The Heretic

“We are at war, Father,” Abel replied. “If they beat us, they’re going to do those things anyway. And right before our eyes.”

“Try telling that to Tarl Magiorre, whose daughter lay dead on that thrice-damned nameless knoll,” Joab said.

“Yes,” Abel said with a bitter laugh. “And try telling it to Edgar Jacobson.”

Joab considered his son. Abel was not sure how much he knew, or how much he’d guessed, about Abel’s own interest in Dame Jacobson. But one thing he’d learned about his father over his years of serving under him was that there wasn’t much that went on in his district that he didn’t at least have some inkling about, especially when it came to the military families.

“Jacobson should have controlled her,” Joab said. “The women’s auxiliary exists for washing, mending, doing a soldier’s chores when he is better occupied with fighting. And, well, at least creating the hope of a good fuck afterward. The Scouts have always had their retinue of women following them about, as you know.”

“Oh, yes.” Abel shook his head. “Some would follow them into the Redlands if they could.”

“I have no doubt,” Joab replied. “They perform a function, a useful function. But not as warriors. Not as fighters.”

“Not ideally,” Abel said. “But we live in far from ideal times.”

“I simply won’t allow it,” Joab said. “And I especially won’t allow her to continue with it, which is what I know you are really after.”

“Who do you mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about, Lieutenant, and don’t say you don’t,” his father said testily. Then he shook his head, sighed. “She’s a married woman, Abel. From a good family, married into a good family. This cannot end well.”

“I know who she is,” Abel said. “I respect it. As much as she does.”

“Besides, from what I hear-well, she’s rather damaged goods. I mean that in very literal sense. That wound…” Joab looked down, shook his head sadly.

“You’re being unkind, Father.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Joab replied. He again met Abel’s eyes and seemed genuinely chagrined. “But when one’s only son looks to be on the verge of throwing his manhood away on something-all right, someone-like that, it brings out the beast in a father. He’ll take the low road, if that’s what’s required.”

Abel considered. There was always the question of how much he could tell his father. Raj and Center were adamant. He must reveal nothing. If he did, they would not merely go away; they would kill him if they could. Raj, he was not so sure about. He had no doubt Center would do just that. His affection for Center was genuine, but it was rather like affection for a pet carnadon. You must never allow yourself to believe your feelings were returned.

“It may not matter, all this concern over status and position,” Abel said. “The Blaskoye have grown very strong. They seem determined to spread into the Land, to take it from us. They are gathering for that purpose. Every sign points to it: the incursions, the sack of Lilleheim, the increased raids. The way that they turn the corruption of Cascade to their advantage.” How to say it? “Father, do you not think what we both agree is a coming war might change, well, everything. The Land. The Law?”

Careful, lad, Raj murmured. See that where you’re going with this is not over a cliff.

“And will the nature of men and women change? Will what is right and good under Zentrum?” Joab laughed. “I think not. Some things flow and change. Some things are written in stone.” He put a hand on Abel’s shoulder. “You sound like a man who is trying to convince himself that something he wishes with all his heart were true actually was true. I understand that.”

A pensive look, a shadow, passed across Joab’s face.

He’s thinking about Mother, Abel thought.

“But we are men who deal in reality, not wishes and fantasy,” he said. He pointed toward the outspread papyrus map scroll on the big table in his office. “The Blaskoye will try again soon, but it will be far worse than Lilleheim.”

“I agree.”

“We have drawn their ire by our own competence, I’m afraid. Cascade has paid them off. Ingres is protected to the west by Treville itself. Lindron District is too well defended and anyway too long and wide to take with a west-to-east invasion. Twenty leagues of flat land with walls and flooded rice paddies favors organized foot, not savages on dontback.”

“Yes, they’ll move on Lindron last, when they’re certain of it.”

“Which leaves the northern districts and us.”

“Agreed,” Abel said. “But I would add one thing. You said they are drawn by ire at our competence. I would say that they are very angry at one commander in particular: you. They want your head. It is the way the Redlanders think. From them, a single charismatic leader rises and fights his way, or tricks his way, into leading a band, a tribe. Sometimes he even grabs for himself a godlike status.”

“Utter heresy.”

“Yes, I know,” said Abel. “You know this, but they don’t know. They understand us as badly as we understand them. For them, there is no Law of Zentrum. No Thursday school lessons. Whatever poor excuse for being something other than meat and dust that they have-well, that must be the way the world is for everyone, they believe. Their gods are the gods. Those gods’ rules are the only way men can rightly behave. So they figure we have exactly the same motives, that we are exactly the same men as they. They figure that if they shoot the dont in the head, the rest of the beast will collapse.”

“And you’re saying I’m the head.”

“To them, you are the godhead on Treville District,” Abel replied. “I believe they are particularly targeting you, Father.”

Joab sat back, took a long sip of wine. “Great,” he said, shaking his head. “Do they not realize that any competent officer can do as I do, that one will do so if he is called to take my place?”

“I’m not so sure you’re right about that,” Abel said. “But they surely do not understand how we organize and build in redundancy. Or even what organization means in a farming society such as ours. They are herders. But they’re learning. You saw it. They were much better commanded at Lilleheim than we’ve ever seen them before.”

“Agreed.”

“They may be organized enough to move in two directions at once.”

“How do you mean?”

“A feint,” said Abel. “To draw you out. You in particular. To draw the Regulars into a dry plain, say, where they can use their donts and overrun the Regulars, destroy the Militia. They don’t want to attack us in the town, not really, because they lose all advantage, and we gain several, not the least of which is fighting on our own turf. They have no villages, much less towns, of course.”

“You may be right,” Joab said. He paused in the midst of his thought and then displayed the slightest smile. His voice grew more heated with what was evidently conviction-and a plan. “In fact, I think there’s a good chance that you are. But where and when? I want to do more than guess.”

Oh no, Abel thought, realizing, before he could formulate it exactly, what his father had in mind. He’s had an idea that he believes will solve two of his problems. Damn it, he may be right.

“We’ve been reacting since Lilleheim,” Joab said. “It’s time to start acting. But we need more information.”

“That’s what the Scouts are for,” Abel said weakly.

“You’re a Scout. I’m sending you.”

“But I’m on detached duty with the Regulars,” Abel replied. “By your orders, I might add.”

“Yes.” Joab nodded. “Exactly. I need Sharplett nearby, to deal with threats. No, you will go. Long reconnaissance. Take four squads, and a command group.”