The Heretic

Thursday school boy-wonder of a daddy may have something to teach us here.”

Bundren stared at Abel for another moment, then he spat-not at Abel or Golitsin, but onto the dusty ground between them. “Until then, get the hell out of my command. You understand, Lieutenant?”

Abel didn’t answer at first. He returned Bundren’s stare. His hand crept toward his stowed musket.

No, lad. Not now.

I’m going to kill him.

One day, perhaps. Not today.

What if I do?

A simple extrapolation with highly constrained variables, said Center.

Observe:

Abel, bleeding from a shoulder torn open by ballshot, strapped to the wheel himself. Day three without water, and he knows he’s hallucinating, knows what he sees cannot be true, because he saw the priest on the ground before him. Saw the spatter of blood and then meat and then bone as Golitsin was beaten to death with Abel’s own whip.

But it’s Golitsin speaking, or at least a dark form against the unremitting sun, and Golitsin’s voice coming from it as Abel squints to see anything from his sandblown eyes.

“I was a good priest,” Golitsin says. “Not that kind of good priest, but a good one, nonetheless. I didn’t deserve this. And it hurt so bad for so long-”

The figure stepped from the glare of the sun, and Abel saw it, ragged and torn, a man with the form of a man torn from him. No longer anything on the outside, and nothing but pain within.

All right, Abel thought. No, of course I won’t go for the musket.

Good lad.

He took Spet’s reins in both hands now. “I’ll deliver your message, Commander,” he said. He turned to Golitsin. “Come on, brother, we’re not wanted here.”

“That’s the best understatement I’ve heard in a long while,” Golitsin replied, low enough for Abel to hear, but not for the others.

They turned the donts and rode away at a slow trot. Abel did not turn around again, but as they departed he heard the DMC’s screaming voice cursing the two Scouts.

You did him more injury than you know, Raj said. Be content with that for now.

“Now the priests again?” Abel said to Golitsin.

“Yes,” Golitsin said. “But not the temple.”

“Where then?”

“I think I know,” Golitsin replied. “Something I heard last night.”

“At that place?”

“It’s called the Boat on the Water,” Golitsin said with pride in his voice, as if he were the proprietor himself. “And yes, at that place. One of them, never mind which, told me that I wasn’t the first priest she’d had that day. In fact, she’s made rather a trade of it-priests, you know. That was how she spotted me so easily. She thought I was him.”

“Him, who?”

“The one who doesn’t make use of her services, actually,” Golitsin said. “The one the others joke about.”

“Is it the prelate?”

“No, the prelate’s a drunk. He used to be one of her regulars until he couldn’t get it up anymore and stopped coming. Apparently, it’s just him and his wine casks at the temple.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this morning?”

“I was going to,” the priest said. “You know how you felt about those Scouts we saw today?”

“Ashamed for them,” Abel said, nodding.

“It was something like that,” Golitsin replied. “Anyway, let’s go see the upright man. She told me he’s made himself into something of a wildman, a hermit. He lives underneath the Boat on the Water, as a matter of fact, in a little spot he’s carved out in the bank. Seems we were both fucking over a holy hermit last night and didn’t know it.”

“And the carnadons?”

“That’s the thing,” said Golitsin. “That’s why everyone thinks he’s blessed of Zentrum. They don’t bother him. At least, that’s what she told me. And that’s another reason I wanted to try the DMC first.”

“Because we’re not that holy?” said Abel.

“You got it, Lieutenant,” Golitsin replied.

4

It took them the better part of a halfwatch to find a way to the Bruneberg River bank. Most of the town’s edifices were built to hang over the edge to take advantage of the River for both a source of water and a ready- made sewer and garbage dump. Then they had to find a livery in which to leave the donts, for the path down was only wide enough for a man. Abel brought his carbine, his dragon pistol, and two knives, one of which he gave to Golitsin, more for the priest’s comfort than with any thought that Golitsin might be skilled enough to use it to fend off a carnadon. Abel wasn’t sure if he was himself.

Abel took the lead, and they wound their way down and then along a trail cut into the bank. There were carnadons aplenty lounging not far below them, but they seemed curiously inert.

“Probably well-fed on shit and dak bones,” Golitsin murmured, though it sounded more like a hope expressed than a certainty to Abel.

Then they were beneath the overhanging buildings of Bruneberg. At first, the floors did not stretch so far out, and they merely walked in shadow. But as they drew farther under what they knew must be the denser part of town, they passed deep-set pilings and pierlike supports that ran in lines out into the River itself.

“This is the path the repair crew has to take to replace pilings,” Abel said. “I’ll bet they come down here with a military guard armed to the teeth, too.”

“Pity we didn’t,” murmured Golitsin.

On they went, and now they were well under the buildings, which stretched onward, out over the River. The light grew faint and the way forward dark as night.

“And pity we didn’t think to bring torches,” Golitsin put in not long afterward.

Abel grunted his agreement. Too late now.

I have an estimate of the probability of carnadon attack, Center announced. But I will refrain from stating the exact odds in order not to further contribute toward them by the very alarm they will cause, and merely admonish you to be careful.

Great, thought Abel. Thanks for the warning.

There was a pinpoint of light ahead. Then the pinpoint divided into several flickers. As they drew closer, Abel saw that it was the light of four oil lamps. Each was set on a large, flat River stone and formed a square. In the middle of the square, on a patch of mud, sat one who could be no other than the hermit they sought.

Abel stood back now, and Golitsin took the lead as they approached.

The hermit turned his head once and gave them a long look, then turned his gaze away and back down the bank’s slope to the River.

“Brother,” Golitsin called as they drew near. “I am a priest of Treville. I was told I might find you here.”

The hermit didn’t answer.

Then they reached the square of lighted lamps, and Golitsin halted.

“Brother?” he said. “May we talk? We have come along an…interesting…path to see you.”

Still the hermit did not reply. But after a moment, he released a deep sigh and turned toward them.

Abel had expected an old man, but he was not old at all. Weatherbeaten, yes, and with hair that had not