The Heretic

Rostov smiled his tooth-filled smile. “And what is that, wastelander?”

Gaspar took a breath and spoke. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing much, a trifle. A youngster who is an acquaintance of mine, who is now in your service as a slave. A young boy.” Gaspar felt his voice trailing off into silence. “He would be about seven years old now.”

“And would he look like you?” said Rostov.

“A bit,” said Gaspar. “He is a relative, at some distance, so I imagine he might.”

“And what would you like us to do with this child slave, wastelander?”

“I just wish…” Do not cry. Do not show the tears that are gathering behind your eyes. You do not have enough water within you to waste them so, Gaspar thought. “To look upon him, see that he is well. To report to his mother, you know,” he said. “You know how women are. They cannot let go, even when letting go is their only choice in the matter.”

“To look,” said Rostov, “as a favor?”

“Yes, great sheik.”

“And what is the slave’s designation?”

“I-don’t know what you will have called him,” Gaspar answered hurriedly.

Rostov shrugged. “This boy may prove difficult to locate, I’m afraid. And since you have said it is a matter of trifling importance, what do you say we not bother ourselves with such small concerns and have a look at this supposedly marvelous gift you have brought for us?”

“No, I-” He cut himself off by slapping his own throat with a quick jab of his palm.

Everything inside him screamed. So close, and to have it yanked back so cruelly! There must be a way, some way to discover, cadge, beg-

And then he saw Rostov smiling broadly, those thin, white teeth, so like quartz stones, flashing, and Gaspar knew.

He knows. Maybe he doesn’t know who I am precisely, but he knows. He knows what I am asking for, what I am truly asking for-

“No?” said Rostov. “What do you mean, wastelander? Tell me.”

“It’s just, I-” And he found he could say the words, must say them. “I beg you, great sheik. I wish-”

Gaspar bent low. He had already been sitting, and now he placed himself on his belly, his legs hunched below him, his hands outstretched in supplication. “I humbly beg to see the boy. Just to know he lives.”

“Who is this slave?” Rostov said. He chuckled, and those around him laughed with him. “Don’t tell me, wastelander. He is your only son? The only one remaining after we cut you down like dakgrass when you did not yield? And is he the last? Did we kill the others, the strong sons of the Remlaps?”

“And the daughters,” whimpered Gaspar. “My daughter.”

“And you come here believing you can…trade,” said Rostov. He was no longer smiling. “As if I were a common barterer in a market stall.”

“No, great sheik,” Gaspar said.

“Then what, wastelander?”

“I-”

“Sit up so I can hear you!”

“Yes, great sheik.” But he found his arms would not move, his back would not pull him erect. Finally the two bodyguards moved to his side and pulled him back to a crouching posture.

“I know where they are,” Gaspar said. “The Farmers. Scouts. Many of them. A two-day ride from here. I came with their maps, and to tell you, show you…in hope…in fear…not for mercy, for I know you have none…but that you would find me useful. And let me have him.”

“The boy.”

“Yes.” Gaspar nodded, looked down.

“The Farmers are nearby?”

“Yes. About ten-tens strong. They are of Treville. The ones you hate.”

Rostov nodded. “I do hate those fuckers of daks. You have heard right about me in that regard. And now you have dangled your bait. Let us see if I will take it.”

“They are truly there, great sheik,” said Gaspar despondently. “I offer no trick. You can take the Farmers unaware. Wipe them from the red face of Father Desert. As you have wiped away others who oppose you.”

Rostov said nothing for a space, but considered Gaspar.

“Give me these maps,” he said. “Now.”

Gaspar stretched out the case, but couldn’t seem to loosen his grip on it, even when he was willing his fingers to do so. Rostov pulled it roughly from his hands.

Rostov opened the case and unrolled the scrolled maps, glancing at both in turn. Then he had a longer look. “Not bad,” he said. “This is…who made this?”

“A slave of Treville. He works for the commander there.”

“Dashian?”

“Yes.”

Rostov smiled, shook his head. He rolled the map carefully back into a scroll, and looked at the other.

Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, the ferocious, toothy smile spread over his face. After what seemed an eternity to Gaspar, Rostov shook his head, plainly impressed.

“This may prove…useful.”

“It shows fortifications. Troop dispositions. Even approximate numbers.”

“I will have it read.”

Gaspar had not considered that Rostov was not literate, although he kicked himself for not expecting it. He himself had only learned to read because his parents had been under the mistaken impression when he was a child that he might make a priest someday.

Rostov looked back down at him.

“Now, as to these Scouts,” he said. “Where?”

“I-am very thirsty,” Gaspar said. “And I have not eaten in two days. Since I escaped.”

“Yes, all right,” Rostov replied. Then he paused and broke into another carnadon smile. “Meat for this man, and drink,” he called out. Gaspar wasn’t sure to whom Rostov was speaking but evidently he was heard and obeyed, for he shortly called after further instructions. “And bring it not from the common kitchen, either. Let it be Rostov provender. Let my house slaves bring it.”

They waited. Rostov unrolled the map again and studied it while all around him, including Gaspar, who dared hardly breathe, kept silent. Rostov was still gazing at the map when the pitcher of wine and the platter of food arrived. Gaspar took a clay cup from the slave girl who brought it. She was rather young for such a task-not yet a maiden-but she handled the pouring well enough. Something odd about her, though. Her eyes not turned down enough, somehow. Emotion showed in them, even hurt. They were not the eyes of a slave.

Her forehead cut was fresh, still healing. It had been made higher up than normal to preserve her visage. She was rather pretty. Rostov probably had other uses in mind for the girl when she grew older.

But then the food was placed before him, and he lost all thought of the slave girl. The stack of meat was surrounded by figs, and both figs and meat had the aroma of fresh roasting. Gaspar immediately felt the saliva form in his arid mouth. Or he felt his mouth attempt to salivate, at least. His swallow remained dry. He reached toward the meat, toward a protruding bone that might serve as a handle. These were ribs of some beast, not a dak. He didn’t care. He was so hungry.

He glanced up and met the eyes of the slave boy proffering the platter.

It was Frel. It was his son.

Gaspar moved back, left the rib where it was. He looked into his boy’s eyes, and now the tears that would not come before, that could not, found a way, and flowed.

“What?” said Rostov. “I thought you were hungry, wastelander? Why do you not eat?”

Gaspar couldn’t take his eyes off Frel.

Alive, alive, he thought. I hadn’t dared to hope.

“Answer me, wastelander.”

“Frel,” he said. “Your sister lives. She remembers you. We never forget you and pray for you every