa. “But they are coming, aren’t they? That’s what this is all about- delaying me until you can get the guard to come and stop me. Well, the delay is over. Take them!”

At once the soldiers strode toward the women in the hallway, and Kokor screamed.

“Run you little fools!” cried Mother.

But Kokor could not run, because one of the soldiers already had her by the arm and another pair of soldiers had Sevet, too, and that bastard Hushidh wasn’t doing one thing to help them.

“Do something, you little bitch!” cried Kokor. “Don’t let them do this to us!”

Hushidh looked her in the eye for a moment as the soldiers dragged her toward the door. Then she seemed to make a decision.

“Stop, Rashgallivak!” cried Hushidh. “Stop this instant.”

Rash only laughed. It chilled Kokor to the bone, his laugh. It was the laugh of a man who knew he had won.

This pathetic man who had been the steward in the house of Wetchik only a few days ago now laughed in delight at the power his soldiers gave him.

“Order them to stop!” cried Hushidh. “Or you will never be able to order them to do anything again!”

“No, Hushidh!” cried Mother.

What in the world did Mother think that Hushidh could do now? Kokor could see Sevet in the grasp of the soldiers, their blank faces so terrifying, so inhuman. It was wrong, for her sister to be in their grasp. Wrong for these hands to be gripping Kokor’s arms and dragging her away. “Do it, Hushidh!” Kokor cried. Whatever it is Mother thinks you can do, do it.

To anyone but Hushidh, the scene was simple-Rash and two of his soldiers blocking anyone from interfering, as the other four soldiers were dragging Kokor and Sevet through the wide front door of Rasa’s house. Aunt Rasa herself was shouting ineffectually-”It’s you who’s injuring Sevet! You’ll be expelled from the city! Kidnapper!”-and other women and girls of the house were gathering, huddling in the hallway, listening, watching.

To Hushidh the Raveler, however, the scene was very different. For she could see not only the people, but also the webs that bound them together. To Hushidh, the frightened girls and women were not individuals or even little clumps-all of them were tightly bound to Rasa, so that instead of being helplessly alone as others would see her, Hushidh knew that she spoke from the strength of dozens of women, that their fear fed her fear, their anger her anger, and when she cried out in the majesty of her wrath, she was far larger than one mere woman. Hushidh even saw the powerful webs connecting Rasa to the rest of the city, great ropy threads like arteries and veins, pumping the lifeblood of Rasa’s identity. When she cried out against Rashgallivak, it was the fury of the whole city of women in her voice.

Yet Hushidh could also see that Rasa, though she was surrounded by this vast web, also felt herself to be quite alone, as if the web came right up to her but didn’t quite connect, or touched her only slightly. That was what Rash’s exercise of raw power was doing to Rasa- making her feel as if her strength and power in the city amounted to nothing after all, for she could not resist the power of these soldiers.

At the same time, there was another web of influence-Rashgallivak’s. And this one Hushidh knew was actually contemptible and weak. Where Rasa’s links with her household were strong and real, her power in the city almost tangible to Hushidh, Rashgallivak had very little respect from his soldiers. He was able to command them only because he paid them, and then only because they rather liked what he was commanding them to do. Rashgallivak,-compared to Rasa, was almost isolated. As for his men, their connections to each other were much stronger than their connections to him. And even then, they were nothing like the bonds among the women.

Most men were like this, Hushidh knew-relatively unconnected, unbound, alone. But these men were particularly untrusting and ungiving, and so the bonds that held them to each other were fragile indeed. It was not love at all, really, but rather a yearning for the honor and respect of the other men that held them. Pride, then. And at this moment they were proud of their strength as they dragged these women out of the house, proud to defy one of the great woman of Basilica; they looked so grand in each other’s eyes. Indeed, all their connection with each other at this moment was tied up with the respect they felt they were earning by their actions.

So fragile. Hushidh had only to reach out and she could easily snap the bonds between these men. She could leave Rashgallivak hopelessly alone. And even though Rasa was demanding that she not do it, at this moment Hushidh felt much more deeply her connection to Sevet and Kokor, for these girls had been her tormentors, her enemies, and now she had the chance to be their savior, to set them free, and they would know she haA done it. It would undo one of the deepest injuries in her heart; what was Rasa’s command compared to that need?

Hushidh knew exactly why she was acting even as she acted-so well did she understand herself, for as a rav-eler she could see even her own connections with the world around her-yet she acted anyway, because that .was who she was at this moment, the powerful savior who had the power to undo these powerful men.

So she spoke, and undid them. It wasn’t the words she. said; this was no magical incantation that would disconnect the bonds that held them to each other. It was her tone of contempt, her face, her body, that gave her words the power to strike at the heart of each of the soldiers and make them believe that they were utterly alone, that other men would have only contempt for what they were doing. “Where is your honor in dragging this injured woman away from her mother,” she said. “Baboons in the wild have more manhood than you, for mothers can trust their infants with the males of the tribe.”

Poor Rash. He heard the words, and thought that he could counter Hushidh by arguing with her. He didn’t realize that, with these men caught up in the story Hushidh was weaving around them, every word he said would drive these men farther away from him, for he sounded weaker and more cowardly with every sound he made. “You shut up, woman! These men are soldiers who do their duty-”

“A coward’s duty. Look what this so-called man has led you to do. He’s made you into filthy rodents, stealing bright and shining beauty and dragging it off to his hole where he will cover you with shit and call it glory.”

First one, then another of the men let go of Kokor and Sevet. Sevet immediately sank to her knees, weeping silently. Kokor, for her part, put on a very convincing show of disgust and loathing, shuddering as she tried in vain to brush away the very memory of the soldiers’ touch on her arms.

“See how you have disgusted the beautiful ones,” said Hushidh. “That’s what Rashgallivak has made of you. Slugs and worms, because you follow him. Where can you go to become men again? How can you find a way to be clean? There must be somewhere you can hide from your shame. Slither off and find it, little slugs; burrow deep and see if you can hide your humiliation! Do you think those masks make you look strong and powerful? They only mark you as servants of this contemptible gnat of a man. Servants of nothing”

One of the soldiers pulled off the cloak that created the holographic image that till now had hidden his face. He was an ordinary, rather dirty-looking man, unshaven, somewhat stupid, and very much afraid-his eyes were wide and filled with tears.

“There he is,” Hushidh said. “That’s what Rashgallivak has made of you.”

“Put your mask back on!” cried Rashgallivak. “I order you to take these women back to Gaballufix’s house.”

“Listen to him,” said Hushidh. “He’s no Gaballufix. Why are you following him!”

That was the last push. Most of the other soldiers also swept off their masks, leaving the holo-cloaks on the porch of Rasa’s house as they shambled off, running from the scene of their humiliation.

Rash stood alone in the middle of the doorway. Now the whole scene had changed. It didn’t take a raveler to see that Rasa had all the power and majesty now, and Rash was helpless, weak, alone. He looked down at the cloaks at his feet.

“That’s right,” said Hushidh. “Hide your face. No one wants to see that face again, least of all you.”

And he did it, he bent over and swept up one of the cloaks and pulled it across his shoulder; his body heat and magnetism activated the cloaks, which were still powered on, and suddenly he was no longer Rashgallivak, but rather the same uniform image of false masculinity that all the soldiers of Gaballufix had worn. Then he turned and ran away, just like his men, with that same defeated rounding of the shoulders. No baboon beaten by a rival could have shown more abjectness than Rash’s body showed as he ran away.

Hushidh felt the web of awe that was forming around her; it made her tingle, knowing that she had the adulation of the girls and women of the house-and above all, the honor of Sevet and Kokor. Kokor, vain Kokor, who now looked at her with an expression stupid with awe. And Sevet, cruel in her mockery for so many years, now looking at her through eyes streaked with tears, her hands reaching out toward Hushidh like a supplicant, her lips struggling to say Thank you, thank you, thank you.

“What have you done,” whispered Rasa.

Hushidh could hardly understand the question. What she had done was obvious. “I’ve broken Rashgallivak’s power,” she said. “He’s no more threat to you.”

“Foolish, foolish girl,” said Rasa. “There are thousands of these villains in Basilica. Thousand of them, and now the one man who could control them, however weak he was, that man is broken and undone. By nightfall these soldiers will all be out of control, and who will stop them?”

All of Hushidh’s sense of accomplishment slipped away at once. She knew that Rasa was right. No matter how clearly Hushidh saw in the present moment, she hadn’t looked ahead to anticipate the larger consequences of her act. These men would no longer be bound by their hunger for honor, for it would no longer be seen as honorable to serve Rashgallivak. What would they do, then? They would be unbound in the city, soldiers starving to prove their strength and power, and no force could channel them to some useful purpose. Hushidh remembered the holos she had seen of apes displaying, shaking branches, charging each other, slapping at whoever was weak, whoever was near. Men on the rampage would be far, far more dangerous.

“Bring my daughters inside,” Rasa said to the others. “Then all of you work to shutter the windows behind their bars. Tighten down the house. As if a tempest were coming. For it is.”

Rasa then stepped onto the porch between her daughters.

“Where are you going, Mama!” wailed Kokor. “Don’t leave us!”

“I must warn the women of the city. The monster is loose in the streets tonight. The Guard will be powerless to control them. They must secure what can be secured, and then hide from the fires that will burn here tonight in the darkness.”

Moozh’s troops were exhausted, but when, late in the afternoon, they crested a pass and saw smoke in the distance, it put new vigor into their steps. They knew as well as Moozh did that a city on fire is a city that is not about to defend itself. Besides, they knew that they had accomplished something remarkable, to cover such a distance on foot. And even though there were only a thousand of them, they knew that if they achieved a victory, their names would live forever, if not individually, then as a part of Moozh’s Thousand. They could almost hear their grandchildren already asking them, Was it true you marched from Khlam to Basilica in two days, and took the city that night without resting, and without a man of you killed?

Of course, that last part of the story wasn’t yet a foregone conclusion. Who knew what the condition inside Basilica really was. What if the soldiers of Gaballufix had already consolidated their position inside the city, and now were prepared to defend it? The Gorayni soldiers well knew they had barely food for another meal; if they didn’t take the city tonight, in darkness, they would have to break their fast in the morning and take the city by daylight-or flee ignominiously down into the Cities of the Plain, where their enemies could see how few they really were, and cut them to pieces long before they could make it back north. So yes, victory was possible-but it was also essential, and it had to be now.

So why were they so confident, when desperation would have been more understandable? Because they were MoozVs Thousand, and Moozh had never lost. There was no better general in the history of the Gorayni. He was careful of his men; he defeated his enemies, not by expending his men in bloody assaults, but through maneuver and deft blows, isolating the enemy, cutting off supplies, dividing the enemy’s forces, and so disorienting the opposing generals that they began taking foolish chances just to get the battle over with and stop the endless, terrifying ballet. His soldiers called it “Dancing with Moozh,” the quick marches; they knew that by wearing out their feet, Moozh was saving their yatsas. Oh, yes, they loved him-he made them victors without sending too many of them home as a small sack of ashes.

There were even whispers in the ranks that their beloved Moozh was the real incarnation of God, and even though usually none would say it aloud-at least not where an intercessor could hear them-on this march, with no intercessor along, the whispers became a good deal more frequent. That fat-assed fellow back in Gollod was no incarnation of God, in a world that included a real man like Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno!

A kilometer away from Basilica, they could hear some of the sounds coming out of the city-screams, mostly, carried by the wind, which was blowing smoke toward them now. The order came through the ranks: Cut down branches, a dozen or more per man, so we can light enough smoky bonfires to make the enemy think we are a hundred thousand. They hacked and tore at the trees near the road, and then followed Moozh down a winding trail from the mountains into the desert. Moonlight was a treacherous guide, especially burdened as they were with boughs, but there were few injuries though many fell, and in the darkness they fanned out across the desert, separating widely from each other, leaving vast empty spaces between the groups of men. There they built their piles of branches, and at the blare of a trumpet-who in the city could hear it?-they lit all the fires. Then, leaving one man at each bonfire to add boughs to keep the flames alive, the rest of the army gathered behind Moozh and marched, this time in four columns abreast, as if they were the bold advance guard for a huge army, up a wide flat road toward a gap in the high walls of the city.

Even before they reached the walls, they found themselves in the middle of a veritable city. There were men running and shouting there-many of them clearly oversatisfied with wine-but when they saw Moozh’s army marching through their street, they fell silent and backed away into the shadows. If any of the Gorayni had lacked confidence before, they gained it now, for it was clear that the men of Basilica had no fight in them. What boldness they had was nothing but the bravado of drink.

As they drew near to the gate, they heard the clang of metal on metal that suggested a pitched battle. Cresting a rise they saw a battle in progress, between men clad in the same uniform as the assassin that Moozh had killed, and other men who were terrifyingly identical-not just their clothing, but even their faces were all the same!

Word passed down the columns: The men in the uniform of the Basilican guard will probably be our allies; our true enemies are the ones in masks. But slay no one until Moozh gives the order.

They reached the flat, clear area before the gate, and quickly split into two ranks left, two ranks right, until a semicircle formed surrounding the gate. In the middle of the semicircle stood Moozh himself.

“Gorayni, draw your weapons!” He bawled out the command-clearly he meant to be heard as much by the men fighting at the gate as by his own army, which normally would have received the command as a whisper down the ranks.

The fighting at the gate slackened. The men in the uniforms of the Basilican guard-few of them indeed to be making such a brave stand-saw the Gorayni troops and despaired. They fell back against the wall, uncertain which enemy to fight, but certain of this: That they would not live out the hour.

In the middle of the gate, their enemies withdrawn, the soldiers of identical faces also stood, uncertain of what to do next.

“We are the Gorayni. We have come to help Basilica, not to conquer her!” cried Moozh. “Look out in the desert and see the army we could bring to bear against the gates of your city!”

Moozh had chosen his gate well-from here all the Basilicans, guard and Palwashantu mercenaries alike, could see the bonfires, at least a hundred of them, stretching far across the desert.

“Yet only these five hundred have I brought to the gate!” Of course he lied about the number of men he had; his men smiled inwardly to know that for once he was only four hundred off, instead of forty thousand, which was the more usual lie. “We are here to ask if the City of Women, the City of Peace, might use our services to help quell a domestic disturbance. We will enter, serve the city at your pleasure, and leave when our task is accomplished. Thus do I speak in the name of General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno!” There was no reason to let them know that the most fearsome general on the western shores of the Earthbound Sea was standing before their gates with his sword sheathed and only nine hundred men to back him up. Let them think the general himself was out with the tens of thousands of troops tenting around the great bonfires in the desert!

“Sir,” cried one of the guard. “You see how it is with us! We are the guard of the city, but how can we find out the will of our council, when we are fighting for our lives against these mad criminals!”

“We are the masters of Basilica now!” shouted one of the identical Palwashantu mercenaries. “No more taking the orders of women! No more being forced to stay outside the city that is ours by right! We rule this city now in the name of Gaballufix!”

“Gaballufix is dead!” shouted the officer of the guard. “And you are ruled by no man!”

“In the name of Gaballufix this city is ours!” And with that the mercenaries brandished their weapons and shouted.

“Men of Gaballufix!” cried Moozh. “We have heard the name of your fallen leader!”

The mercenaries cheered again.

“We know how to honor Gaballufix!” Moozh shouted. “Come out to us, and stand with us, and we will give you the city you deserve!”

With a cheer the mercenaries poured out from the gate toward the Gorayni. The Basilican guard shrank back against the walls, their weapons ready. Some few started slinking away to the left or the right, hoping to escape, but to their honor most of the guard remained in their places, prepared to end their lives doing their duty. Moozh’s Thousand took note of this; they would treat the guard with respect, should a reckoning come between them.

As for the mercenaries, those closest to the Gorayni came with their guard down, prepared to embrace these newcomers as their brothers. But they found that swords and pikes and bows were pointed at them, and confusion spread from the rim to the center of the mob.

Moozh still stood where he had stood all along, only now he was surrounded by mercenaries, cut off from his own men. He seemed to show no alarm at all, though it made his men more than a little nervous. To their consternation, he began to push his way through the mob, not toward his men, but away from them and toward the gate. The mercenaries seemed content with this-it was a sign that he meant to lead them.

Moozh strode out into the open area in the middle of the gate, his back to the mercenaries. “Ah, Basilica,” he said-loudly, but not in the voice of command. “How often I have dreamed of standing in your gate and seeing your beauty with my own eyes!” Then he turned to face the officer of the guard, who stood at the post of the gate, his weapon drawn. Moozh spoke softly to him. “Would Basilica regard it as a great service, my friend, if these hundreds of ugly twins were to die on this ground at this hour?”

“I think so, yes,” said the officer, confused once again, but also glad with new hope.

Moozh turned back to face the mob-and his men behind them. “Every man who loves the name of Gaballufix, raise your sword high!”

Most of the mob-all but the wariest of them-raised their weapons. No sooner had they raised their arms, however, than Moozh drew his sword from its sheath.

That was the signal. Three hundred arrows were loosed at once, and every man at the periphery of the mob-their arms conveniently raised so that every arrow struck them in the body-fell, most of them pierced many times. Then, with a thunderous shout, the Gorayni fell on the remaining mercenaries and in only two or three minutes the carnage was over. The Gorayni immediately formed themselves into ranks again, standing before the bodies of their fallen enemies.

Moozh turned to the officer of the guard. “What is your name, sir?”

“Captain Bitanke, sir.”

“Captain Bitanke, I ask again: Would Basilica welcome our intervention to help restore order in these beautiful streets? I have here a letter from the Lady Rasa; is her name known to you?”

“Yes it is, sir,” said Bitanke.

“She wrote to me, asking for succor for her city. I came, and now respectfully ask your permission to bring these men within your gates, to serve as auxiliary troops in your effort to control the violence in your streets.”

Bitanke bowed and then unlocked the guard booth in the gate and stepped inside. Moozh could see that he was typing into a computer. After a few moments he stepped back into the open. “Sir, I have told them what you did here. The situation of our city is desperate, and since you come in the name of the Lady Rasa, and you have proven your will to defeat our enemies, the city council and the guard invite you to enter. Temporarily you are placed under my immediate command, if you will accept one of my low rank, until a more orderly system can be arranged.”

“Sir, it is not your rank but your courage and honor that make me salute you, and for that reason I will accept your leadership,” said Moozh. “May I suggest that we deploy my men in companies of six, and authorize them to deal with any men they find who are behaving in a disorderly fashion. We will in all cases respect those who wear your uniform; any other men we find who have weapons drawn or who offer violence to us or to any woman of the city, we will slay on the spot and hang up on public display to quell any notion of further resistance by others!”

“I don’t know about the hanging, sir,” said Bitanke.

“Very well, we have our orders!” Ignoring Bitanke’s hesitation, Moozh turned to his soldiers. “Men of the Gorayni, by sixes!”

Immediately the ranks shifted and suddenly there were a hundred and fifty squads of six men each.

“Harm no woman!” cried Moozh. “And whomever you see in that loathsome mask, hang him up, mask and all, until no man dares wear it by night or day!”

“Sir, I think . . .”

But Moozh had already waved his arm, and his soldiers now entered the city at a trot. Bitanke came closer to Moozh, to remonstrate perhaps, but Moozh greeted him with an embrace that stifled conversation. “Please, my friend-I know your men are exhausted, but couldn’t they be usefully employed? For instance, I think this village outside the gate could profit from a little cleaning out. And as for you and me, we should make our way to those who are in authority, so I can receive the orders of the city council.”

Whatever misgivings Captain Bitanke might have had were swept away by Moozh’s embrace and his smile. Bitanke gave his orders, and his men spread out through Dogtown. Then Moozh followed him into the city. “While my men are restoring order, we must see about putting out some fires,” said Moozh. “Can you call others of the city guard with your computer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not my place to tell you your business, but if your men can protect the firefighters, perhaps we can keep Basilica from burning down before dawn.”

“Do you think the rest of your men might be able to come and help?”

Moozh laughed. “Oh, General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno would never allow that. If such a force came to your gates, someone in Basilica might fear that we meant to conquer the town. We are here to extend you our protection, not to rule over you, my friend! So we bring no more men than these five hundred.”

“The Oversoul must have sent you, sir,” said Captain Bitanke.

“You have only to thank the Lady Rasa,” said Moozh. “Her and a brave man of your number named, I believe, Smelost,”

“Smelost,” whispered Bitanke. “He was a dear friend of mine.”

“Then I am glad to tell you that he was received with honor by General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno, who lost no time in acting on his information and coming to the aid of your city.”

“You came in good time,” said Bitanke. “It began like this last night, and spread through the day, and I feared that tomorrow morning would find the city in ashes and all the good women of Basilica in despair or worse.”

Tin always glad to be a messenger of hope,” said Moozh.

By now they were walking along a street with houses and shops on either side. Yet there was no one moving, and lights shone from many upper windows. The only sign that the rioting had been here was the broken glass in the street, the shattered windows of the shops, and the bodies of dead mercenaries, still wearing their holographic masks, dangling like beeves from upper-story balconies. Bitanke looked at them in faint dismay as they walked along the street,

“How long will those masks remain active?” asked Moozh.

“Until the-bodies cool, I imagine. I’ve heard that body heat and magnetism are the triggers.”

“Ah,” said Moozh.

“May I ask-what they are-how your men were able to hang them? I see no ropes and there are no- apparatuses for hanging men in the streets,”

“I’m not sure,” said Moozh, “Let’s take the cloak off one of them and see.”

Gingerly Bitanke reached up and tugged on the cloak of the nearest dangling corpse. When it came away, the holograph faded instantly and it was easy to see that the body had been pinned to the wall by a heavy knife through its neck. “His own knife, do you think?” asked Moozh.

“I think so,” said Bitanke.

“Not a very secure job,” said Moozh, pushing at the body a bit. “I daresay if we have any wind tonight most of these will be down by morning. We’ll want to clean them up as quickly as possible, or we’ll have quite a problem with the dogs.”

“Yes sir,” said Bitanke.

“Never seen a dead body?” asked Moozh. “You look a little ill.”

“Oh, I’ve seen dead bodies, sir,” said Bitanke. “I’ve just never heard if... treating them this way ... I wish your men wouldn’t ...”

“Nonsense. These dangling bodies are like reinforcements. Any rioters that my soldiers happen to overlook-there are bound to be some using the toilet, don’t you think?-they’ll come out, see how quiet things are, notice the bodies, and most of the fight will go right out of them.”

Bitanke chuckled a little. “I imagine so.”

“You see?” said Moozh. “It’s a way of letting these boys make up for a bit of the mischief they’ve caused, by policing the streets for us all night. Correct me if I’m wrong, Captain Bitanke, but no one is going to shed many tears for them, right?”

Within the hour Moozh was meeting with the city council. In the meantime, the hundred soldiers who had been tending the bonfires were moving into position at every gate of the city, standing alongside the guard in those few cases where they were at the gate. There was no quarrel between them; no soldier of the Gorayni came to blows with any of the city guard.

Moozh’s meeting with the city council was peaceful, and they concluded a firm agreement that Moozh would have full access to all the boroughs of the city- even those that normally were restricted to women only, since that was where the worst of the fires were burning and the marauders had been most out of control-but that after two and a half days, Moozh would withdraw his men to quarters outside the city, where they would be amply supplied and rewarded from the treasury of the city. It was a wonderful alliance, full of many compliments and much heartfelt gratitude.

Few in Basilica would realize it for several days, but by the time Moozh left the meeting his conquest of the city was complete.

Nafai said as little as possible to Elya and Meb as they set out on their journey back to Basilica. His silence did not make them any more cheerful toward him, but it meant that he didn’t have to quarrel with them, or do some verbal dance to avoid quarreling. He could keep his own thoughts.

He could talk to the Oversoul.

As if it mattered what he said to the old computer. For a few days he had fancied that he and the Oversoul were working together. The Oversoul had shown him its memory of Earth, had explained its purpose in the world, to try to keep the planet Harmony from repeating the miserable, self-destructive history of Earth. Nafai had agreed to serve that purpose. Nafai had stood over a drunken man in the street-his enemy-and it never would have come to his own mind to kill the man as he lay there, helpless. But the Oversoul had told him to do it and Nafai had complied. Not because Gaballufix was a murderer himself who deserved to die. Why, then? Because Nafai believed the Oversoul, agreed with the Oversoul that by killing this one man, he could help preserve the whole world.

And, having done the crime, having put blood on his own hands for the sake of the Oversoul’s cause, where was the Oversoul now? Nafai had imagined that there was now a special relationship between the Oversoul and himself. Hadn’t there been that moment when the Index first spoke to him and Father and Issib? Father and Issib had only partly understood the Oversoul’s message-they grasped the idea that the Oversoul meant to lead them on a long journey to a wonderful place where Issib could use his floats again and not be confined to his chair. But only Nafai had understood that the place the Oversoul meant to take them was not on the planet Harmony-that the Oversoul meant to take them back to Earth. After forty million years, home to Earth.

Since then, though, the Index had been nothing but a guide to a vast memory bank. Father and Issib studied, and Nafai with them, but all the time Nafai kept waiting for some word-to all of them, or perhaps to him alone. Perhaps some special private message, some word of encouragement. Something to fulfill the promise made that time when the Oversoul, speaking through Issib’s chair, had said that it had chosen Nafai to lead his brothers.

Am I chosen, Oversoul? Why can’t I see the results of your favor, then? I have made myself a murderer for you, and yet your vision of our wives came to Elemak. And what did he see? That you had chosen Eiadh for him! What has your favor brought me, then? Now you speak to Elemak, who plotted with Gaballufix, who tried to kill me; now you give him the woman that I have so long desired-why did he receive that dream, and not me? I have been humiliated now in front of all of them. I will have to eat dust, I will have to submit to Elya’s orders and serve at his pleasure, I will have to watch Elya take that sweet and beautiful girl who has so long inhabited my dreams. Why do you hate me, Over-soul? What have I done, except to serve you and obey you?

The camels clambered with lazy strength up a slope, and Elemak led them along the edge of a precipice. Nafai looked out over the landscape and saw the savage knife-edged rocks and crags, with only here and there a bit of grey-green desert foliage. The Oversoul promised me life, promised me greatness and glory and joy, and here I am, in this desert, following my brothers, who plotted with Father’s enemy and, wittingly or not, set Father up to be killed. I helped the Oversoul to save Father’s life, and now here I am.

Yes, here you are.

It took a moment to realize that this was the voice of the Oversoul, for it spoke in Nafai’s mind as if it were his own thought. But he knew, from his few experiences, that this thought was coming from outside himself, if only because it seemed to answer him.

In turn, he answered the Oversoul-and not with any particular respect. Oh, here you are, he said silently, sarcastically. Noticed me again? Hope I wasn’t a bother.

I bother a great deal for you.

Like choosing Eiadh for my brother instead of me.

Eiadh is not for you.

Thanks for your help, said Nafai silently. Thanks for dealing me such a miserable hand in this game with my brothers.

I’m not doing too badly for you, Nafai.

Maybe I don’t give you the same high marks you give yourself. I killed a man for you.

And every moment of this journey, I am saving your life.

The thought startled Nafai. Inadvertently he sat up straighter, looked around him.

Every moment of this journey, I am turning their thoughts away from their decision to kill you.

Fear and hatred, both at once, clawed their way down Nafai’s throat and deep into his belly. He could feel them churning there, like small animals dwelling inside him.

It’s good that you’ve been silent, said the Oversoul. It’s good that you haven’t provoked them, or even reminded them that you’re along with them on this journey. For my influence in their minds, while strong, is not irresistible. If their anger flowed hotly against you, how would I stop them? I don’t have Issib’s chair to act through now.

Nafai was filled with fear, with a longing to go back to Father’s tent. At the same time, he was hurt and angry at his brothers. Why do they still hate me? How have I harmed them?

Foolish boy. Only a moment ago you were longing for me to reward you for your loyalty to me by giving you power over your brothers. Do you think they don’t see your ambition? Every time I speak to you, they hate you more. Every time your father’s face is filled with delight at your quick mind, at your goodness of heart, they hate you more. And when they see that you desire to have the privileges of the eldest son . . .

I don’t! cried Nafai silently. I don’t want to displace Elemak ... I want him to love me, I want him to be a true older brother to me, and not this monster who wants me dead.

Yes, you want him to love you . . . and you want him to respect you . . . an A you want to take his place. Do you think you are immune to the primate instincts within you? You are born to be an alpha male in a tribe of clever beasts, and so is he. But he is ruled by that hunger, while you, Nafai, can’t you be civilized, can’t you suppress the animal part of yourself, and work to help me achieve a far higher purpose than determining who will be the leading male in a troop of erect baboons?

Nafai felt as if he had been stripped naked in front of his enemies. If I am no better than Elemak, no better than any of the troop of baboons downstream from Father’s tent, then why did you choose me?

Because you are better, and because you want to be better still.

Help me, then. Help me curb my own dark desires. And while you’re at it, help Elemak, too. I remember him when he was younger. Playful, loving, kind. He’s more than an ambitious animal, I know he is, even if he’s forgotten it himself.

I know it, answered the Oversoul. Why do you think I gave that dream of Elemak? So he might have a chance to waken to my voice. He has much of the same sensitivity you have. But he has long chosen to hate me, to thwart my purposes if he can. So my voice has been nothing to him. This time, though, I could tell him something he wanted to hear. My purpose coincided with his own. What do you think your life would be worth, if I had shown you who his wife should be? Do you think he would have taken Eiadh at your hand?

I wouldn’t have given him Eiadh.

So. You would have ignored me. You would have rebelled against me. You tell yourself that you killed Gaballufix only because you serve me and my noble purpose . . . but then you are willing to rebel against me and thwart my purpose, because you want a woman who would ruin your life.

You don’t know that. You may be a very clever computer, Oversoul, but you can’t tell the future.

I know her, as I know you, from the inside. And if you ever know her, you will understand that she could never be your wife.

Are you saying she’s bad at heart?

I’m saying she lives in a world whose center of gravity is herself. She has no purpose higher than her own desires. But you, Nafai, will never be content unless your life is accomplishing something that will change the world. I am giving you that, if you have the patience to trust me until it comes to you. I will also give you a wife who will share the same dreams, who will help you instead of distracting you.

Who is my wife, then?

The face of Luet came into his mind.

Nafai shuddered. Luet. She had helped him escape, and saved his life at great risk to herself. She had taken him down to the lake of women and brought him through rituals that only women were allowed by law to receive. For bringing him there she might have been killed, right along with him; instead she faced down the women and persuaded them that the Oversoul had commanded it. He had floated with her in the mists at the boundary between the hot and cold waters of the lake, and she had brought him through Trackless Wood, beyond the private gate in the wall of Basilica that, until now, only women had known about.

And earlier, Luet had come in the middle of the night to Father’s house far outside the’ city-had come at some risk to herself-solely to warn that Father’s enemies planned to murder him. She had precipitated their departure into the wilderness.

Nafai owed her much. And he liked her, she was a good person, simple and sweet. So why couldn’t he think of her as a wife? Why did he recoil at the thought? Because she is the waterseer.

The waterseer-that’s why he didn’t want to marry her. Because she had been having visions from the Oversoul for far longer than he; because she had strength and wisdom that he couldn’t even hope to have. Because she was better than Nafai in every way he could think of. Because if they became partners in this journey back to Earth, she would hear the voice of the Oversoul better than he; she would know the way when he knew nothing at all. When all was silent for him, she would hear music; when he was blind, she would have light. I can’t bear it, to be tied to a woman who will have no reason to respect me, because whatever I do, she has done it first, she can do it better.

So ... you didn’t want a wife, after all. You wanted a worshipper. This realization made him flush with self-contempt. Is that who I am? A boy who is so weak that he can’t imagine loving a woman who is strong?

The faces of Rasa and Wetchik, his mother and father, came into his mind. Mother was a strong woman- perhaps the strongest in Basilica, though she had never tried to use her prestige and influence to win power for herself. Did it weaken Father because Mother was at least-at least- his equal? Perhaps that was why they had not renewed their marriage after Issib’s birth. Perhaps that was why Mother had married Gaballufix for a few years, because Father had not been able to swallow his pride enough to remain happily married to a woman who was so powerful and wise.

And yet she returned to Father, and Father returned to her. Nafai was the child she bore to seal their remarriage. And ever since then, they had renewed each other every year, not even questioning their commitment to each other. What had changed? Nothing- Mother did not have to diminish herself to be part of Father’s life, and he did not have to dominate her in order to be part of her life. Nor did domination flow the other way; the Wetchik had always been his own man, and Rasa had never felt a need to rule over him.

In Nafai’s mind, the faces of his father and mother flowed together and became one face. For a moment he recognized it as Father; then, without it changing at all, the face became clearly Mother’s face.

I understand, he said silently. They are one person. What does it matter which of them happens to be the voice, whose hands happen to act? One is not above the other. They are together, and so there is no question of rivalry between them.

Can I find such a partnership with Luet? Can I bear it, to have her hear the Oversoul when I cannot? I seethed even now when it was Elya who dreamed a true dream; can I listen to Luet’s dreams, and not be envious?

And what about her? Will she accept me? Almost at once he was ashamed of the last question. She already bad accepted him. She had brought him down to the lake of women. She had given him all that she was and all that she had, without hesitation, as far as he could tell. He was the one who was jealous and afraid. She was the one with courage and generosity.

The question is not, Can I bear to live as one with her. The question is, Am I worthy to be partnered with such a one as that?

He felt a trembling warmth suffuse through him, as if he were filled with light. Yes, said the Oversoul inside his mind. Yes, that is the question. That is the question. That is the question.

And then the trance of his communion with the Oversoul ended, and Nafai suddenly became aware of his surroundings again. Nothing had changed-Meb and Elya still led the way, the camels plodding along. Sweat still dripped on Nafai’s body; the camel still lurched and rolled under him; the dry air of the desert still burned with every breath he drew into his body.

Keep me alive, said Nafai. Keep me alive long enough for me to conquer the animal in myself. Long enough for me to learn to partner myself with a woman who is better and stronger than me. Long enough for me to reconcile myself with my brothers. Long enough to be as good a man as my father, and as good as my mother, too.

If I can, I will. Like a voice in his head, that promise.

And if I can, I’ll make it soon. I’ll become worthy soon.