The Heretic (General)

5

Observe:

Gaspar was not truly sorry for what he was about to do, but he felt a tinge, a small tinge, of regret. It was the same regret a man might feel when he must run a dont through the Voidlands knowing there was no water for the animal, and that the trip would kill it, but dependent on that animal while within the those stinking reaches, and living with it day after day, long enough to form a bond, especially if it were only the two of you against the world. Yes, form a bond, but the man always knowing the water in his belly was the only water there was.

That it, the dont, was a tool—a tool that had been bred a tool and nothing more.

The Farmers of the Valley were no different than a dont or a dak, when you came down to it. The only difference is that they could be clever, and might figure out that here, in these lands, they were mere tools. And they might not be pleased when that realization dawned upon them.

Better to keep them in the dark.

And when he was tempted to think that they were men like him, that there might be some other way, he remembered his family clinging to life in that little defile with its uncertain seep, and the daks clustered in the huts with them, and all of them, the tribe, the last of the Remlaps, waking to the paltry milking, the feeble attempt at cheese-making, the rare quickening and birthing of calves. He remembered the endless hunt the men must engage in with only scrawny beasts to show, and the perpetual scavenging of the children. Yes, the children, the ones that remained untaken, forced by circumstance, by hunger and the inability of their parents to provide, grubbing under rocks for the crawling beasts, the hard-shelled insect that at least provided a dollop of protein and fat. Yet they must always be careful, so careful, for everything in the Redlands cut, burnt, or stung—usually to the pain, but often enough to the death. An adult too, might die of such a hard life, but with a child something much more precious was lost, for the Remlaps were failing, forced into the Voidland, the last stretch of waste that a human being could theoretically live on—but more often than not couldn’t.

Gaspar cursed the fact that he was born into days such as these.

But here he was, and a man had to do what he had to do.

Which was, at the moment, make his way stealthily out of the Farmer’s camp after the setting of the big moon, Churchill.

It was not difficult. These Farmer Scouts were excellent desert travelers for Blacklanders, but they were not of the Redlands in the way he, Gaspar, was. He had escaped Blaskoye pursuers. He was confident he could throw these mere Farmer Scouts off his trail. In fact, they wouldn’t even realize he was gone.

Well, not until they noticed the missing maps.

He’d taken a scroll case with two of them rolled tightly inside. Of course he’d taken Weldletter’s prize, the evolving map of the Redlands. But also within was a far greater treasure. For Weldletter had let drop—casually, in passing, even!—that he carried with him as a matter of course a complete map of Treville District.

A tactical, military map.

And this was the second item Gaspar carried in the map case slung across his back.

Gaspar had had to leave while almost two days out from Awul-alwaha. It would have been impossible to get any closer and still be able to carry out his plan. If they were closer, the Farmers would have seen the oasis and at least have an idea of its location, if not the best way in. He had not dared to steal a dont, but he still considered himself a good runner and did not expect to have any trouble making good time. He would not be eating on the way, but the problem was the water. If he ran through the night, which he intended to, he was going to be thirsty by sunup and delusional by daybreak. He would have to take necessary breaks along the way and rehydrate.

Although the Scouts had been good at making use of the land, they were in many respects amateurs in comparison to him, who’d lived in this environment all of his life. There was a wealth of sustenance hidden in this harsh and arid land for the one who knew how to find it. The pricklebush itself was useful, for its roots could be exhumed, slit open, and the moisture got out. Best of all were the wands of the very plant that had been used to tie the unfortunate Schlusel males to the metallic rocks. These could be skinned and would provide a ropey chewing cud that would also relieve his fatigue and reduce the swellings of his joints from the running. If he were able to find a bayonet plant, he might even have a feast on its fleshy parts. He must keep his eye out, that was all, and he would be all right. After this was over, he could think about eating again.

He checked the stars and set off through the night. His pace was even greater than he had hoped, for he’d received a new pair of sandals from the Farmers, and they were proving most efficacious against the hard ground.

After several hours in the end have a feeling that something was looking over his shoulder, was following him from behind.

It cannot be the Farmers, he thought to himself. They were sound asleep as I left, and they will not have been able to pick up my track in the evening even if they did wake up. But he stopped running and looked back.

It was the moon called Mommsen, quivering on the horizon, about to set.

“Oh you,” he said, shaking a finger at it, “you shouldn’t stare at a man so.”

He turned around and continued onward, still at a jogging pace that would have put many a dont to shame if the creature had to make a similar traverse at night.

He found a pricklebush near dawn and dug it up with his fingers. The slight moisture of the roots on his lips was delicious. He abandoned himself to finding more roots for several minutes and dug up five or six more bushes. Suddenly he stopped and thought.

“They will know I came through here,” he murmured. “They will see the dug-up plants.”

So maybe he couldn’t drink after all. Well, that would be all right, because he thought that he only had another ten or twelve hours to go.

“It ought to be just enough to take me through,” he said to himself.

Onward through the harsh glare of the sun. This was a time of day that every instinct told him was not good to travel in. It was a time for rest, or at least to be in shadows while doing chores. It was not time to run with the bare head through the unforgiving Redlands.

Yet run he did, onward and onward.

And slowly the sun traveled across the sky, and it was afternoon. The visions started near sunset, and they were what he expected. Up ahead a woman beckoning him to keep going, to keep ahead of any who would pursue them. He knew it could not be his wife, because he had buried her in the sand after he pulled the Blaskoye off her and slit his throat. He’d been very angry to discover that his wife was already dead, and that the Blaskoye who had been raping her either didn’t know or didn’t care. He felt cheated, as if his rescue effort had not only been in vain, but had been a sort of joke.

Then the woman stopped appearing, and as he ran on, another form appeared, smaller. This, too, he knew could not be real, but it was closer to reality, and so closer to tricking him, for the boy—it had to be the boy—still lived as far as he knew. In fact, everything he did and thought was a result of believing that the boy still lived and that he was going where the boy was.

In the end he gave in to the boy’s beckoning and even called out once or twice in his weak, parched voice, “I’m coming.”

Then, well into the evening, after the sun set and the first moon rose, he saw the campfires of the oasis ahead of him. They were twinkling in the dark. Now a hard chill had set, and his yellow robes, thin as the scales of a ground-scather and fine for day, were no protection against the bite of the evening.

He ran on.

And that nagging feeling, that there was something behind him, returned. But now he knew that he was as far away from reality as he was ever likely to get and still have a chance to come back. The boy was telling him to come forward with signs and motions, and he was eager to do so. It was only when he got to the first outlying campfire that he realized he must now be careful, that the run was over, and the crawl and the shuffle had begun.

But that was all right, too. Working his way through the outer camps was not as hard as he thought it might be. They were not expecting anyone like him here. As far as they knew, all Remlaps had ceased to exist.

So within two hours of careful movement he was into Awul-alwaha proper. There were so many people around it was impossible to hide any longer, and there was no need to. He could stand up and walk among the people, or at least slink from alley to alley. If he were glimpsed, it was no great matter to imagine that he was a lost traveler, for Awul-alwaha was filled to capacity with outsiders, men who had not been of the Blaskoye tribe, who had never thought of themselves as Redlanders, but who did now.

They convinced themselves after they saw what got done to those Schlusels, thought Gaspar. And he knew that many others had received the same treatment, including his tribe. It was either join the Blaskoye and call yourself a Redlander—or find yourself made an example of in the most horrible way.

He knew where he was going. At least, he believed he could find the tent.

As the headman of his tribe, in better days he had been invited to visit the sheiks and potentates who had run the Blaskoye clan before Rostov came along.

In many ways, those old days had not been very much different from now. The Blaskoye had been running a protection operation since time immemorial. But in those days you knew where you stood, and you knew that if you paid the proper amounts to the right people, you would be let alone and left to go your way. And if you did not, the most that would happen would be to have your legs broken, a few daks slaughtered or taken. This was not out of consideration for the finer feelings of the herd animals, the other tribes, of course. It was a method for ensuring a steady return over the long-term.

But now all that was gone, and the only thing the Blaskoye—and one might as well go ahead and say it, Rostov—cared about was the present.

Awul-alwaha was not a town in any sense, more an extended encampment, but Gaspar, never having seen a town, was only aware of this fact in the abstract. It seemed enormous to him. The buildings were not permanent, except for a couple of wells and a central bathing area made of adobe bricks. It was the largest collection of human beings that Gaspar ever seen, and he could not imagine how a Farmer town could be more crowded, although he’d heard that they were. Almost he forgot the way along the paths between the tents and other temporary structures that defined the encampment. But there was enough similarity from the last time he had been here, which was nearly three years before, for him to wind his way toward the big tent of white and blue fabric that marked the Blaskoye central living area. Around that tent, clustered like sheep around the salt lick, were the many elaborate structures that formed the corridors of the tribes’ leaders, including the slave quarters and the dont enclosures. There were even separate cook tents and specially floored dining yurts where the masters of the Redlands could sit in comfort and consume their slave-brought meals.

The sounds of the oasis surrounded him. The perpetual flapping of fabric in the wind. The sudden onset of humidity, and the ensuing plague of insectoids. The white shine of the morning sun and play of shadows through breeze-whipped tent walls. The smell of the fabric itself: most of it dakwool, locally made, but some dusty linen bought or stolen from the Valley with its flax mills.

And, as always, the need to watch out for stakes and guylines. They were everywhere, put in wherever there was room. Get off the path, and you were likely to trip, perhaps yank up a carefully planted stake, or do something that would call attention to yourself.

Then he was among the Blaskoye tents, white and trimmed with blue, and his way became less certain. He would have to listen in on conversations and find his way to where he wished to go. It proved easier than he had feared, however, for a steady stream of visitors was headed for the very person he wanted to find. He hid in a shadow behind a large potted plant and listened to two men as they spoke of a report they would soon give. Both seemed nervous and uncertain about how it would be received.

“He won’t like that they are in the Redlands and we couldn’t find them,” said one.

“But it’s better for him to know that they are here than for them to get away with it entirely,” said the other. “I don’t think he’s going to take it out on us. We’ve done what we could.”

“You know that’s not the way he will look at it. He’ll tell us that he might hear the same report from a tribe in for market, so what does he need spies for?”

They continued past Gaspar, and he came out from behind his plant and followed them. Just before they went through a large opening that led to another tent, he ducked to the side and worked his way around the edge of that tent until he came to yet another tent that connected to the larger structure.

This will be the slave quarters for the main area, he thought. I will come in here, and if he is not here, it is still a good way to get to where I must go. A way that he will not expect.

The hard part would be getting himself and the map case through a small opening without being detected. He was about to slit a hole long ways with his rusty knife—an instrument the Farmers had mercifully, foolishly, allowed him to keep—when he realized that this would be immediately noticed and instead reached down and made a horizontal cut along the floor of the tent side just above where it reached the ground and was curled under the flooring circlet that kept it in position. His slit began at one support and ended at another. It was as long as a man. Gaspar got down on his belly and held the map in its case in front of him as if he were hugging a baby. He quietly rolled through the slit.

When he looked up he was inside a large area full of people and frenetic with movement. He quickly stood up and looked around. The people were intent on their tasks and no one had noticed him enter. In fact, he didn’t think any one of them would notice anything unless the entire tent were burning down, so intent were they on following whatever orders drove them.

These had the sliced foreheads that signified they were slaves. Many of the gashes were recent and still healing. The greatest danger he faced at the moment was the fact that he had no such scar on his own forehead. But the presence of the map in its willow tube proved to be exactly what he needed. He looked like a functionary making his way toward the main hall, a Blaskoye minor noble, perhaps, taking a shortcut to get to his destination.

So instead of slinking along and hiding, Gaspar held his head high and walked confidently through the enormous tented area full of bustling slaves. He looked right and left, searching, searching. He looked into the faces of the others, and they averted their eyes, afraid that he was doing the worst thing you could possibly do to a slave—notice them, pick them out for some special duty or punishment.

But he did not find what he was looking for, and he was going to have to ask someone. This might not go so well, he knew, for his garb would immediately be noticed, not to mention his outré accent. For a moment he contemplated luring someone to the shadows and killing them for their clothes, but he didn’t think that he would be able to pull this off in his present state. He was very, very thirsty, and the sight of the slaves taking cups filled with drinks into the main area was maddening.

He walked in circles around the large area, trying to find where they might keep the young slaves, the gleanings from raids and trading among the tribes. Surely a boy of seven would not be put to work that required a great deal of dexterity or strength. They must keep them at some mundane tasks somewhere, and he must discover where that place was. But ducking down side tunnels and into other tents led him nowhere. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t find the boy. After coming so close, he couldn’t find him.

Then he considered hiding and waiting for evening, when he might conduct a more thorough search, but the bustling would never stop. In fact it would increase in the evening. And besides, where was he going to hide? He could not stay in the slave pens and the slave quarters, and he had nowhere else to go where he would not be recognized and called out for an imposter. Already he was receiving odd glances. Was this master never going to leave the service tent? He had to come to a decision. And he decided.

The original plan was not going to work. He had been so sure he would find the boy and be able to leave. But the boy was not here, and he had no more idea where to look. So it was the other plan that he was going to have to use. This was the reason he had brought the maps, after all.

There was no use waiting after that. He turned and followed a slave who was carrying a tray full of beverages out a side door, down a long enclosed hallway, and into the large area that was underneath the enormous Blaskoye main tent.

It was at least a hundred paces in diameter, and so high that if you fell from the ceiling you would die striking upon the ground. Although the tent was made of white fabric, the thickness of it kept out enough of the sunlight that oil lamps were necessary inside during the day for sufficient light. Sitting dens defined by central oil lamps were scattered all over the area. Some of these circles of cushions were empty. Most, however, were taken up by groups of Blaskoye men who were arguing politics, tactics, and all the matters that a conquering people must contend with when they of one and must rule.

After this, it was not difficult to find Dmitri Rostov. He was near the center, and surrounded by a group of eight men who were arguing among themselves while he looked on. There were the two men, the spies, that he had seen and overheard outside. Rostov himself was smiling slightly, ferociously, showing teeth, at some comment that one of his retainers had just made. Gaspar circled around the group, making certain that this was correct, that he’d found the right people, but he was sure. He remembered.

He remember the negotiations when he had refused. He had not refused to give in, but to call his people, his tribe, by another name. No, the good name they had shared for centuries was enough. He did not think of himself as a Redlander, and, foolishly, he’d believed he could convince the other, the other with the glistening black eyes and the white teeth, to leave them that, the name of Remlap.

But Gaspar had chosen to keep the one thing Rostov most wanted.

Now he had a decision to make. Would he hide the map, secrete it somewhere nearby, and use it to negotiate? He did not see that working. No, much better to make it an act of gratitude, of magnanimity. Yes, that was the way to go about it. And without further thought—because to think would be to fail—Gaspar of the Remlaps pushed his way into the circle of retainers and sat down directly in front of Dmitri Rostov.

Immediately two burly men moved in from the side with obsidian knives drawn and would have cut his throat in seconds had Rostov not raised his hand and signaled for them to stop. Rostov looked down upon Gaspar, and Gaspar felt those eyes once again, the cold eyes that reminded him of nothing else than his mother’s tales of the carnadons, a creature he had never seen but that had filled his childish dreams with terror.

“What have you got there, Remlap man?” asked Dmitri Rostov. “And what are you doing still alive after I ran you into the Voidland?”

Gaspar clutched the map tightly and tried to stop his trembling. Still, a tremor rose that was clearly audible in his voice. “I came to apologize for our mistake,” he said. “I know that there is no way we could make up for our transgression, but I have brought a token of our esteem that I hope that you will take as a sign of our repentance and love for you, our leader. We beg to be Redlanders now.”

Moving while he still could make himself function, and fighting back the urge to piss his own legs, Gaspar pulled the top covering from the tube. The two bodyguards, for that is what they were, moved in on him once again, but he smiled and Rostov nodded for them to allow Gaspar to complete his motion.

He took the rolled papyrus map from the woven willow tube.

“Here is a most useful treasure, my sheik,” he said. “It is an intricate recording, a map drawn to perfect scale, of the lands which you rule and must pass through. There are things in here that you do not know, places hidden that we—I—have discovered that will help you guard against your enemies and aid your subjects.” Gaspar’s shaking increased, but he forced himself to go on, to say it: “And I have but one entreaty before I lay this wonder into your hands.”

Rostov smiled his tooth-filled smile. “And what is that, wastelander?”

Gaspar took a breath and spoke. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing much, a trifle. A youngster who is an acquaintance of mine, who is now in your service as a slave. A young boy.” Gaspar felt his voice trailing off into silence. “He would be about seven years old now.”

“And would he look like you?” said Rostov.

“A bit,” said Gaspar. “He is a relative, at some distance, so I imagine he might.”

“And what would you like us to do with this child slave, wastelander?”

“I just wish…” Do not cry. Do not show the tears that are gathering behind your eyes. You do not have enough water within you to waste them so, Gaspar thought. “To look upon him, see that he is well. To report to his mother, you know,” he said. “You know how women are. They cannot let go, even when letting go is their only choice in the matter.”

“To look,” said Rostov, “as a favor?”

“Yes, great sheik.”

“And what is the slave’s designation?”

“I—don’t know what you will have called him,” Gaspar answered hurriedly.

Rostov shrugged. “This boy may prove difficult to locate, I’m afraid. And since you have said it is a matter of trifling importance, what do you say we not bother ourselves with such small concerns and have a look at this supposedly marvelous gift you have brought for us?”

“No, I—” He cut himself off by slapping his own throat with a quick jab of his palm.

Everything inside him screamed. So close, and to have it yanked back so cruelly! There must be a way, some way to discover, cadge, beg—

And then he saw Rostov smiling broadly, those thin, white teeth, so like quartz stones, flashing, and Gaspar knew.

He knows. Maybe he doesn’t know who I am precisely, but he knows. He knows what I am asking for, what I am truly asking for—

“No?” said Rostov. “What do you mean, wastelander? Tell me.”

“It’s just, I—” And he found he could say the words, must say them. “I beg you, great sheik. I wish—”

Gaspar bent low. He had already been sitting, and now he placed himself on his belly, his legs hunched below him, his hands outstretched in supplication. “I humbly beg to see the boy. Just to know he lives.”

“Who is this slave?” Rostov said. He chuckled, and those around him laughed with him. “Don’t tell me, wastelander. He is your only son? The only one remaining after we cut you down like dakgrass when you did not yield? And is he the last? Did we kill the others, the strong sons of the Remlaps?”

“And the daughters,” whimpered Gaspar. “My daughter.”

“And you come here believing you can…trade,” said Rostov. He was no longer smiling. “As if I were a common barterer in a market stall.”

“No, great sheik,” Gaspar said.

“Then what, wastelander?”

“I—”

“Sit up so I can hear you!”

“Yes, great sheik.” But he found his arms would not move, his back would not pull him erect. Finally the two bodyguards moved to his side and pulled him back to a crouching posture.

“I know where they are,” Gaspar said. “The Farmers. Scouts. Many of them. A two-day ride from here. I came with their maps, and to tell you, show you…in hope…in fear…not for mercy, for I know you have none…but that you would find me useful. And let me have him.”

“The boy.”

“Yes.” Gaspar nodded, looked down.

“The Farmers are nearby?”

“Yes. About ten-tens strong. They are of Treville. The ones you hate.”

Rostov nodded. “I do hate those f*ckers of daks. You have heard right about me in that regard. And now you have dangled your bait. Let us see if I will take it.”

“They are truly there, great sheik,” said Gaspar despondently. “I offer no trick. You can take the Farmers unaware. Wipe them from the red face of Father Desert. As you have wiped away others who oppose you.”

Rostov said nothing for a space, but considered Gaspar.

“Give me these maps,” he said. “Now.”

Gaspar stretched out the case, but couldn’t seem to loosen his grip on it, even when he was willing his fingers to do so. Rostov pulled it roughly from his hands.

Rostov opened the case and unrolled the scrolled maps, glancing at both in turn. Then he had a longer look. “Not bad,” he said. “This is…who made this?”

“A slave of Treville. He works for the commander there.”

“Dashian?”

“Yes.”

Rostov smiled, shook his head. He rolled the map carefully back into a scroll, and looked at the other.

Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, the ferocious, toothy smile spread over his face. After what seemed an eternity to Gaspar, Rostov shook his head, plainly impressed.

“This may prove…useful.”

“It shows fortifications. Troop dispositions. Even approximate numbers.”

“I will have it read.”

Gaspar had not considered that Rostov was not literate, although he kicked himself for not expecting it. He himself had only learned to read because his parents had been under the mistaken impression when he was a child that he might make a priest someday.

Rostov looked back down at him.

“Now, as to these Scouts,” he said. “Where?”

“I—am very thirsty,” Gaspar said. “And I have not eaten in two days. Since I escaped.”

“Yes, all right,” Rostov replied. Then he paused and broke into another carnadon smile. “Meat for this man, and drink,” he called out. Gaspar wasn’t sure to whom Rostov was speaking but evidently he was heard and obeyed, for he shortly called after further instructions. “And bring it not from the common kitchen, either. Let it be Rostov provender. Let my house slaves bring it.”

They waited. Rostov unrolled the map again and studied it while all around him, including Gaspar, who dared hardly breathe, kept silent. Rostov was still gazing at the map when the pitcher of wine and the platter of food arrived. Gaspar took a clay cup from the slave girl who brought it. She was rather young for such a task—not yet a maiden—but she handled the pouring well enough. Something odd about her, though. Her eyes not turned down enough, somehow. Emotion showed in them, even hurt. They were not the eyes of a slave.

Her forehead cut was fresh, still healing. It had been made higher up than normal to preserve her visage. She was rather pretty. Rostov probably had other uses in mind for the girl when she grew older.

But then the food was placed before him, and he lost all thought of the slave girl. The stack of meat was surrounded by figs, and both figs and meat had the aroma of fresh roasting. Gaspar immediately felt the saliva form in his arid mouth. Or he felt his mouth attempt to salivate, at least. His swallow remained dry. He reached toward the meat, toward a protruding bone that might serve as a handle. These were ribs of some beast, not a dak. He didn’t care. He was so hungry.

He glanced up and met the eyes of the slave boy proffering the platter.

It was Frel. It was his son.

Gaspar moved back, left the rib where it was. He looked into his boy’s eyes, and now the tears that would not come before, that could not, found a way, and flowed.

“What?” said Rostov. “I thought you were hungry, wastelander? Why do you not eat?”

Gaspar couldn’t take his eyes off Frel.

Alive, alive, he thought. I hadn’t dared to hope.

“Answer me, wastelander.”

“Frel,” he said. “Your sister lives. She remembers you. We never forget you and pray for you every lamplighting,” he said.

“Wastelander!” said Rostov, more loudly. “Answer me!”

Gaspar forced himself to tear his gaze away from the boy. “Great sheik,” he said. “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

“Was that ever a question?”

Gaspar didn’t answer. There was no way to answer that would not mean doom.

Rostov laughed lowly, and stepped beside Gaspar, stepped toward the slaves. They must have seen something forbidding in his countenance—Gaspar was too busy taking in, drinking in, Frel, to notice—for they both stepped back.

And then he let the map unroll again, the Redlands map. He held it up like a dividing curtain between Gaspar and the food, the boy, cutting off his view.

“Now,” said Rostov. “Show me. Show me where.”

Gaspar slowly raised his hand. He looked at the map. He would locate it, the hilltop within the surrounding mountains where the Scouts were camped, he would point to it. But no. He would be killing ninety men.

He stared at the map. And, after a moment, Gaspar let out a stifled whimper, like the last breath of a dak that you had to put down for its own good.

“What?”

“I—” he whimpered. I am not an evil man.

“What are you mumbling about, wastelander? Speak up!”

The bastards! Bastards to put him in such a position. They deserved what was coming.

The bastard Weldletter, making the theft so easy.

In a way it will be Weldletter’s own fault.

And the lieutenant. The Dashian spawn. Taking him hostage, leaving him no choice.

My child, my child!

He wanted to run, to grab Frel and run, but he knew the bodyguards would cut him down at the first move.

Instead, his finger moved toward the map, found the curve of the contour line he was looking for. The bastard Weldletter had shown him how these worked, what they represented.

“Here,” he heard his voice croak. “In this dry run, near a blackstone cliff.”

Over. Now there was only hope. Only—

Gaspar looked up into the shining, black eyes of Rostov, and felt that hope crinkle, like the skin of one of the Schlusels, strapped to those strange, uniformly shaped stones.

He’s not going to let Frel go.

A part of him, a small rational voice, echoed quietly within him that it had been a forlorn hope all along.

Rostov didn’t have to say anything. The same voice said it for him.

You fooled yourself, great chief. You were never going to save your son.

A shot rang out. One of the bodyguard crumpled. Another, and the second man, who had drawn a blunderbuss pistol with almost supernatural alacrity, also grabbed at his chest just under the neck as it exploded and bled. He fell also, writhing and kicking in a pool of his own blood, his limbs out of his motor control and seemingly full of crawling insects.

From the edge of the tent two men stepped forward. Both were in Blaskoye white, but they wore the garments loosely, in an unkempt fashion a Blaskoye would not have been caught dead in.

Both held composite bows notched with arrow.

And those arrows were pointing straight at Rostov.

Amazingly, Rostov only smiled the broader. The more terribly.

“You’ve killed my cousins,” he said. “This is not something we take lightly here in the Redlands.”

He nodded toward the wine slave.

“You’ve come for the girl, I suppose,” he said. “There she is. Take her.”

The lieutenant held his bow steady. “You get her, Kruso,” he said to the other man. The other man quickly moved over, put an hand on the slave girl’s arm, and pulled the wine pitcher toward him. He gently took it from her grasp, set it on a nearby pedestal that had been designed for such a purpose, the delivery of spent dishes. Then he pulled the girl toward himself and into his arm.

“Her ah gotten, Lieutenant,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Rostov shook his head. “Lieutenant,” he said. “That’s not a name. It’s a thing, like carpenter or potter. One who carries out the orders of others, and has no will of his own.”

“My name is Dashian,” the other replied.

“Dashian is the commander,” said Rostov. “You are a lieutenant, not a Dashian.”

“We’re leaving now,” the lieutenant said.

“And how will you do so?”

“Through the entrance,” said the other.

“Unlikely.”

“Maybe you are right,” said the lieutenant. He turned to the other Scout. “Ready, Kruso?”

“Aye, Lieutenant.”

“No!” shouted Gaspar. “You can’t go. Not like this. Not now.”

“Goodbye, Gaspar,” said the lieutenant.

“Take the boy,” Gaspar said. “You must!”

“You broke our deal.”

“Take him,” Gaspar pleaded. “He’s dead if you don’t.”

Dashian glanced quickly to the other, the one called Kruso. Kruso shook his head. “Na good, thet many toh carry,” he said.

Rostov began to laugh. “This is the chatter of walking corpses,” he said. “Wind over rocks. Nothing. Lower your bows.” He motioned to them impatiently, pointing downward with a finger. “Lower your bows and the slaves will die quickly, cleanly.”

“I saw the Schlusels,” said Dashian.

Rostov growled impatiently.

“Then you saw how this has to end. You will live, in a manner of speaking. I will trade you to your father,” he said. “Perhaps a little worse for wear, perhaps no longer quite the man you were. The others…well, I have my cousins to avenge, so I’m afraid I cannot promise to make it quick. This one”—he nodded toward Gaspar—“must watch the boy die, of course.”

Gaspar felt himself shaking. So much he had risked. Now to have it all yanked from his hands.

I’m a coward, after all, he thought. I do not want to watch him die. I would want to go before. I would beg to go before if I thought Rostov would listen.

“Enough,” said Dashian. Gaspar looked up, ready for the end to come. But the lieutenant was not speaking to Rostov. He was speaking to the other, the sergeant. “Kruso?”

Together they raised their bows and loosed the arrows. The string sang out and the arrows shot upward, toward the ceiling. Then past the ceiling and through the great venting hole at the very apex of the structure. Upward and out into daylight.

Rostov reached for the knife in his belt, ignoring the pistol stuffed in beside it. He was moving toward the boy.

I would beg, but he wouldn’t listen.

And then the sky began to rain arrows.

* * *

Split-awareness interpolation complete to ninety-three point two seven degrees of accuracy, said Center. The tracking and location purposes are served. My recommendation is that you return to single-channel awareness with extreme alacrity.

Hell, yes, said Abel. We’re here.