Center replied. If the Duisberg colonists had built their dam of rebar and concrete, it would still be here to this day. Instead, they relied on exotic molecular configurations held in place by molecule-by-molecule algorithmic maintenance.
Abel reined his traveling dont, a huge stag named Spet, through the southern gate of the town. At seventeen, he was grown to what he imagined would be his full height now (and he overtopped his father by half a head) and had begun to fill out with the wiry, desert-bred muscles created by many hundreds of Scout patrols and expeditions. Even two years before, he would not have chosen, or been allowed, to ride such a beast as Spet, a herd alpha if ever there were one. The dont would have simply been too big for him and impossible to control.
Now Abel sat the saddle easily and the dont responded smoothly to the rein. Spet, he’d discovered on the fourteen-day journey up-River, was a sensible creature, if not the most intelligent dont Abel had ever encountered. It had taken a day and a night for dont and rider to become used to one another, but a special evening meal of blood-soak, barley marinated in the purple-brown blood of a local herbidak, had cemented the bond between them.
An interesting hemoglobin-hemocyanin mix in the Duisberg fauna, Center intoned. Probably due to selective pressure brought about by geologically recent planetary volcanism. Hemocyanin is not susceptible to carbon monoxide poisoning as is hemoglobin.
As usual, Abel had let Center rattle on, knowing that any comment of his might lead to another lengthy disquisition.
Abel was more concerned with the dont. He had rightly assumed that Spet, who had conquered all dontflesh he’d ever surveyed, was done with the challenge and dominance rituals most dont stags spent half their lives and all of their free time engaging in-or was simply beyond such pettiness-and his thoughts were those of a fledge-dont again, concerned with a good meal, comfortable bedding, and taking on his allotted burden for the expected period of toil, no less, and most definitely no more.
Upon first smelling the proffered blood-soak, the feathers of Spet’s flank crest had flared in happy surprise, and the dont had snorted with delight when Abel refilled his feed basket with a second helping.
Bruneberg was sprawled down both sides of the River up and down the First Cataract. Its original reason for being had been as a portage stop and watering hole for transports coming down or being rowed, sailed, or pulled back up-River by dak towline. It was a fortunate fact-the Hand of Zentrum, said the priests-that the prevailing wind in the Land was always off the Braun Sea and up-River.
After fighting for a century of more, the local tribes had finally joined together to form the town with a sentiment less of civic pride than pure exhaustion with feuding, and it showed in the architectural design, or lack thereof. Even Abel, who didn’t much care, thought the town an ugly place.
Yet there was a bustle, an air of liveliness and even danger, present in the jumble of stone and wattle edifices that did impress him. Every alley seemed to be crowded with the stalls of merchants, vendors, auctioneers, and hawkers. Groups of men threw the bones openly in the shadow of dusty stoops, betting on the marks. Women lounged at corners, and some offered the promise of more than just a flash of breastcurve and ankle-for the right price.
Money itself was everywhere in the form of palm-sized clay promissory notes etched with quantities along with one- or two-glyph simple terms of sale. These were known as barter chits. When discharged, the chits were broken into shards and scattered for luck. For this reason, the streets of Bruneberg were littered with the remains of deals made and unmade, lucre gained and spent. You might very well gash your feet on the stuff if you weren’t wearing a good pair of sandals or didn’t have tough footsoles to tread upon it.
The whole town smelled of dak shit. Nobody cleaned the streets-the concept probably hadn’t even occurred to most of the citizens-and to do so would have been near impossible, in any case. The droppings mixed with the clay barter shards to produce a noxious slurry that defended itself with shit-coated barbs against all that was sanitary and sweet smelling.
Riding beside Abel on a dont doe was a priest whom Abel had gotten to know fairly well over the past fourteen days. His name was Raf Golitsin, and he was the chief priest at the gunsmith works of Treville, and, according to Joab, was considered a fast-rising protege in Prelate Zilkovsky’s retinue. Golitsin was in his late twenties, and Zilkovsky trusted him enough to send him on this journey. In fact, Golitsin had confided his hope that this meant big things ahead for him at the temple, with a possible promotion to chief of staff in the near future- especially if they returned successful. The old priest who currently held the position would be retiring soon.
In general, Golitsin was garrulous, amusing, and not at all what Abel had encountered in most priests before. He found himself liking the man.
The mission was to acquire gunpowder. The allotment for Treville district was now months overdue, and Scouts were going out on half their patrols armed with bows only, so dire had the situation become. The Regulars had not been able to hold target practice for over two months lest they risk having zero supplies on hand if called upon. Some districts might have let this situation slide, left matters to luck, Redlander indifference, or for the Scouts to deal with, but Abel’s father had no intention of doing so. Joab had appealed to Zilkovsky, who had organized the trip and personally requested Abel as the military representative. Abel had been pulled from Scout duty to comply, and the move had angered several of the Regulars who believed they were much more capable for such a mission than some half-wild lieutenant of the Scouts.
For that was Abel’s rank. Gone were the days of being the band’s water carrier or dont wrangler. He was a full-fledged officer in the group now, one of four under Captain Sharplett’s command. Abel’s first act upon assuming his new title was to appoint Kruso as his squad NCO.
Abel’s squad was now under the temporary command of Klaus Blauscharf, his old schoolmate, who was taking advantage of Abel’s absence to serve his required rotation in the Scouts. Abel had left instructions with Kruso to go lightly on the young officer and to take inevitable insults he would be throwing out as the result of ignorance and not intentional disrespect. Kruso had dealt with enough Regulars in his time to understand exactly what Abel was asking of him.
“Steer not tha young commander into tha prickle-reed thicket,” Kruso said. “Kin I.”
“And when he runs into one on his own, which he will, for the Lady’s sake, help him out, will you?” Abel added.
“Aye, sur,” replied Kruso, “to tha hardpack keepen.”
Golitsin served as the guide, since he had been to Bruneberg before, and Abel followed a half-dont’s link behind him as he led the way through the streets. The broken piles of clay shards along the streetsides grew smaller and eventually disappeared as they neared the main temple complex, although the smell of dak excrement did not lessen. Eventually they arrived at a large temple square housing a central adobe building surrounded by a shabby willow-wood fence constructed of wrist-thick poles and uprights not a one of which ran straight for more than the length of a man’s hand.
Nearby was a yard to tie the donts. It had an arbor made of the same willow-wood that looked like a bad attempt someone had given up in the midst of building to provide shade for the animals. A clay cistern of muddy water sat nearby, however, so at least their mounts could drink.
A couple of guards lounged near the entrance, one sitting on a bench, the other leaning into a shady spot along the wall. Neither wore tunics or leg wrappings. The leaning guard watched Abel and Golitsin dismount and approach, and when they were a couple of paces away, he turned his head and spat out a brown stream of nesh- laced spittle on the dirtyard. He eyed first Abel then Golitsin, whom he addressed.
“What can I do for you, brother?”
“We’ve come on an official visit from Treville District to the Bruneberg Powder Works. We want to report to the prelate before we travel to the plant.”
The guard smiled and shook his head. “Official visit, huh?”
“Yes,” Golitsin said. “Now if you will kindly announce-”
“Prelate isn’t seeing anybody today,” the guard replied.
“But…I assure you, I work directly for Prelate Zilkovsky and am his designated representative. I’m sure Prelate Asper will want to admit us immediately when he finds out we have arrived-”
