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 far 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 far 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!”