by David Drake
“You may be right,” Joab said. He paused in the midst of his thought and then displayed the slightest smile. His voice grew more heated with what was evidently conviction—and a plan. “In fact, I think there’s a good chance that you are. But where and when? I want to do more than guess.”
Oh no, Abel thought, realizing, before he could formulate it exactly, what his father had in mind. He’s had an idea that he believes will solve two of his problems. Damn it, he may be right.
“We’ve been reacting since Lilleheim,” Joab said. “It’s time to start acting. But we need more information.”
“That’s what the Scouts are for,” Abel said weakly.
“You’re a Scout. I’m sending you.”
“But I’m on detached duty with the Regulars,” Abel replied. “By your orders, I might add.”
“Yes.” Joab nodded. “Exactly. I need Sharplett nearby, to deal with threats. No, you will go. Long reconnaissance. Take four squads, and a command group.”
“That’s half the Scouts.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough to get me dispositions on the Blaskoye,” Joab said. “Real information. You say they are getting organized, and I believe you. For years we couldn’t estimate strength or likelihood of attack because they were diffuse and haphazard in their ways. Organization leads to predictability.”
“How long, Commander?”
“I’ll give you two three-moons.”
Ninety-two days, Center said.
“Where?”
“Awul-alwaha, the Great Oasis, would be a good bet,” Joab said. “No one has seen it in our lifetimes.”
“I’ll need maps. A dont train. I’ll need to make maps.”
“Of course.”
“Weldletter.”
This took Joab back for a moment, and it was Abel’s turn to smile. Weldletter was Joab’s best cartographer. His father would hate to let the man go. But it made eminent sense, and Joab would know it.
“Bastard,” Joab muttered. “All right. Take him.”
“I’ll need a week to prepare.”
“You have three days,” Joab said. “Take the pre-positioned supplies at the Upper Cliffs.”
“Sharplett will boil over.”
“Let me deal with Sharplett,” said Joab. “And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Absolute secrecy,” he said. “I am convinced the Blaskoye have ears and eyes in Treville. No word is to get out, on pain of the lash and the stockade. Impress it on your men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joab leaned over the map, looked Abel in the eyes. “Especially no word to the women. This auxiliary. No one.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I’m sure you do,” Joab replied. “Now you’d better get to it.”
Abel tapped a shoulder in salute, then turned to depart. He controlled his expression, but could not keep the flush from his face. He was steaming, gritting his teeth and about to gouge his palms with his own fingertips. But just as he reached the door, Joab spoke again, softer now, not in the tones of a commander but in those of a father.
“A wager,” his father said. Abel stopped.
He didn’t turn back around to face Joab. “What?”
“My bet is that it will be gone like a fever when you return. She may come to her senses. You might. One of you probably will.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you may be returning from relative safety into great danger,” Joab said. “Those Jacobsons play for keeps.”
Abel nodded. He let himself breathe out.
His father continued in the same low, soft voice. “But so do I,” he said. “So do I.”
* * *
Observe:
One day Mahaut crossed the room by herself, went to stand by the window, parted the curtains, and felt the sun on her face.
She wanted to tell him, waited, even sent word. But then the note came back that he was away with the Scouts, that it was an extended expedition, and that it wasn’t known when he would return.
So she tried to forget him. But a strange thing happened. The dreams began to change. Oh, there was always the bullet within her, the splay of lead. But sometimes now it was not his, the Blaskoye’s, bastard child, but was her own and no one the father. And when this happened in the dreams, Abel was there. Standing somewhere nearby, quiet. Always with his own guns, that short-barreled musket and the flare-muzzled dragon blunderbuss pistol with the scrollwork and rotating flintlock. And she would ask him what he was doing, and he would answer “Waiting,” and she would ask him what he was waiting for, and he would say “For the baby,” and she would know he meant the bullet.
“Why?” she would ask.
“Because I need it,” he said.
“Why do you need it?” she would ask again.
And he would look not at her, but away, into the distance. And he would finally answer “I need it to shoot him with it. It’s the only bullet that will kill him. And I aim to kill him.”
And she would wake from those dreams with her heart beating wildly, and—
—she had to now admit, must admit—
Flush with desire.
He’d better not get himself killed out there, she thought, not yet.
Because I have to tell him I love him.
* * *
Interpolation ninety-nine point one percent accurate, Center said. Now is that sufficient for interpretation of the probable mental state and the intended actions of the subject?
Yes, it is, Center, Abel thought. Yes, I hear you, Mahaut.
* * *
“You know, I keep thinking about women when I work on guns,” Golitsin said. They were once again in the back of his smithery in the Hestinga temple compound, and Golitsin was pulling a newly refurbished musket from a dont leather scabbard. Abel got a glimpse of some odd complication on the top of the barrel, but Golitsin quickly covered both ends of the barrel with his palms.
“Why just think of women,” Abel replied. “Since you like them so much, you know we have a few whores in Hestinga—and lots more in Garangipore.”
“I’m well aware,” Golitsin answered. “It’s a constant temptation. But Zilkovsky would find out. He wouldn’t stop me but he would be . . . disappointed.” Golitsin shook his head ruefully. “I couldn’t stand that.” He looked at Abel and his expression brightened. “Speaking of which, I hear you have given in to a temptation of your own.”
Abel was startled by the pronouncement. He’d understood that the news of his time spent with Mahaut had gotten around in certain quarters—how could it not?—but for a priest to know of it, even a priest as worldly as Golitsin, seemed strange and perhaps even dangerous.
“We’ve done nothing,” Abel replied.
“But you’ve thought about it. A lot.” This was not a question.
“Yes.”
Golitsin shrugged. “I take an interest in affairs outside the compound,” said the priest with a wink. “Especially since I can’t indulge in them. Zilkovsky might take my forge away. I can’t have that.”
“No, I guess not.”
“But what are you thinking, Abel?”
“I may love her,” he said.
“So what?” replied the priest. “Many a man has loved the wife of another. Most do not do anything about it, whether out of fear or prudence, I can’t say. Probably both.”
Abel considered. What had he been doing with Mahaut? Center and Raj had openly wondered about this very question. Yet he knew, whatever his motives, that he was doing the right thing, for both himself and for Mahaut.
And she will live. I am responsible for that, he thought. Not fate, not Zentrum. Me. I saved her.
“I would have left her alone if I’d really believed she wanted me to,” Abel said. “She decided I should stay. I did the rest. Now it’s too late.”
“That’s no excuse. Women are weak.”
“Not Mahaut DeArmanville. She is stro
ng. I’ve seen proof of that.”
“Mahaut Jacobson.”
“Yes,” Abel said. “So what do you have to show me there, brother? You’ve done it? A breeched rifle?”
Golitsin smiled wryly. “Not quite. I have a ways to go on that project. But I do have something else, something you didn’t draw out in the sand for me, either. My own idea. Since you have opened the sluice gate, I’ve been thinking of other changes we might make.” He turned the musket over in his hands and showed Abel the top of the barrel and tang. “For instance, what is the best way to true a gun’s sights, do you think?”
“Shoot a Blaskoye, of course,” Abel replied with a grim smile. “If you miss, try a little to the left and then a little to the right. If that doesn’t work, charge and gut him with the bayonet. That will also get you the elevation.”
“That’s precisely the problem,” Golitsin replied. “Your joke is too close to the truth. What we usually do in the shop is take a straight wooden dowel that’s about ten feet long and fit it down a barrel. We color the tip or wind it with yarn, then line up the sights on that splotch of color. Then we take it on range to fine tune the elevation and windage.”
“Now that sounds like a lot of work.”
“Yes, and all for naught in most circumstances,” Golitsin replied. “I started thinking about why our notch-shaped sights are so damn useless in combat.” Golitsin chuckled. “It’s the brightness, the constant change as your eye tries to adjust.”
“Maybe. All sights are notches, are they not?”
“They are,” Golitsin said, “until now.” He thrust the musket toward Abel but still did not take his hands off the barrel. They were covering the sights. “What you need is a sight that cuts down on ambient light. And then it came to me.”
“What?”
“The solution, of course,” Golitsin replied. “It’s very simple.”
“Okay, give,” said Abel.
“Circular front and rear sights,” said the priest. “Have the shooter look not through a jerky notch-shaped opening, but through a fully ringed aperture. Perfect for a soldier sighting in on the human torso.”
Golitsin took his hand off the tip of the barrel to reveal a small ring sitting on a tiny rod. The front sight. Then he removed his rear palm to reveal a ring and rod assembly that was slightly bigger than that on the barrel’s tip. He handed the gun to Abel, who sighted down its length.
“Line the circles up on one another,” Golitsin said. “I had my priest-smiths test it, but I want reports from actual battle.”
“That can be arranged,” Abel replied.
Golitsin nodded. “One thing I know for certain,” he said with a shake of his head.
“What’s that?”
“These new sights are utter and complete nishterlaub.” He took the gun back from Abel, fingered the metal rings, then looked up at Abel with a smile. “Nishterlaub—and fun as hell to come up with and manufacture,” he concluded with an uneasy laugh. “Dashian, what have you done to me?”
“Sorry, friend.”
“Don’t be.” Golitsin shook his head. “Whatever happens, don’t be sorry. It would be disrespectful toward me.” He looked Abel in the eyes. “I chose to follow you down this road. Never forget that. It was my choice.”
“And how long on the rear-loaders?” Abel asked.
“Hard to say. Days, not weeks,” the priest replied. “It is like with the sights. Now that I have the general idea, it’s only a matter of working out the details.” Golitsin smiled his crooked smile. “And getting used to the idea that I am now a heretic, of course.”
4
Two weeks into the Redlands, and Abel’s company, his four squads and three command staff, were spread out along the backside of a defile, a gravelly wash about twenty paces wide. Pickets on the hill, a squad’s worth spread along the ridge, gazed down at a clump of huts below—it was impossible to call such a small and squalid gathering a village—that belonged to a clan of perhaps fifty Redlanders.
Abel crawled up next to Kruso, one of the pickets, and looked over the ridge himself. “Are we sure they’re not Blaskoye?” he asked.
“Not,” Kruso answered. “Downem thar crawlet me and South-waste accent tha talk.”
“South-wasters, huh? What do they call themselves?”
“Remlaps,” Kruso said.
“But the Blaskoye have conquered lots of tribes to the south,” Abel said. “How do we know these aren’t some of them?”
“Hidden,” Kruso replied. “Not from sich as weh, neither.”
“Yes, it is a cozy little valley they’ve found there. Couldn’t see it for a hundred leagues in any direction, then you come upon it and there it is, complete with a seep and green plants.”
“Found tham never withoutem that huntsman followen weh here back.”
“No, probably not.”
But they had found the Remlaps, and as far as Abel could determine, the Remlaps did not know his Scouts were here.
You have maybe a day before they do, Raj said. Desert folks don’t miss much, because there’s not much to look at out here, so they know every bush and rock. A cut twig, some chuffed ground, and you’re spoiled for surprise.
“All right,” Abel said to Kruso. “I don’t want them to catch fright, at least not yet. Can you go down there and bring me the chief, or somebody who looks like the chief?”
Kruso smiled. “Aye, Lieutenant,” he said. “Thet can I.”
“Take five,” Abel said.
“And what will I do with the one I don’t need?” Kruso asked, all innocence.
“Okay, four including yourself,” Abel replied. “And if you’re not back in a half watch, I’ll bring the company over the hill.”
“No worry fer thet, sir,” Kruso said. He carefully backed away from the hill crest, then pulled himself off the ground and headed down to round up his raiding party.
Abel remained watching, trying to pick out Kruso and his men. There was the shake of a tarplant here, a small puff of dirt there, all following a roundabout path. If he had not known they were on their way, he would have put it all down to wind, so stealthily did the group move.
The return trip was a bit more obvious, since they were dragging something large and trussed up. Abel met them by the group of bedrolls and travel satchels that defined his headquarters. He’d ordered no cookfires, and his dak-born supply train was two valleys over in a blind defile.
The chief had not surrendered easily, and there was a bloody bruise on his temple where Kruso, or one of his men, had had to apply forceful persuasion. Abel ordered the leather thongs that bound his wrists and legs undone, and attempted to dredge up what little he knew of the South-waste dialect.
I will be able to supply the lack, if you will only allow him a few words to begin with, said Center.
This proved easy enough, for when the gag was taken from the chieftain’s mouth, he immediately began cursing up a storm—which Center proceeded to analyze for grammatical components. By the time he was finished, Abel had become a competent speaker of the Remlap dialect, or at least Center had, which amounted to the same thing in present circumstances.
“You don’t understand,” Abel said to the man in his South-waste tongue. “You are here as a guest.”
The chieftain stopped cursing then, and gazed at Abel in complete, amazed silence for a moment. Then he let out a huge laugh. “A guest? And I know that you are a Trevilleman, speak as you will. I know what it is you do with guests.”
“What’s that?”
“I hope you gag on my balls when you eat them,” the chief answered.
Abel allowed himself a smile. “I see. We are cannibals.” Abel nodded his head. “Yes, I can understand that belief.”
“Get on with it, then,” said the chief. He set his teeth and let his arms fall to his side in angry surrender to fate.
“Sit down,” Abel said. “With me.”
He allowed himself to sink in front of the chief, and sat on his haunches. After
a moment of amazement that he had lived another sensible stretch of time, the chief did so as well.
“My name is Dashian,” Abel said.
“Dasahn,” the chief said, attempting to pronounce a sound for which there was no equivalent in his own tongue.
“Close enough,” said Abel.
“I am Gaspar,” the chief said.
“Chief of the Remlaps?”
“That’s right.”
“What will you drink?”
The chief, Gaspar, smiled wickedly. “Beer?”
“Wine,” said Abel. He motioned for someone to bring the stoppered clay bottle. When he got it, he uncorked it, took a swig, and passed it to the South-waster.
Gaspar was a thin man. Underfed, thought Abel. And how would anyone feed well, or even adequately, out here? The Redlands were a land of meager resources, but the four-league-wide depression they presently occupied was particularly barren. Gaspar also seemed older, but then, after they passed the age of twenty, most Redlanders took on a wizened appearance that could be anywhere from thirty to sixty years old and kept it until they died. The chief wore the customary robes of a nomad, but these were a faded yellow, and not the white of the Blaskoye. He wore no sandals, and his feet were a mass of calluses that might be thicker than the actual foot that sat atop them.
Remlap swallowed the wine, sighed. “It has been a while since I have tasted such.”
“Why don’t you ask your friends the Blaskoye to give you wine?” Abel asked.
“That would be like asking a brushfang to give you his venom,” the chief answered. “He might be very willing to give it to you, but perhaps in a manner that makes you wish you hadn’t asked in the first place.”
“You are not on good terms with your neighbors?”
“We would like to be, though we have seen what happened to others who thought they were on good terms with the Blaskoye. Suddenly, even though they were there, in the same huts, in the same camp, they weren’t themselves anymore. Instead, they became harsh in manner, and told us that our lands and our flocks were not actually ours, that they didn’t belong to us, but to ‘Greater Redland,’ even though it seemed like our land was ours, and even though it had seemed like it was ours for many, many years. In fact, what we thought was ours was theirs. But they were not themselves anymore. And when we asked them who they were, they told us they were Redlanders, and their leaders were the Blaskoye, who understood what this Greater Redland meant.”