The Heretic

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?”