The Call of Earth: 2 (Homecoming) (9 page)

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!”

“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.