“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 stupidness.

  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 Rashgallivak’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 clear, 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 fact 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 wellwatered 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 again, 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.