That was the way Father talked, a sort of continuous oratory; Mother said he took that tone because he wasn’t sure how to talk naturally with children. But Nafai had overheard enough adult conversations to know that Father talked that way with everybody except Rasa herself. It showed that Father was never at ease, never truly himself with anyone; but over the years Nafai had also learned that no matter how elevated and hortatory Father’s conversation might be, he was never a fool; his words were never empty or stupid or ignorant. This is how a man speaks, Nafai had thought when he was young, and so he practiced an elegant style and made a point of learning classical Emeznetyi as well as the colloquial Basyat that was the language of most art and commerce in Basilica these days. More recently Nafai had realized that to communicate effectively with real people he had to speak the common language—but the rhythms, the melodies of Emeznetyi could still be felt in his writing and heard in his speech. Even in his stupid jokes that earned Elemak’s wrath.

  “I’ve just realized something,” said Nafai.

  Issib didn’t answer—he was far enough ahead that Nafai wasn’t sure he could even hear. But Nafai went ahead and said it anyway, speaking even more softly, because he was probably saying it only to himself. “I think that I say those things that make people so angry, not because I really mean them, but because I simply thought of a clever way to say them. It’s a kind of art, to think of the perfect way to say an idea, and when you think of it then you have to say it, because words don’t exist until you say them.”

  “A pretty feeble kind of art, Nyef, and I say you should give it up before it gets you killed.”

  So Issib was listening, after all.

  “For a big strong guy you sure take a long time getting up Ridge Road to Market Street,” said Issib.

  “I was thinking,” said Nafai.

  “You really ought to learn how to think and walk at the same time.”

  Nafai reached the top of the road, where Issib was waiting. I really was dawdling, he thought. I’m not even out of breath.

  But because Issib had paused there, Nafai also waited, turning as Issib had turned, to look back down the road they had just traveled. Ridge Road was named exactly right, since it ran along a ridge that sloped down toward the great well-watered coastal plain. It was a clear morning, and from the crest they could see all the way to the ocean, with a patchwork quilt of farms and orchards, stitched with roads and knotted with towns and villages, spread out like a bedcover between the mountains and the sea. Looking down Ridge Road they could see the long line of farmers coming up for market, leading strings of pack animals. If Nafai and Issib had delayed even ten minutes more they would have had to make this trip in the noise and stink of horses, donkeys, mules, and kurelomi, the swearing of the men and the gossip of the women. Once that had been a pleasure, but Nafai had traveled with them often enough to know that the gossip and the swearing were always the same. Not everything that comes from a garden is a rose.

  Issib turned to the west, and so did Nafai, to see a landscape as opposite as any could possibly be: the jumbled rocky plateau of the Besporyadok, the near-waterless waste that went on and on toward the west. A thousand poets at least had made the same observation, that the sun rose from the sea, surrounded by jewels of light dancing on the water, and then settled down in red fire in the west, lost in the dust that was always blowing across the desert. But Nafai always thought that, at least where weather was concerned, the sun ought to go the other way. It didn’t bring water from the ocean to the land—it brought dry fire from the desert toward the sea.

  The vanguard of the market crowd was close enough now that they could hear the drivers and the donkeys. So they turned and started walking toward Basilica, sections of the redrock wall shining in the first rays of sunlight. Basilica, where the forested mountains of the north met the desert of the west and the garden seacoast of the east. How the poets had sung of this place: Basilica, the City of Women, the Harbor of Mists, Red-walled Garden of the Oversoul, the haven where all the waters of the world come together to conceive new clouds, to pour out fresh water again over the earth.

  Or, as Mebbekew put it, the best town in the world for getting laid.

  The path between the Market Gate of Basilica and the Wetchik house on Ridge Road had never changed in all these years—Nafai knew when as much as a stone of it had been changed. But when Nafai turned thirteen, he had reached a turning point that changed the meaning of that road. At thirteen, even the most promising boys went to live with their fathers, leaving their schooling behind forever. The only ones who remained behind were the ones who meant to reject a man’s trade and become scholars. When Nafai was eight he had pleaded to live with his father, at thirteen he argued the other way. No, I haven’t decided to be a scholar, he said, but I also haven’t decided not to be. Why should I decide now? Let me live with you, Father, if I must—but let me also stay at Mother’s school until things become clearer. You don’t need me in your work, the way you need Elemak. And I don’t want to be another Mebbekew.

  So, though the path between Father’s house and the city was unchanged, Nafai now walked it in the other direction. The round trip now wasn’t from Rasa’s city house out into the country and back again; now it was a trek from Wetchik’s country house into the city. Even though he actually owned more possessions in the city—all his books, papers, tools, and toys—and often slept three or four of the eight nights of the week there, home was Father’s house now.

  Which was inevitable. No man could call anything in Basilica truly his own; everything came as a gift from a woman. And even a man who, like Father, had every reason to feel secure with a mate of many years—even he could never truly be at home in Basilica, because of the lake. The deep rift valley in the heart of the city—the reason why the city existed at all—took half the space within Basilica’s walls, and no man could ever go there, no man could even walk into the surrounding forest far enough to catch a glimpse of the shining water. If it did shine. For all Nafai knew, the rift valley was so deep that sunlight never touched the waters of the lake of Basilica.

  No place can ever be home if there is a place within it where you are forbidden to go. No man is ever truly a citizen of Basilica. And I am becoming a stranger in my mother’s house.

  Elemak had spoken often, in years past, about cities where men owned everything, places where men had many wives and the wives had no choice about renewing their marriage contracts, and even one city where there was no marriage at all, but any man could take any woman and she was forbidden to refuse him unless she was already pregnant. Nafai wondered, though, if any of those stories was true. For why would women ever submit themselves to such treatment? Could it be that the women of Basilica were so much stronger than the women of any other place? Or were the men of this place weaker or more timid than the men of other cities?

  Suddenly it became a question of great urgency. “Have you ever slept with a woman, Issya?”

  Issib didn’t answer.

  “I just wondered,” said Nafai.

  Issib said nothing.

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s so wonderful about the women of Basilica that a man like Elya keeps coming back here when he could live in one of those places where men have their way all the time.”

  Only now did Issib answer. “In the first place, Nafai, there is no place where men have their way all the time. There are places where men pretend to have their way and women pretend to let them, just as women here pretend to have their way and men pretend to let them.”

  That was an interesting thought. It had never occurred to Nafai that perhaps things weren’t as one-sided and simple as they seemed. But Issib hadn’t finished, and Nafai wanted to hear the rest. “And in the second place?”

  “In the second place, Nyef, Mother and Father did find an auntie for me several years ago and to be frank, it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  That wasn’t what Nafai wanted to hear. “Meb seems to think it is.”

  “Meb has no brain,” said Issib, “he simply goes wherever his most protuberant part leads him. Sometimes that means that he follows his nose, but usually not.”

  “What was it like?”

  “It was nice. She was very sweet. But I didn’t love her.” Issib seemed a bit sad about it. “I felt like it was something being done to me, instead of something we were doing together.”

  “Was that because of . . .”

  “Because I’m a cripple? Partly, I suppose, though she did teach me how to give pleasure in return and said I did surprisingly well. You’ll probably enjoy it just like Meb.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Mother said that the best men don’t enjoy their auntie all that much, because the best men don’t want to receive their pleasure as a lesson, they want to be given it freely, out of love. But then she said that the worst men also don’t like their auntie, because they can’t stand having anyone but themselves be in control of things.”

  “I don’t even want an auntie,” said Nafai.

  “Well, that’s brilliant. How will you learn anything, then?”

  “I want to learn it together with my mate.”

  “You’re a romantic idiot,” said Issib.

  “Nobody has to teach birds or lizards.”

  “Nafai ab Wetchik mag Rasa, the famous lizard lover.”

  “I once watched a pair of lizards go at it for a whole hour.”

  “Learn any good techniques?”

  “Sure. But you can only use them if you’re proportioned like a lizard.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s about half as long as their whole body.”

  Issib laughed. “Imagine buying pants.”

  “Imagine lacing your sandals!”

  “You’d have to wrap it around your waist.”

  “Or loop it over your shoulder.”

  This conversation carried them through the market, where people were just starting to open their booths, expecting the immediate arrival of the farmers from the plain. Father maintained a couple of booths in the outer market, though none of the plains farmers had the money or the sophistication to want to buy a plant that took so much trouble to keep alive, and yet produced no worthwhile crop. The only sales in the outer market were to shoppers from Basilica itself, or, more rarely, to rich foreigners who browsed through the outer market on their way into or out of the city. With Father on a journey, it would be Rashgallivak supervising the set-up, and sure enough, there he was setting up a cold-plant display inside a chilled display table. They waved at him, though he only looked at them, not even nodding in recognition. That was Rash’s way—he would be there if they needed him in some crisis. At the moment, his job was setting out plants, and so that had all of his attention. There was no rush, though. The best sales would come in the late afternoon, when Basilicans were looking for impressive gifts to bring their mate or lover, or to help win the heart of someone they were courting.

  Meb once joked that people never bought exotic plants for themselves, since they were nothing but trouble to keep alive—and they only bought them as gifts because they were so expensive. “They make the perfect gift because the plant is beautiful and impressive for exactly as long as the love affair lasts—usually about a week. Then the plant dies, unless the recipients keep paying us to come take care of it. Either way their feelings toward the plant always match their feelings toward the lover who gave it to them. Either constant annoyance because he’s still around, or distaste at the ugly dried-up memory. If a love is actually going to be permanent the lovers should buy a tree instead.” It was when Meb started talking this way with customers that Father had banned him from the booths. No doubt that was exactly what Meb had been hoping for.

  Nafai understood the desire to avoid helping in the business. There was nothing fun in the slugwork of selling a bunch of temperamental plants.

  If I end my studies, thought Nafai, I’ll have to work every day at one of these miserable jobs. And it’ll lead nowhere. When Father dies Elemak will become the Wetchik, and he would never let me lead a caravan of my own, which is the only interesting part of the work. I don’t want to spend my life in the hothouse or the dryhouse or the coldhouse, grafting and nurturing and propagating plants that will die almost as soon as they’re sold. There’s no greatness in that.

  The outer market ended at the first gate, the vast doors standing open as they always did—Nafai wondered if they could even close anymore. It hardly mattered—this was always the most carefully guarded gate because it was the busiest. Everybody’s retinas were scanned and checked against the roster of citizens and rightholders. Issib and Nafai, as sons of citizens, were technically citizens themselves, even though they weren’t allowed to own property within the city, and when they came of age they’d be able to vote. So the guards treated them respectfully as they passed them through.

  Between the outer gate and the inner gate, between the high red walls and protected by guards on every side, the city of Basilica conducted its most profitable business: the gold market. Actually, gold wasn’t even the majority of what was bought and sold here, though moneylenders were thick as ever. What was traded in the gold market was any form of wealth that was easily portable and therefore easily stolen. Jewels, gold, silver, platinum, databases, libraries, deeds of property, deeds of trust, certificates of stock ownership, and warrants of uncollectible debt: All were traded here, and every booth had its computer to report transactions to the city recorder—the city’s master computer. In fact, the constantly shifting holographic displays over all the computers caused a strange twinkling effect, so that no matter where you looked you always seemed to see motion out of the corner of your eye. Meb said that was why the lenders and vendors of the gold market were so sure someone was always spying on them.

  No doubt most of the computers here had noticed Nafai and Issib as soon as their retinas were scanned at the gate, flashing their names, their status, and their financial standing into the computer display. Someday that would mean something, Nafai knew, but at the moment it meant nothing at all. Ever since Meb ran up huge debts last year when he turned eighteen, there was a tight restriction on all credit to the Wetchik family, and since credit was the only way Nafai was likely to get his hands on serious money, no one here would be interested in him. Father could probably have got all those restrictions removed, but since Father did all his business in cash, never borrowing, the restrictions did nothing to hurt him—and they kept Meb from borrowing any more. Nafai had listened to the whining and shouting and pouting and weeping that seemed to go on for months until Meb finally realized that Father was never going to relent and allow him financial independence. In recent months Meb had been fairly quiet about it. Now when he showed up in new clothes he always claimed they were borrowed from pitying friends, but Nafai was skeptical. Meb still spent money as if he had some, and since Nafai couldn’t imagine Meb actually working at anything, he could only conclude that Meb had found someone to borrow from against his anticipated share in the Wetchik estate.

  That would be just like Meb—to borrow against Father’s anticipated death. But Father was still a vigorous and healthy man, only fifty years old. At some point Meb’s creditors would get tired of waiting, and Meb would have to come to Father again, begging for help to free him from debt.

  There was another retina check at the inner gate. Because they were citizens and the computers showed they not only hadn’t bought anything, but hadn’t even stopped at a booth, they didn’t have to have their bodies scanned for what was euphemistically called “unauthorized borrowing.” So in moments they passed through the gate into the city itself.

  More specifically, they entered the inner market. It was almost as large as the outer market, but there the resemblance ended, for instead of selling meat and food, bolts of cloth and reaches of lumber, the inner market sold finished things: pastries and ices, spices and herbs; furniture and bedding, draperies and tapestries; fine-sewn shirts and trousers, sandals for the feet, gloves for the hands, and rings for toes and ears and fingers; and exotic trinkets and animals and plants, brought at great expense and risk from every corner of the world. Here was where Father offered his most precious plants, keeping his booths open day and night.

  But none of these held any particular charm for Nafai—it was all the same to him, after passing through the market with little money for so many years. To him all that mattered were the many booths selling myachiks, the little glass balls that carried recordings of music, dance, sculpture, paintings; tragedies, comedies, and realities, recited as poems, acted out in plays, or sung in operas; and the works of historians, scientists, philosophers, orators, prophets, and satirists; lessons and demonstrations of every art or process ever thought of; and, of course, the great love songs for which Basilica was known throughout the world, combining music with wordless erotic plays that went on and on, repeating endlessly and randomly, like self-creating sculptures in the bedrooms and private gardens of every household in the city.

  Of course, Nafai was too young to buy any love songs himself, but he had seen more than one when visiting in the homes of friends whose mothers or teachers were not as discreet as Rasa. They fascinated him, as much for the music and the implied story as for the eroticism. But he spent his time in the market searching for new works by Basilican poets, musicians, artists, and performers, or old ones that were just being revived, or strange works from other lands, either in translation or in the original. Father might have left his sons with little money, but Mother gave all her children—sons and nieces no more or less than mere pupils—a decent allowance for the purchase of myachiks.

  Nafai found himself wandering toward a booth where a young man was singing in an exquisitely high and sweet tenor voice; the melody sounded like it might be a new one by the composer who called herself Sunrise—or at least one of her better imitators.