The Heretic

“That’s half the Scouts.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough to get me dispositions on the Blaskoye,” Joab said. “Real information. You say they are getting organized, and I believe you. For years we couldn’t estimate strength or likelihood of attack because they were diffuse and haphazard in their ways. Organization leads to predictability.”

“How long, Commander?”

“I’ll give you two three-moons.”

Ninety-two days, Center said.

“Where?”

“Awul-alwaha, the Great Oasis, would be a good bet,” Joab said. “No one has seen it in our lifetimes.”

“I’ll need maps. A dont train. I’ll need to make maps.”

“Of course.”

“Weldletter.”

This took Joab back for a moment, and it was Abel’s turn to smile. Weldletter was Joab’s best cartographer. His father would hate to let the man go. But it made eminent sense, and Joab would know it.

“Bastard,” Joab muttered. “All right. Take him.”

“I’ll need a week to prepare.”

“You have three days,” Joab said. “Take the pre-positioned supplies at the Upper Cliffs.”

“Sharplett will boil over.”

“Let me deal with Sharplett,” said Joab. “And one more thing.”

“What?”

“Absolute secrecy,” he said. “I am convinced the Blaskoye have ears and eyes in Treville. No word is to get out, on pain of the lash and the stockade. Impress it on your men.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joab leaned over the map, looked Abel in the eyes. “Especially no word to the women. This auxiliary. No one.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I’m sure you do,” Joab replied. “Now you’d better get to it.”

Abel tapped a shoulder in salute, then turned to depart. He controlled his expression, but could not keep the flush from his face. He was steaming, gritting his teeth and about to gouge his palms with his own fingertips. But just as he reached the door, Joab spoke again, softer now, not in the tones of a commander but in those of a father.

“A wager,” his father said. Abel stopped.

He didn’t turn back around to face Joab. “What?”

“My bet is that it will be gone like a fever when you return. She may come to her senses. You might. One of you probably will.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you may be returning from relative safety into great danger,” Joab said. “Those Jacobsons play for keeps.”

Abel nodded. He let himself breathe out.

His father continued in the same low, soft voice. “But so do I,” he said. “So do I.”

Observe:

One day Mahaut crossed the room by herself, went to stand by the window, parted the curtains, and felt the sun on her face.

She wanted to tell him, waited, even sent word. But then the note came back that he was away with the Scouts, that it was an extended expedition, and that it wasn’t known when he would return.

So she tried to forget him. But a strange thing happened. The dreams began to change. Oh, there was always the bullet within her, the splay of lead. But sometimes now it was not his, the Blaskoye’s, bastard child, but was her own and no one the father. And when this happened in the dreams, Abel was there. Standing somewhere nearby, quiet. Always with his own guns, that short-barreled musket and the flare-muzzled dragon blunderbuss pistol with the scrollwork and rotating flintlock. And she would ask him what he was doing, and he would answer “Waiting,” and she would ask him what he was waiting for, and he would say “For the baby,” and she would know he meant the bullet.

“Why?” she would ask.

“Because I need it,” he said.

“Why do you need it?” she would ask again.

And he would look not at her, but away, into the distance. And he would finally answer “I need it to shoot him with it. It’s the only bullet that will kill him. And I aim to kill him.”

And she would wake from those dreams with her heart beating wildly, and-

— she had to now admit, must admit-

Flush with desire.

He’d better not get himself killed out there, she thought, not yet.

Because I have to tell him I love him.

Interpolation ninety-nine point one percent accurate, Center said. Now is that sufficient for interpretation of the probable mental state and the intended actions of the subject?

Yes, it is, Center, Abel thought. Yes, I hear you, Mahaut.

“You know, I keep thinking about women when I work on guns,” Golitsin said. They were once again in the back of his smithery in the Hestinga temple compound, and Golitsin was pulling a newly reburbished musket from a dont leather scabbard. Abel got a glimpse of some odd complication on the top of the barrel, but Golitsin quickly covered both ends of the barrel with his palms.

“Why just think of women,” Abel replied. “Since you like them so much, you know we have a few whores in Hestinga-and lots more in Garangipore.”

“I’m well aware,” Golitsin answered. “It’s a constant temptation. But Zilkovsky would find out. He wouldn’t stop me but he would be…disappointed.” Golitsin shook his head ruefully. “I couldn’t stand that.” He looked at Abel and his expression brightened. “Speaking of which, I hear you have given in to a temptation of your own.”

Abel was startled by the pronouncement. He’d understood that the news of his time spent with Mahaut had gotten around in certain quarters-how could it not? — but for a priest to know of it, even a priest as worldly as Golitsin, seemed strange and perhaps even dangerous.

“We’ve done nothing,” Abel replied.

“But you’ve thought about it. A lot.” This was not a question.

“Yes.”

Golitsin shrugged. “I take an interest in affairs outside the compound,” said the priest with a wink. “Especially since I can’t indulge in them. Zilkovsky might take my forge away. I can’t have that.”

“No, I guess not.”

“But what are you thinking, Abel?”

“I may love her,” he said.

“So what?” replied the priest. “Many a man has loved the wife of another. Most do not do anything about it, whether out of fear or prudence, I can’t say. Probably both.”

Abel considered. What had he been doing with Mahaut? Center and Raj had openly wondered about this very question. Yet he knew, whatever his motives, that he was doing the right thing, for both himself and for Mahaut.

And she will live. I am responsible for that, he thought.