The Heretic

Not fate, not Zentrum. Me. I saved her.

“I would have left her alone if I’d really believed she wanted me to,” Abel said. “She decided I should stay. I did the rest. Now it’s too late.”

“That’s no excuse. Women are weak.”

“Not Mahaut DeArmanville. She is strong. I’ve seen proof of that.”

“Mahaut Jacobson.”

“Yes,” Abel said. “So what do you have to show me there, brother? You’ve done it? A breeched rifle?”

Golitsin smiled wryly. “Not quite. I have a ways to go on that project. But I do have something else, something you didn’t draw out in the sand for me, either. My own idea. Since you have opened the sluice gate, I’ve been thinking of other changes we might make.” He turned the musket over in his hands and showed Abel the top of the barrel and tang. “For instance, what is the best way to true a gun’s sights, do you think?”

“Shoot a Blaskoye, of course,” Abel replied with a grim smile. “If you miss, try a little to the left and then a little to the right. If that doesn’t work, charge and gut him with the bayonet. That will also get you the elevation.”

“That’s precisely the problem,” Golitsin replied. “Your joke is too close to the truth. What we usually do in the shop is take a straight wooden dowel that’s about ten feet long and fit it down a barrel. We color the tip or wind it with yarn, then line up the sights on that splotch of color. Then we take it on range to fine tune the elevation and windage.”

“Now that sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yes, and all for naught in most circumstances,” Golitsin replied. “I started thinking about why our notch- shaped sights are so damn useless in combat.” Golitsin chuckled. “It’s the brightness, the constant change as your eye tries to adjust.”

“Maybe. All sights are notches, are they not?”

“They are,” Golitsin said, “until now.” He thrust the musket toward Abel but still did not take his hands off the barrel. They were covering the sights. “What you need is a sight that cuts down on ambient light. And then it came to me.”

“What?”

“The solution, of course,” Golitsin replied. “It’s very simple.”

“Okay, give,” said Abel.

“Circular front and rear sights,” said the priest. “Have the shooter look not through a jerky notch-shaped opening, but through a fully ringed aperture. Perfect for a soldier sighting in on the human torso.”

Golitsin took his hand off the tip of the barrel to reveal a small ring sitting on a tiny rod. The front sight. Then he removed his rear palm to reveal a ring and rod assembly that was slightly bigger than that on the barrel’s tip. He handed the gun to Abel, who sighted down its length.

“Line the circles up on one another,” Golitsin said. “I had my priest-smiths test it, but I want reports from actual battle.”

“That can be arranged,” Abel replied.

Golitsin nodded. “One thing I know for certain,” he said with a shake of his head.

“What’s that?”

“These new sights are utter and complete nishterlaub.” He took the gun back from Abel, fingered the metal rings, then looked up at Abel with a smile. “Nishterlaub-and fun as hell to come up with and manufacture,” he concluded with an uneasy laugh. “Dashian, what have you done to me?”

“Sorry, friend.”

“Don’t be.” Golitsin shook his head. “Whatever happens, don’t be sorry. It would be disrespectful toward me.” He looked Abel in the eyes. “I chose to follow you down this road. Never forget that. It was my choice.”

“And how long on the rear-loaders?” Abel asked.

“Hard to say. Days, not weeks,” the priest replied. “It is like with the sights. Now that I have the general idea, it’s only a matter of working out the details.” Golitsin smiled his crooked smile. “And getting used to the idea that I am now a heretic, of course.”

4

Two weeks into the Redlands, and Abel’s company, his four squads and three command staff, were spread out along the backside of a defile, a gravelly wash about twenty paces wide. Pickets on the hill, a squad’s worth spread along the ridge, gazed down at a clump of huts below-it was impossible to call such a small and squalid gathering a village-that belonged to a clan of perhaps fifty Redlanders.

Abel crawled up next to Kruso, one of the pickets, and looked over the ridge himself. “Are we sure they’re not Blaskoye?” he asked.

“Not,” Kruso answered. “Downem thar crawlet me and South-waste accent tha talk.”

“South-wasters, huh? What do they call themselves?”

“Remlaps,” Kruso said.

“But the Blaskoye have conquered lots of tribes to the south,” Abel said. “How do we know these aren’t some of them?”

“Hidden,” Kruso replied. “Not from sich as weh, neither.”

“Yes, it is a cozy little valley they’ve found there. Couldn’t see it for a hundred leagues in any direction, then you come upon it and there it is, complete with a seep and green plants.”

“Found tham never withoutem that huntsman followen weh here back.”

“No, probably not.”

But they had found the Remlaps, and as far as Abel could determine, the Remlaps did not know his Scouts were here.

You have maybe a day before they do, Raj said . Desert folks don’t miss much, because there’s not much to look at out here, so they know every bush and rock. A cut twig, some chuffed ground, and you’re spoiled for surprise.

“All right,” Abel said to Kruso. “I don’t want them to catch fright, at least not yet. Can you go down there and bring me the chief, or somebody who looks like the chief?”

Kruso smiled. “Aye, Lieutenant,” he said. “Thet can I.”

“Take five,” Abel said.

“And what will I do with the one I don’t need?” Kruso asked, all innocence.

“Okay, four including yourself,” Abel replied. “And if you’re not back in a half watch, I’ll bring the company over the hill.”

“No worry fer thet, sir,” Kruso said. He carefully backed away from the hill crest, then pulled himself off the ground and headed down to round up his raiding party.

Abel remained watching, trying to pick out Kruso and his men. There was the shake of a tarplant here, a small puff of dirt there, all following a roundabout path. If he had not known they were on their way, he would have put it all down to wind, so stealthily did the group move.

The return trip was a bit more obvious, since they were dragging something large and trussed up. Abel met them by the group of bedrolls and travel satchels that defined his headquarters. He’d ordered no cookfires, and his dont-born supply train was two valleys over in a blind defile.

The chief had not surrendered easily, and there was a bloody bruise on his temple where Kruso, or one of his men, had had to apply forceful persuasion. Abel ordered the leather tongs that bound his wrists and legs undone, and attempted to dredge up what little he knew of the South-waste dialect.

I will be able to supply the lack, if you will only allow him a few words to begin with, said Center.

This proved easy enough, for when the gag was taken from the chieftain’s mouth, he immediately began cursing up a storm-which Center proceeded to analyze for grammatical components. By the time he was finished, Abel had become a competent speaker of the Remlap dialect, or at least Center had, which amounted to the same