The Heretic

Well, not until they noticed the missing maps.

He’d taken a scroll case with two of them rolled tightly inside. Of course he’d taken Weldletter’s prize, the evolving map of the Redlands. But also within was a far greater treasure. For Weldletter had let drop-casually, in passing, even! — that he carried with him as a matter of course a complete map of Treville District.

A tactical, military map.

And this was the second item Gaspar carried in the map case slung across his back.

Gaspar had had to leave while almost two days out from Awul-alwaha. It would have been impossible to get any closer and still be able to carry out his plan. If they were closer, the Farmers would have seen the oasis and at least have an idea of its location, if not the best way in. He had not dared to steal a dont, but he still considered himself a good runner and did not expect to have any trouble making good time. He would not be eating on the way, but the problem was the water. If he ran through the night, which he intended to, he was going to be thirsty by sunup and delusional by daybreak. He would have to take necessary breaks along the way and rehydrate.

Although the Scouts had been good at making use of the land, they were in many respects amateurs in comparison to him, who’d lived in this environment all of his life. There was a wealth of sustenance hidden in this harsh and arid land for the one who knew how to find it. The pricklebush itself was useful, for its roots could be exhumed, slit open, and the moisture got out. Best of all were the wands of the very plant that had been used to tie the unfortunate Schlusel males to the metallic rocks. These could be skinned and would provide a ropey chewing cud that would also relieve his fatigue and reduce the swellings of his joints from the running. If he were able to find a bayonet plant, he might even have a feast on its fleshy parts. He must keep his eye out, that was all, and he would be all right. After this was over, he could think about eating again.

He checked the stars and set off through the night. His pace was even greater than he had hoped, for he’d received a new pair of sandals from the Farmers, and they were proving most efficacious against the hard ground.

After several hours in the end have a feeling that something was looking over his shoulder, was following him from behind.

It cannot be the Farmers, he thought to himself. They were sound asleep as I left, and they will not have been able to pick up my track in the evening even if they did wake up. But he stopped running and looked back.

It was the moon called Mommsen, quivering on the horizon, about to set.

“Oh you,” he said, shaking a finger at it, “you shouldn’t stare at a man so.”

He turned around and continued onward, still at a jogging pace that would have put many a dont to shame if the creature had to make a similar traverse at night.

He found a pricklebush near dawn and dug it up with his fingers. The slight moisture of the roots on his lips was delicious. He abandoned himself to finding more roots for several minutes and dug up five or six more bushes. Suddenly he stopped and thought.

“They will know I came through here,” he murmured. “They will see the dug-up plants.”

So maybe he couldn’t drink after all. Well, that would be all right, because he thought that he only had another ten or twelve hours to go.

“It ought to be just enough to take me through,” he said to himself.

Onward through the harsh glare of the sun. This was a time of day that every instinct told him was not good to travel in. It was a time for rest, or at least to be in shadows while doing chores. It was not time to run with the bare head through the unforgiving Redlands.

Yet run he did, onward and onward.

And slowly the sun traveled across the sky, and it was afternoon. The visions started near sunset, and they were what he expected. Up ahead a woman beckoning him to keep going, to keep ahead of any who would pursue them. He knew it could not be his wife, because he had buried her in the sand after he pulled the Blaskoye off her and slit his throat. He’d been very angry to discover that his wife was already dead, and that the Blaskoye who had been raping her either didn’t know or didn’t care. He felt cheated, as if his rescue effort had not only been in vain, but had been a sort of joke.

Then the woman stopped appearing, and as he ran on, another form appeared, smaller. This, too, he knew could not be real, but it was closer to reality, and so closer to tricking him, for the boy-it had to be the boy-still lived as far as he knew. In fact, everything he did and thought was a result of believing that the boy still lived and that he was going where the boy was.

In the end he gave in to the boy’s beckoning and even called out once or twice in his weak, parched voice, “I’m coming.”

Then, well into the evening, after the sun set and the first moon rose, he saw the campfires of the oasis ahead of him. They were twinkling in the dark. Now a hard chill had set, and his yellow robes, thin as the scales of a ground-scather and fine for day, were no protection against the bite of the evening.

He ran on.

And that nagging feeling, that there was something behind him, returned. But now he knew that he was as far away from reality as he was ever likely to get and still have a chance to come back. The boy was telling him to come forward with signs and motions, and he was eager to do so. It was only when he got to the first outlying campfire that he realized he must now be careful, that the run was over, and the crawl and the shuffle had begun.

But that was all right, too. Working his way through the outer camps was not as hard as he thought it might be. They were not expecting anyone like him here. As far as they knew, all Remlaps had ceased to exist.

So within two hours of careful movement he was into Awul-alwaha proper. There were so many people around it was impossible to hide any longer, and there was no need to. He could stand up and walk among the people, or at least slink from alley to alley. If he were glimpsed, it was no great matter to imagine that he was a lost traveler, for Awul-alwaha was filled to capacity with outsiders, men who had not been of the Blaskoye tribe, who had never thought of themselves as Redlanders, but who did now.

They convinced themselves after they saw what got done to those Schlusels, thought Gaspar. And he knew that many others had received the same treatment, including his tribe. It was either join the Blaskoye and call yourself a Redlander-or find yourself made an example of in the most horrible way.

He knew where he was going. At least, he believed he could find the tent.

As the headman of his tribe, in better days he had been invited to visit the sheiks and potentates who had run the Blaskoye clan before Rostov came along.

In many ways, those old days had not been very much different from now. The Blaskoye had been running a protection operation since time immemorial. But in those days you knew where you stood, and you knew that if you paid the proper amounts to the right people, you would be let alone and left to go your way. And if you did not, the most that would happen would be to have your legs broken, a few daks slaughtered or taken. This was not out of consideration for the finer feelings of the herd animals, the other tribes, of course. It was a method for ensuring a steady return over the long-term.

But now all that was gone, and the only thing the Blaskoye-and one might as well go ahead and say it, Rostov-cared about was the present.

Awul-alwaha was not a town in any sense, more an extended encampment, but Gaspar, never having seen a town, was only aware of this fact in the abstract. It seemed enormous to him. The buildings were not permanent, except for a couple of wells and a central bathing area made of adobe bricks. It was the largest collection of human beings that Gaspar ever seen, and he could not imagine how a Farmer town could be more crowded, although he’d heard that they were. Almost he forgot the way along the paths between the tents and other temporary structures that defined the encampment. But there was enough similarity from the last time he had been here, which was nearly three years before, for him to wind his way toward the big tent of white and blue fabric that marked the Blaskoye central living area. Around that tent, clustered like sheep around the salt lick, were the many elaborate structures that formed the corridors of the tribes’ leaders, including the slave quarters and the dont enclosures. There were even separate cook tents and specially floored dining yurts where the masters of the Redlands could sit in comfort and consume their slave-brought meals.

The sounds of the oasis surrounded him. The perpetual flapping of fabric in the wind. The sudden onset of humidity, and the ensuing plague of insectoids. The white shine of the morning sun and play of shadows through breeze-whipped tent walls. The smell of the fabric itself: most of it dakwool, locally made, but some dusty linen