“He told me that just once he’d like to have a woman who was truly beautiful. A woman whose body was young and lithe and sweet. But I refused, because you were my sister.”

  “You’re lying. He never asked.”

  “Maybe I’m lying. But he did ask.”

  “Not Vas,” said Sevet.

  “Vas, with the large mole on the inside of his thigh,” said Kokor. “I refused him because you were my sister.”

  “You’re lying about Father, too.”

  “Dead in his own blood. Murdered on the street. This is not a good night for our loving family. Father dead. Me betrayed. And you—”

  “Stay away from me.”

  “Sing for him,” said Kokor.

  “At the funeral, if you’re not lying.”

  “Sing now,” said Kokor.

  “Little hen, little duck, I’ll never sing at your command.”

  Accusing her of cackling and quacking instead of singing, that was an old taunt between them, that was nothing. It was the contempt in Sevet’s voice, the loathing that got inside her. It filled her, it overfilled her, it was more than she could contain. Not for another moment could she hold in the tempest that tore at her.

  “That’s right!” cried Kokor. “At my command, you’ll never sing!” And like a cat she lashed out, but it wasn’t a claw, it was a fist. Sevet threw up her hands to protect her face. But Kokor had no desire to mark her sister’s face. It wasn’t her face she hated. No, her fist connected right where she aimed, under Sevet’s chin, on her throat, where the larynx lay hidden under the ample flesh, where the voice was made.

  Sevet didn’t make a sound, even though the force of the blow knocked her backward. She fell, clutching at her throat; she writhed on the floor, gagging, hacking. Obring cried out and leapt to her, knelt over her. “Sevet!” he cried. “Sevet, are you all right?”

  But Sevet’s only answer was to gurgle and spit, then to choke and cough. On blood. Her own blood. Kokor could see it on Sevet’s hands, on Obring’s thighs where he cradled her head on his lap as he knelt there. Glimmering black in the moonlight, blood from Sevet’s throat. How does it taste in your mouth, Sevet? How does it feel on your flesh, Obring? Her blood, like the gift of a virgin, my gift to both of you.

  Sevet was making an awful strangling sound. “Water,” said Obring. “A glass of water, Kyoka—to wash her mouth out. She’s bleeding, can’t you see that? What have you done to her!”

  Kyoka stepped to the sink—her own sink—and took a cup—her own cup—and brought it, filled with water, to Obring, who took it from her hand and tried to pour some of it into Sevet’s mouth. But Sevet choked on it and spat the water out, gasping for breath, strangling on the blood that flowed inside her throat.

  “A doctor!” cried Obring. “Cry out for a doctor— Bustiya next door is a doctor, she’ll come.”

  “Help,” murmured Kokor. “Come quickly. Help.” She spoke so softly she almost couldn’t hear the sound herself.

  Obring rose up from the floor and looked at her in rage. “Don’t touch her,” he said. “I’ll fetch the physician myself.” He strode boldly from the room. Such strength in him now. Naked as a mythic god, as the pictures of the Gorayni Imperator—the image of masculinity—that was Obring as he went forth into the night to find a doctor who might save his lady.

  Kokor watched as Sevet’s fingers scratched on the floor, tore at the skin around her neck, as if she wanted to open up a breathing hole there. Sevet’s eyes were bugging out, and blood drooled from her mouth onto the floor.

  “You had everything else,” said Kokor. “Everything else. But you couldn’t even leave me him.”

  Sevet gurgled. Her eyes stared at Kokor in agony and terror.

  “You won’t die,” said Kokor. “I’m not a murderer. I’m not a betrayer.”

  But then it occurred to her that Sevet just might die. With so much blood in her throat, she might drown in it. And then Kokor would be held responsible for this. “Nobody can blame me,” said Kokor. “Father died tonight, and I came home and found you with my husband, and then you taunted me—no one will blame me. I’m only eighteen, I’m only a girl. And it was an accident anyway. I meant to claw out your eyes but I missed, that’s all.”

  Sevet gagged. She vomited on the floor. It smelled awful. This was making such a mess—everything would be stained, and the smell would never, never go. And they would blame Kokor for it, if Sevet died. That would be Sevet’s revenge, that the stain of this would never go away. Sevet’s way of getting even, to die and have Kokor called a murderer forever.

  Well, I’ll show you, thought Kokor. I won’t let you die. In fact, I’ll save your life.

  So it was that when Obring returned with the doctor they found Kokor kneeling over Sevet, breathing into her mouth. Obring pulled her aside to let the doctor get to Sevet. And as Bustiya pushed the tube down into Sevet’s throat, as Sevet’s face became a silent rictus of agony, Obring smelled the blood and vomit and saw how Kokor’s face and gown were stained with both. He whispered to her as he held her there, “You do love her. You couldn’t let her die.”

  She clung to him then, weeping.

  “I can’t sleep,” Luet said miserably. “How can I dream if I can’t sleep?”

  “Never mind,” Rasa said. “I know what we have to do. I don’t need the Oversoul to tell us. Smelost has to leave Basilica, because Hushidh is right, I can’t protect him now.”

  “I won’t leave,” said Smelost. “I’ve decided. This is my city, and I’ll face the consequences of what I’ve done.”

  “Do you love Basilica?” said Rasa. “Then don’t give Gaballufix’s people somebody they can pin all the blame on. Don’t give them a chance to put you on trial and use it as an excuse to take command of the guards so that his masked soldiers are the only authority in the city.”

  Smelost glared at her a moment, then nodded. “I see,” he said. “For the sake of Basilica, then I’ll go.”

  “Where?” asked Hushidh. “Where can you send him?”

  “To the Gorayni, of course,” said Rasa. “I’ll give you provisions and money enough to make it north to the Gorayni. And a letter, explaining how you saved the man who—the man who killed Gaballufix. They’ll know what that means—they must have spies who told them that Gab was trying to get Basilica to make an alliance with Potokgavan. Maybe Roptat was in contact with them.”

  “Never!” cried Smelost. “Roptat was no traitor!”

  “No, of course he wasn’t,” said Rasa soothingly. “The point is that Gab was their enemy, and that makes you their friend. It’s the least they can do, to take you in.”

  “How long will I have to stay away?” asked Smelost. “There’s a woman that I love here. I have a son.”

  “Not long,” said Rasa. “With Gab gone, the tumult will soon die down. He was the cause of it, and now we’ll have peace again. May the Oversoul forgive me for saying so, but if Nafai killed him then maybe he did a good thing, for Basilica at least.”

  There was a loud knocking at the door.

  “Already!” said Rasa.

  “They can’t know I’m here,” said Smelost.

  “Shuya, take him to the kitchen and provision him. I’ll stall them at the door as long as I can. Luet, help your sister.”

  But it wasn’t Palwashantu soldiers at the door, or city guards, or any kind of authority at all. Instead it was Vas, Sevet’s husband.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

  “Me and my whole house,” said Rasa. “I already know that Sevet’s father is dead, but I know you meant well in coming to—”

  “He’s dead?” said Vas. “Gaballufix? Then maybe that explains . . . No, it explains nothing.” He looked frightened and angry. Rasa had never seen him like this.

  “What’s wrong, then?” Rasa asked. “If you didn’t know Gab was dead, why are you here?”

  “One of Kokor’s neighbors came to fetch me. It’s Sevet. She’s been struck in the throat—she almost died. A very bad injury. I thought you’d want to come with me.”

  “You left her? To come to me?”

  “I wasn’t with her,” said Vas. “She’s at Kokor’s house.”

  “Why would Sevya be there?” One of the servants was already helping Rasa put on a cloak, so she could go outside. “Kokor had a play tonight, didn’t she? A new play.”

  “Sevya was with Obring,” said Vas. He led her out onto the portico; the servant closed the door behind them. “That’s why Kyoka hit her.”

  “Kyoka hit her in the— Kyoka did it?”

  “She found them together. That’s how the neighbor told the story, anyway. Obring went and fetched the doctor stark naked, and Sevya was naked when they got back. Kyoka was breathing into her mouth, to save her. They have a tube in her throat and she’s breathing, she won’t die. That’s all the neighbor knew to tell me.”

  “That Sevet is alive,” said Rasa bitterly, “and who was naked.”

  “Her throat,” said Vas. “It might have been kinder for Kokor simply to kill her, if this costs Sevet her voice.”

  “Poor Sevya,” said Rasa. There were soldiers marching in the streets, but Rasa paid them no attention, and—perhaps because Vas and Rasa seemed so intent and urgent—the soldiers made no effort to stop them. “To lose her father and her voice in the same night.”

  “We’ve all lost something tonight, eh?” said Vas bitterly.

  “This isn’t about you, said Rasa. “I think Sevet really loves you, in her way.”

  “I know—they hate each other so much they’ll do anything to hurt each other. But I thought it was getting better.”

  “Maybe now it will,” said Rasa. “It can’t get worse.”

  “Kyoka tried it, too,” said Vas. “I sent her away both times. Why couldn’t Obring have had the brains to say no to Sevet, too?”

  “He has the brains,” said Rasa. “He lacks the strength.”

  At Kokor’s house, the scene was very touching. Someone had cleaned up: The bed was no longer rumpled with love; now it was smooth except where Sevet lay, demure in one of Kokor’s most modest nightgowns. Obring, too, had managed to become clothed, and now he knelt in the corner, comforting a weeping Kokor. The doctor greeted Rasa at the door of the room.

  “I’ve drained the blood out of the lungs,” the physician said. “She’s in no danger of dying, but the breathing tube must remain for now. A throat specialist will be here soon. Perhaps the damage will heal without scarring. Her career may not be over.”

  Rasa sat on the bed beside her daughter, and took Sevya’s hand. The smell of vomit still lingered, even though the floor was wet from scrubbing. “Well, Sevya,” whispered Rasa, “did you win or lose this round?”

  A tear squeezed out between Sevet’s eyelids.

  On the other side of the room, Vas stood over Obring and Kokor. He was flushed with—what, anger? Or was his face merely red from the exertion of their walk?

  “Obring,” said Vas, “you miserable little bastard. Only a fool pees in his brother’s soup.”

  Obring looked up at him, his face drawn, and then he looked back down at his wife, who wept all the harder. Rasa knew Kokor well enough to know that while her weeping was sincere, it was being played for the most possible sympathy. Rasa had almost none to give her. She was well aware how little her daughters had cared for the exclusivity clause in their marriage contracts, and she had no sympathy for faithless people who felt injured upon discovering that their mates were faithless, too.

  It was Sevet who was suffering, not Kokor. Rasa could not be distracted from Sevet’s need, just because Kokor was so noisy and Sevet was silent.

  “I’m with you, my dear daughter,” said Rasa. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re alive, and your husband loves you. Let that be your music for a while.”

  Sevet clung to her hand, her breath shallow, panting.

  Rasa turned to the doctor. “Has she been told about her father?”

  “She knows,” Obring said. “Kyoka told us.”

  “Thank the Oversoul we have but one funeral to attend,” said Rasa.

  “Kyoka saved her sister’s life,” said Obring. “She gave her breath.”

  No, I gave her breath, thought Rasa. Gave her breath, but alas, I could not give her decency, or sense. I couldn’t keep her out of her sister’s sheets, or away from her sister’s husband. But I did give her breath, and perhaps now this pain will teach her something. Compassion, perhaps. Or at least some self-restraint. Something to make good come out of this. Something to make her become my daughter, and not Gaballufix’s, as they both have been till now.

  Let this all turn to good, Rasa silently prayed. But then she wondered to whom she was praying. To the Oversoul, whose meddling had started so many other problems? I’ll get no help from her, thought Rasa. I’m on my own now, to try to steer my family and my city through the terrible days to come. I have no power or authority over either of them, except whatever power comes from love and wisdom. I have the love. If only I could be sure I also had the wisdom.

  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 title—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— he 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.