The Heretic (General)

5

Are they even men? Abel wondered.

They are human beings.

I don’t know whether to feel disgust or fear.

Feel pity.

Pity for worms?

They are not worms. There are men in there still. If you can’t sympathize, then at least do them the honor of showing indifference. They have had enough attention from their betters already, I’m thinking.

Observe:

Long shadows of the late afternoon lay on the powder plant when Abel and Golitsin tied their donts under the arbor and made their way to the main office.

The Silent Brothers looked up from their task and, for a moment, might even have wondered what this determined solider and priest might mean to them. But, accustomed to conditions of absolute submission since childhood, they likely did not wonder long, since their very minds were laid with chains against stray thought, much less blatant speculation as to a different, inconceivable future.

So most of them bent their heads back to work. But not all. For some, even with the tongue torn from their heads and male parts shorn in their youth, wonder remained, and even hope that something, anything, different might happen one day.

Maybe today was that day.

But probably not.

And after a moment, these, too, sighed and returned to their labors.

Some to the piles of caveflitter guano that must be shoveled from delivery wagons into the pits.

Some to the scattering of dak urine and straw upon that flittershit.

Some to the reaming of the matured pits, and the transport of the nitercake to the huge barrel mill on its River-turned cranks. Then from the mill, twice each day, to the corning troughs. Here the powder was worked into gradations of grain, some for shot, some for primer. A few of the Brothers speculated that it could be made finer still, given more explosive power. But this was to go against the Law of Zentrum.

For was it not written that corning gunpowder beyond priming grain strength was a sin against Stasis?

The Silent Brothers knew such thoughts were as bad as actions, and the Brothers who thought them needed no punishment from others. No, for the thinking of such heresy, they scourged themselves in their dormitories, also on the yard, with knotted cords or with rock-weighted leather tongs.

And the great mill churned day and night, mixing and refining material fed in by the Silent Brothers. It dominated the production yard and was the largest structure in all of Bruneberg—not that they Silent Brothers knew this. Most had never left the yard since before memory began.

They did what the man in the office said.

Once it had been a priest. There had been more food then. Now it was a man who was not a priest. There were two fewer water breaks now per day, also.

They had been told by the exiting priest that the man was now in charge, that they must do as he and his underlings commanded.

“Listen to Eisenach. He is now the voice of Zentrum,” said the priest.

Lacking tongues, they did not question this.

When the rations had been cut the second time, some of the older Brothers had wondered if this were true, if Eisenach was the voice of Zentrum. When the punishment regimens began, and the young brothers were locked in the dung pits for a week and a day or suffered the powder burnings on the inner knees and the backs of their necks, these questions became even more pronounced.

Then the explosions began. The sudden deaths of Brothers who had been working the mill for decades.

Perhaps it was true that Zentrum was angry with them. That was what the man and his underlings told them.

The Brothers did discuss this possibility.

There was a language of a sort between them, of hidden gestures, shrugs, and earlobe tugs that might communicate as much as a text-filled scroll.

So the older Brothers spoke of the change, after their fashion. Considered what it might mean.

But what were they to do? Obedience had been beaten into their nature. The voice of the man was the voice of Zentrum. The priest, their priest, had told them so.

So the decision was made to abide. They had been doing so for quite some time now.

The unexplained explosions continued, as did the punishments for them.

The Brothers knew nothing they were doing had changed. Nothing they did had ever, ever changed.

The uncertainty was growing alarming. Wearisome. One day they might rise up and put a stop to it. But not yet.

Suddenly, a commotion on the porch of the main office became a cry of dismay.

“You will not pass this entranceway, gentlemen,” shouted the underling, the nitercake assayer, Latrobe. “Director Eisenach is quite busy and cannot receive you.”

And the one in soldier’s dress, the taller of the two, reached into his waistband and brought forth what was the biggest knife one could have without calling it a sword, and maybe it was technically a sword, but the big man, the soldier, didn’t handle it that way.

Instead, he drew it back and took aim down its blade. Then, with a fluid motion that seemed to take no effort, no strength, but that must have been nothing but effort owing to the observed result, the big one, the soldier, threw the sword-knife end over end until it sunk into the wooden door that was shut across the entrance to the main office. The knife, the sword, whatever it was, buried itself past tip, past curve of point, and up to the straightness of the blade. It might have been as deep as the length of a man’s thumb. It might have been more.

And it caught the nitercake assayer, Latrobe, by the shoulder of his robe and pinned him to the door. He struggled and yanked and pulled, but it was good fabric, the best wool from up-River, and did not give, and he was stuck fast.

Then Latrobe perhaps realized that the one who could throw with such ferocity must be one who did not care if he accidently, or purposely, hit the target, or hit the man next to the target. And maybe he had missed and had been aiming at the man and not the door in the first place.

Then the big man, the soldier, stalked toward the nitercake assayer. And Latrobe let out a high-pitched scream, as if he had undergone the same operation, the same shearing, as the Silent Brothers.

But of course he had a tongue, and could use it.

Then something dark appeared on Latrobe’s robe, in the place where his legs met under them. Something dark and wet. And the Silent Brothers realized the assayer had pissed himself.

That was when the Silent Brothers laughed. Soundlessly. But for a good, long time.

And the priest stayed outside, eyeing the nitercake assayer Latrobe, not letting him down, not letting him twist free of the embedded knife. But the big one, the soldier, opened the door, swinging Latrobe himself on the door, and entered the office. Then he closed the door behind him, with the nitercake assayer still stuck to it, and the priest watching, and taking a drink of water from the pitcher that sat outside, that Latrobe and the director sometimes drank from when they came onto the porch to watch the work.

Taking a drink of water and not offering any to the nitercake assayer, then taking another, until the priest had drained the entire pitcher. And still Latrobe hung there.

Then the priest maybe felt the stares on his back, the wordless gazes. And he turned and looked quizzically out at the upturned faces of the Silent Brothers. He considered them for a moment in surprise, perhaps astonishment. But, unlike so many who had looked at them, looked them over before, there was no contempt in his gaze, and not a trace of pity.

In fact, he seemed to be sharing the moment with them. And when the priest smiled broadly at them, or at the setting sun, or in general happiness, they knew he was.

* * *

Abel moved past the table of specimens and toward the back of the office. There sat Eisenach. He did not seem particular surprised, or even alarmed. He sat as if he’d been waiting for Abel, and his sudden appearance was entirely expected.

“So you got past Latrobe,” he said when Abel stood before him. “That’s an accomplishment in itself. I keep him because he’s, well, a bit of a dick. And very persistent.”

Abel didn’t reply. He reached for a nearby chair and pulled it across the floor, dragging its legs through the sand, and placed it before Eisenach. He sat down in it and was almost knee to knee with the other.

“The Treville gunpowder,” Abel said.

Eisenach nodded, smiled. “The Treville gunpowder, the boy says. The gunpowder that has Treville’s name written on it, that knows it belongs in Treville and not anywhere else? That calls out Treville’s name from wherever it happens to have lost itself?” Eisenach shook his head. “Or maybe the Treville gunpowder doesn’t exist. Maybe it never did exist because it never got made. Maybe the gunpowder that does exist has no name. It just is. And that’s all there is. And even if you beat up whole hordes of us poor managers, that’s all there will be until we can somehow cajole, coerce, or bribe those speechless wonders out there to make more, and make it faster. And then, the gunpowder that’s just gunpowder will come to you in due time. And not a whit sooner, even if you give the poor director the walloping of his life. Even if you take his poor life.”

“Let’s talk about that,” Abel said. He inched his chair closer, still not quite touching knees with the director, but very close. “The gunpowder that already is. You say it has no name. That it is like a piece of the River—water that might go flood the fields of Shandak Nalaby, that might flow through the shithouses of Bruneberg and carry away the crap. Or that might be drunk and come out as a stream of piss. Or that might go on and flow to the Braun Sea.”

“Yes,” said Eisenach. “Exactly. That’s right.”

“Sure,” said Abel. “Water’s water. But what about the water barrels.”

“The…what?”

“The barrels you carry it in,” Abel continued. “The pots you boil it in. The people who drink and piss. All of those can have names attached. Maker’s marks. Points of origin.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Eisenach replied. “Would you mind moving back a little. It’s feeling kind of hot in here.”

“Yes,” Abel said. He didn’t move. “You know who I am, right? Joab Dashian’s son. And you’re right, I’m young. You called me ‘boy,’ and that’s not far off. But my father, he doesn’t think of me that way. Do you know how he thinks of me?”

“As a…man?” Eisenach replied, as if he were searching for the right answer to stave off violence or something worse.

Abel shook his head. “As a messenger,” he said. “Because I am his son, he sent me with a message for you.”

“Yes,” Eisenach said. He let out a snorting breath, as if the tension, the uncertainty, building up in him like steam needed an outlet. “All right. What is it?”

“He says: ‘Lindron doesn’t have to know.’”

“He says what?”

Abel repeated his statement.

“What in hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Abel said. “I’m just the messenger. The messenger boy.”

“But then what—”

“There is one thing that was interesting about what he said.”

“What was that?”

“It was where he said it.”

“All right, I’ll bite,” Eisenach replied. “Where did he say it?”

“Oh, just a room. A room in the District Military Headquarters complex,” answered Abel. “The only unusual thing about that room is that it has a lock and a key. No guard, but a genuine lock of the finest mahogany, and a hardwood key, too. And a guard.”

“And you say he was in the room when he gave you the message?”

“Yes.”

“So? What was in the room, thrice-damn it!”

“Pieces of barrels.”

“Pieces of…” But then Eisenach’s face began to flush red. “And these…pieces of barrels…what did they say on them?”

“Some said, ‘Made in Cascade,’ and they have lot numbers stenciled on them, believe it or not,” Abel said. “Some said ‘Bruneberg Works,’ and some said ‘Danger, No Flames.’” Abel quickly moved his chair forward the final amount, touching knees with the director, looking him directly in the eyes from less than an arm’s length away. “And just about all of them said ‘Treville’ on them. Those were my father’s favorites. I believe he collected those in particular.”

This is complete nonsense, of course, Center said. There is no room. There are no barrels. The Blaskoye are careful to cover their tracks, which is one of the reasons we are here.

Let Abel continue, Raj said. He’s doing exactly the right thing at the moment.

“And where did all of these pieces come from?” asked Eisenach.

“The Redlands,” Abel replied. “Can you believe it? All of them came from the Redlands. Pulled them off the packtrains of dead barbarians, mostly. The Blaskoye, they call themselves in our region. Sometimes, the Scouts would just find the barrels out there. Piles of them. Empty. And it’s funny how the Blaskoye never seem to run out of powder or musket to kill us.” He leaned forward, close to Eisenach’s face. “To kill my men,” he finished with a low growl.

“I-I’m sorry to hear that,” the director replied, his voice shaking and his face going from the red flush to a deathly pale.

Human electrochemical reactions may be slow compared to electromagnetic responses on an individual basis, but their ability to achieve rapid system-wide effect is really quite impressive, particularly when the adrenalinoid neurotransmitters are involved, Center commented.

“District Commander Dashian—my father—has all of those labeled barrels and more. Testimony of captured Blaskoye transcribed to papyrus and attested to by priests.”

“Obtained under torture, no doubt.”

“It is very difficult to get a Redlander to talk otherwise,” Abel replied.

“Who can believe barbarian lies?”

“The details of Blaskoye agreements never to attack Cascade so long as powder shipments continue,” Abel continued. “Names. One in particular keeps popping up, Director Eisenach.”

Eisenach sighed, looked down and rubbed his eyes, then turned his head back up but couldn’t meet Abel’s gaze. “I suppose these are to be sent to Lindron? These vile tales that besmirch the name of good men? Decent men who are merely trying to keep violence and death away from their families, their kinsmen.” He looked on the verge of tears.

He’s taken the bait, said Raj. Now set the hook, lad.

So it’s back to lad again, is it? Abel thought. But he really didn’t care, and Raj was right. Time to set the hook.

Abel pushed his chair back a few finger spans and considered the director. When he spoke again, it was in a calm tone of reasonableness, even reconciliation.

“Certainly. Commander Dashian is a man of the world,” he said. “He understands these things. That’s why he sent me to discuss the matter with you personally rather than shipping the evidence he’s been gathering for the past two years down-River to Lindron. Out of regard for you, Director Eisenach, and people like you, who don’t deserve the calamity such a revelation would bring about. On yourselves. Your family name. That of your clan and tribe.”

“Yes, yes,” Eisenach murmured. “That’s just, that’s right.”

Abel leaned forward again, now all understanding and compromise. “But Director Eisenach, we need that powder. We need the three bargeloads that were promised and another shipment—oh, let’s call it ten wagonloads—to bring you current. We need it to fight back, don’t you see? Surely you understand how that is also just and right. And how delivering those three barges and ten wagons would keep the barrel shards and those papyrus scrolls from traveling to Lindron, to the Captain of the Tabernacle Guard, or even to the Chief Prelate himself.”

“I do see that,” Eisenach said, nodding his head furiously. “I do. But it’s very difficult.”

“Oh?”

“You see, they’ve been demanding more.”

“Who?”

“The thrice-damned Redlanders, that’s who! The Blaskoye!”

“I see,” Abel said.

“They’ve cleaned out our production for the past three months. We meet their demands, and then they want even more. I tell you, it’s—”

“Barbaric?” Abel said.

“Yes! They won’t let up. Won’t let us catch a breath in production. We’re in arrears to everybody, not just to Treville.”

“That’s terrible,” Abel said.

“So you see, we really don’t have your powder.”

“Obviously not,” Abel said. “And yet, I think I see a solution.”

“I wish you would tell it to me, then.”

Abel nodded, and pushed his chair back a little more.

Give the guy a moment to breathe, to let down his guard yet again, he thought.

Good lad!

“Let me tell you a story,” Abel said. “And I want you to correct me where I’m wrong, Director Eisenach, all right?”

The other nodded.

“I’m trying to imagine who’s really in charge around here. Is it the prelate?”

“That drunken old fool? No!” said Eisenach.

“I thought not,” Abel replied. “And his priests either spend a great deal of time…seeing to their own needs, or else they’re crazy. So that can’t be it. But now, what about the DMC?”

“A thug,” Eisenach replied. “I saw to his appointment myself.” He chuckled.

Abel nodded. “Yes, I thought so. Bought and paid for. A bully, but not too bright, eh?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So who is running Bruneberg and Cascade, I wondered to myself,” Abel said. “And the only answer I can come up with is—you, Director. You and the First Families.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘running,’ so much as—”

“Oh, come now, Director, you’re much too modest. You are the lord of all you survey.”

Eisenach blinked, thought for a moment.

He’s almost figured out where this is going, said Raj. Almost, but not quite, the poor sod.

“I suppose you could say I have certain influence.”

“I’d say you have a deciding influence,” Abel replied. “And with that in mind, I have a proposition.”

The director rubbed his chin. “All right. I’m listening.”

“Take it from the Cascade arsenal.”

“What? No, I—”

“Think about it, Director. You have your agreements in place with the Blaskoye. Your DMC said it himself: they haven’t attacked Cascade District in twenty years. You don’t really need that gunpowder here, and we do. So give it to me to take back to Treville. Immediately.”

“But that would take…Yes, I suppose it could be done. I could even get the military to pack it up themselves.”

“And if the DMC objects?”

“Him? You must be joking? I’d have him strangled and tossed out a Riverfront shithole.” Eisenach mused. “And you’re sure your father will not send the barrels if I do this?”

“I’m pretty certain,” Abel said. “Like you, all he really wants is peace, commerce, and noninterference between districts.”

Abel stood up, and Eisenach, as well, as if he were the one about to be dismissed—which he was.

Abel spit on his hand. “Ten wagons to return with me tomorrow? I’ll meet them here on my way home. And the barges sent after to Garangipore.”

“It will be done,” Eisenach said. “And your promise, as the son of your father?”

“You have my word as a Scout and a Dashian,” Abel replied. “Nothing will be sent to Lindron if we see that gunpowder.”

Eisenach spit on his own palm, and the two men shook hands.

“I’m glad we can do business,” Eisenach said. “It’s so much more pleasant this way.”

“Absolutely.”

“And would you mind releasing my assayer on your way out?” Eisenach said. “I’m going to put him in charge of your arrangements.”

“No problem, friend director,” Abel answered. He bowed slightly, turned to leave, then called over his shoulder. “Besides, I’m fairly certain I’ll have need of that knife on a few Redlander necks. Maybe even the very ones that you need killed, as well.” He stalked to the door. “Nice doing business with you.”

And then he was outside. When he extracted the knife from the wood, the assayer made a pleasant thunk as he fell to the ground.

* * *

While we must not underestimate Zentrum, we must also remember that he has set a difficult goal for the Land. Center had been lecturing for what seemed to Abel like hours. Days, even.

Abel rode easily upon Spet, who shuffled forward at a slow pace. The return home had taken an additional six days due to the trail of ten gunpowder-filled wagons that he and Golitsin were shepherding back to the Hestinga garrison. A group of militiamen had accompanied them as guards, among them the two Scouts he had braced with his whip at the Cascade arsenal. Both had expressed a desire to transfer to Treville after they returned the empty wagons, and Abel had told them he would see what he could do about the matter.

Center droned on with the lesson, which, though important, was not anything Abel didn’t already know: Zentrum wishes all possibility for scientific or political advance destroyed, and yet he cannot allow the barbarians to entirely obliterate the culture of the Valley, lest there no longer be any Stasis to maintain. There must be conquest and domination, but there must also be assimilation.

You are talking about the death of thousands of people. Women raped, children spitted. Donts with their legs hacked off or forever broken.

Not to mention the various forms of asphyxiation, excruciation, and sadistic torment the Blaskoye employ against their adult male enemies, Center replied dryly. The human toll is of no consequence to Zentrum.

Nor to you.

Nor to me, that is true, Center conceded. But for those who do care about such matters, at least for the moment our mutual interests align.

Comforting to know a cold thing like you is looking out for my interests.

Your taunts are pointless and misplaced, Center replied. I am as incapable of being insulted as is a rock beside the road.

My taunts make me feel better. Anyway, go on.

To achieve this balance I was speaking of, Zentrum needs the invasion to be slow and thorough rather than lightning quick. This will, of course, create even more suffering, and of a more agonizing nature. But it will also permit the invaders to be drawn into the local populace, to acquire some measure of local ways as they cement their conquest. And it will make them so weary of the battle that by the time they get to Lindron, they are ready for the compromise Zentrum will offer them: conquest and rule, but with Zentrum firmly in place as advisor.

And that means he cannot allow the militia to collapse and lose its fight too soon, Raj put in.Zentrum will even encourage bravery and hard-fighting, and a degree of innovation, if he knows that in the end he can stamp it all out as the barbarians emerge triumphant.

If we can anticipate his timing, we can disrupt him without giving away the game too soon—that there is active resistance that’s aware of Zentrum’s ultimate aim. He will, sooner or later, arrive at this conclusion. He’s no idiot.

The inflection points will be several innovation thresholds, both in technology and tactics, Center continued.

And what am I supposed to do at these inflection points of yours?

Easy, answered Raj.Ramp the innovation. Exploit every invention. Adopt new tactics for each advance.

Why don’t you just tell me how to build all the things you’ve spoken of? Your laser cannons, your tactical nukes?

You know the answer to that, lad.

You need an industrial base. Abel recited the oft-repeated lesson wearily. Such devices don’t spring from the air by wish alone.

Precisely, Center said. Zentrum remains powerful. He created the Land for his own preservation. All we have is you. For the moment.

One heretic, trying to bring about a future nobody can hope for because they can’t even imagine it.

You will have one advantage fairly soon, said Raj.

And what’s that? You two, I suppose?

Raj’s low and wicked laugh. Breech-loading rifles, he replied.

* * *

Abel had imagined a triumphal return and an understated but impressive parade through Hestinga with his wagons full of powder. Instead, a single rider met him a league from the eastern gate of Hestinga.

It was one of the cadets, Holman, who had been preparing for a billet with the Regulars. He galloped up on dontback and reined his mount to a stop in a cloud of dust. Abel trotted up to meet him.

“The commander sent me to find you,” Holman said through a fit of coughing.

“Find me? I sent a flitter with news of our return. Don’t tell me it didn’t arrive?”

“He knows you’re coming, and he knows what you’re bringing,” Holman said. “He sent me to tell you to get back as fast as possible with the powder—expend the pack animals if you have to, and even your own mounts.”

“Why? What has happened?”

“You haven’t yet heard?”

“No,” Abel said, raising his voice, trying not to shout in frustration. “I have not. What is it?”

“The Blaskoye are in the Valley,” said Holman. “Lilleheim has fallen.”