“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, “lest 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 fulfil. 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 Vozmozhno, 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 Oversoul 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.