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again.”
    The men looked thoughtful, David Cordera, his brother-in-law Miguel Escalante, and the others; and they were silent. Thomas Lowdermilk’s urge at that moment was to speak of his wife’s paintings, but he let it pass. “Felipe,” he said instead, “your loan from Bank of America. Where does it stand now? Tell us the story.”
    Felipe looked around the table, and then with a philosophical shrug began to tell them the most recent news.

In the Garden of the Lords of War
    One hundred and twelve years after the Universal Holocaust, in the natural deserts of what was once western China, the Dobrit practice of staying War had reached a plateau of refinement. The Four Lords, nameless men chosen by a council of women, moved from season to season in cycles regular as the Once migration of birds, and there attained a Lyric Passage, the harmonics of stability.
    In countries I had walked through in the preceding six years—Beywan, Cruel, Muntouf, and tiny Begh on the Yellow Sea in old Manchuria—I found consistent agreement at all levels of society on the worth of the Four Lords and their Rule. It was my privilege as a Wenrit scribe and a Deformed to visit the Garden of the Lords of War. Now, I convey that story, another given me on a Witness Path to theBlack Sea, along which, by every country, I have been given Safe Passage.
    The Circle of Women for the Study, with whom I apprenticed for five months, numbered thirteen. The youngest was maturely fifteen, the eldest eighty-one. My apprenticeship occurred at irregular hours during the winter and spring moons. I occupied one chamber, alone, adjacent to a central meetinghouse. It was made clear that I should always be available to listen when the women told stories or during the preparation of food. When the women convened to discuss the Cultures and Texts to be presented the Lords, I was sent out into the city. I memorized thirty-four of my tutors’ stories in this apprentice time, good by their account. The women were always gentle in instructing, but strict that my accent and inflections should not interfere in the Music.
    I will transcribe these stories into my Given Pattern when I one day arrive at the Black Sea, the fourth, now, of the books of my Sent Journey.
    The Garden of the Lords of War is surrounded by a wall three times my height. It is woven of peacock feathers in such a way as not to impede the movement of air but to be opaque to passersby. The four walls do not meet squarely at corners but in round, enclosed spaces, roofless, inside each of which stands an attendant’s small house. In the outer wall at each corner is a Gate of Admission. Within, a Gate of Entry opens to stretches of wild grass, gardens of flowers and vegetables, the separate houses of the Four Lords, large pine and laurel trees, and small plots of maize, beans, and wheat. Of course, it is not permitted either to view or to speak with the Lords, soI can only offer an impression, based on the testimony of the Circle of Women for the Study.
    Most often, men in their late twenties are chosen as Lords, and it is rare for one to serve past his middle forties. The unvarying criteria for selection are as follows: (1) a man must never have taken a human life, for any reason; (2) he must never have struck or in any way harmed a woman; (3) he must be Dobrit, though I was told this designation refers to spiritual and philosophic temperament, not ethnic origin; (4) he must have raised children not his own. Finally, he must read with perfect fluency in at least three languages. Added to these criteria are some requirements of a more general nature. To be considered at all, a man must be formally recommended by an aunt, and then an uncle must compose the Story of his life and recite it before the council of women and all the Dobrit. At this presentation, any person may object to his appointment. With cause, following deliberation, the candidate might no longer be considered.
    After his selection, a man