The Heretic-eARC Page 9

  “Here’s the real lesson I want you to learn from your recent adventures, Abel Dashian, son of Joab. You come from a fine line of soldiers on your father’s side. I don’t have to tell you the high standing of your departed mother’s family in Lindron. There is a clear path ahead of you to high command. Maybe even a place among the Temple Guardians one day.”

  Zilkovsky leaned closer to Abel. A stray breeze from the fan caught the thin strings of hair on his scalp and lifted them up for a moment like a riding dont’s feathery crest. “So, my young friend, don’t fuck it up with heresy.”

  PART TWO:

  The Powder

  1

  Bruneberg had not begun as a settlement, much less a town. It started as a scattering of unrelated clumps of families, a congregation of tribal settlements that had congealed in the area of the first cataract of the River, the cataract nearest the broad plain into which the River spilled itself after a thousand-league journey down its self-carved valley from the glacial drip of the Schnee Mountains. The Schnee were invisible from Bruneberg. They were over the horizon of northeast or, as all the Land referred to that cardinal direction: up-River.

  The Collapse here was quite literal, Center explained. The River cuts through the alluvial remnants of an ancient mountain chain in this area, and as a result, the Valley constricts to a few leagues across. Duisberg’s original settlers found it a good place to build a dam to compound water for irrigation and recreational purposes. It burst, and the rocks of the cataracts are the remains of its duracrete masonry.

  But a dam doesn’t need nishterlaub technology to stay in place, Abel thought. We have dams all over the place today.

  A good example of why the Galactic Collapse was so complete and all-obliterating, Center replied. If the Duisberg colonists had built their dam of rebar and concrete, it would still be here to this day. Instead, they relied on exotic molecular configurations held in place by molecule-by-molecule algorithmic maintenance.

  So they built a dam that could be infected by the Plague, did they? Raj’s rough and bitter laugh echoed in Abel’s mind. The wonder isn’t that the Empire of Man fell to ruin, but that it lasted as long as it did. It’s as if we built a Blood Wind into the very ground beneath our feet.

  Abel reined his traveling dont, a huge stag named Spet, through the southern gate of the town. At seventeen, he was grown to what he imagined would be his full height now (and he overtopped his father by half a head) and had begun to fill out with the wiry, desert-bred muscles created by many hundreds of Scout patrols and expeditions. Even two years before, he would not have chosen, or been allowed, to ride such a beast as Spet, a herd alpha if ever there were one. The dont would have simply been too big for him and impossible to control.

  Now Abel sat the saddle easily and the dont responded smoothly to the rein. Spet, he’d discovered on the fourteen-day journey up-River, was a sensible creature, if not the most intelligent dont Abel had ever encountered. It had taken a day and a night for dont and rider to become used to one another, but a special evening meal of blood-soak, barley marinated in the purple-brown blood of a local herbidak, had cemented the bond between them.

  An interesting hemoglobin-hemocyanin mix in the Duisberg fauna, Center intoned. Probably due to selective pressure brought about by geologically recent planetary volcanism. Hemocyanin is not susceptible to carbon monoxide poisoning as is hemoglobin.

  As usual, Abel had let Center rattle on, knowing that any comment of his might lead to another lengthy disquisition.

  Abel was more concerned with the dont. He had rightly assumed that Spet, who had conquered all dontflesh he’d ever surveyed, was done with the challenge and dominance rituals most dont stags spent half their lives and all of their free time engaging in—or was simply beyond such pettiness—and his thoughts were those of a fledge-dont again, concerned with a good meal, comfortable bedding, and taking on his allotted burden for the expected period of toil, no less, and most definitely no more.

  Upon first smelling the proffered blood-soak, the feathers of Spet’s flank crest had flared in happy surprise, and the dont had snorted with delight when Abel refilled his feed basket with a second helping.

  Bruneberg was sprawled down both sides of the River up and down the First Cataract. Its original reason for being had been as a portage stop and watering hole for transports coming down or being rowed, sailed, or pulled back up-River by dak towline. It was a fortunate fact—the Hand of Zentrum, said the priests—that the prevailing wind in the Land was always off the Braun Sea and up-River.

  After fighting for a century of more, the local tribes had finally joined together to form the town with a sentiment less of civic pride than pure exhaustion with feuding, and it showed in the architectural design, or lack thereof. Even Abel, who didn’t much care, thought the town an ugly place.

  Yet there was a bustle, an air of liveliness and even danger, present in the jumble of stone and wattle edifices that did impress him. Every alley seemed to be crowded with the stalls of merchants, vendors, auctioneers, and hawkers. Groups of men threw the bones openly in the shadow of dusty stoops, betting on the marks. Women lounged at corners, and some offered the promise of more than just a flash of breastcurve and ankle—for the right price.

  Money itself was everywhere in the form of palm-sized clay promissory notes etched with quantities along with one- or two-glyph simple terms of sale. These were known as barter chits. When discharged, the chits were broken into shards and scattered for luck. For this reason, the streets of Bruneberg were littered with the remains of deals made and unmade, lucre gained and spent. You might very well gash your feet on the stuff if you weren’t wearing a good pair of sandals or didn’t have tough footsoles to tread upon it.

  The whole town smelled of dak shit. Nobody cleaned the streets—the concept probably hadn’t even occurred to most of the citizens—and to do so would have been near impossible, in any case. The droppings mixed with the clay barter shards to produce a noxious slurry that defended itself with shit-coated barbs against all that was sanitary and sweet smelling.

  Riding beside Abel on a dont doe was a priest whom Abel had gotten to know fairly well over the past fourteen days. His name was Raf Golitsin, and he was the chief priest at the gunsmith works of Treville, and, according to Joab, was considered a fast-rising protégé in Prelate Zilkovsky’s retinue. Golitsin was in his late twenties, and Zilkovsky trusted him enough to send him on this journey. In fact, Golitsin had confided his hope that this meant big things ahead for him at the temple, with a possible promotion to chief of staff in the near future—especially if they returned successful. The old priest who currently held the position would be retiring soon.

  In general, Golitsin was garrulous, amusing, and not at all what Abel had encountered in most priests before. He found himself liking the man.

  The mission was to acquire gunpowder. The allotment for Treville district was now months overdue, and Scouts were going out on half their patrols armed with bows only, so dire had the situation become. The Regulars had not been able to hold target practice for over two months lest they risk having zero supplies on hand if called upon. Some districts might have let this situation slide, left matters to luck, Redlander indifference, or for the Scouts to deal with, but Abel’s father had no intention of doing so. Joab had appealed to Zilkovsky, who had organized the trip and personally requested Abel as the military representative. Abel had been pulled from Scout duty to comply, and the move had angered several of the Regulars who believed they were much more capable for such a mission than some half-wild lieutenant of the Scouts.

  For that was Abel’s rank. Gone were the days of being the band’s water carrier or dont wrangler. He was a full-fledged officer in the group now, one of four under Captain Sharplett’s command. Abel’s first act upon assuming his new title was to appoint Kruso as his squad NCO.

  Abel’s squad was now under the temporary command of Klaus Blauscharf, his old schoolmate, who was taking advantage of Abel�
�s absence to serve his required rotation in the Scouts. Abel had left instructions with Kruso to go lightly on the young officer and to take inevitable insults he would be throwing out as the result of ignorance and not intentional disrespect. Kruso had dealt with enough Regulars in his time to understand exactly what Abel was asking of him.

  “Steer not tha young commander into tha prickle-reed thicket,” Kruso said. “Kin I.”

  “And when he runs into one on his own, which he will, for the Lady’s sake, help him out, will you?” Abel added.

  “Aye, sur,” replied Kruso, “to tha hardpack keepen.”

  Golitsin served as the guide, since he had been to Bruneberg before, and Abel followed a half-dont’s link behind him as he led the way through the streets. The broken piles of clay shards along the streetsides grew smaller and eventually disappeared as they neared the main temple complex, although the smell of dak excrement did not lessen. Eventually they arrived at a large temple square housing a central adobe building surrounded by a shabby willow-wood fence constructed of wrist-thick poles and uprights not a one of which ran straight for more than the length of a man’s hand.

  Nearby was a yard to tie the donts. It had an arbor made of the same willow-wood that looked like a bad attempt someone had given up in the midst of building to provide shade for the animals. A clay cistern of muddy water sat nearby, however, so at least their mounts could drink.

  A couple of guards lounged near the entrance, one sitting on a bench, the other leaning into a shady spot along the wall. Neither wore tunics or leg wrappings. The leaning guard watched Abel and Golitsin dismount and approach, and when they were a couple of paces away, he turned his head and spat out a brown stream of nesh-laced spittle on the dirtyard. He eyed first Abel then Golitsin, whom he addressed.

  “What can I do for you, brother?”

  “We’ve come on an official visit from Treville District to the Bruneberg Powder Works. We want to report to the prelate before we travel to the plant.”

  The guard smiled and shook his head. “Official visit, huh?”

  “Yes,” Golitsin said. “Now if you will kindly announce—”

  “Prelate isn’t seeing anybody today,” the guard replied.

  “But…I assure you, I work directly for Prelate Zilkovsky and am his designated representative. I’m sure Prelate Asper will want to admit us immediately when he finds out we have arrived—”

  “Prelate is busy today,” the guard cut in. “Come back tomorrow. For an appointment.”

  “Our time is limited, I’m afraid, and our business of the utmost importance.”

  “Come back or don’t come back,” said the guard, “it isn’t any of my concern.”

  “But, but—” Golitsin stammered. As a chief underpriest, he was most definitely not used to having his requests treated so cavalierly.

  The guard who had been sitting now roused himself and brought the muzzle of his gun to bear on them.

  “You heard the sergeant,” he said in a low voice. “Move on.”

  I should teach these slovenly crap-haulers a lesson, Abel thought. This is beyond insolent. It’s downright stupid.

  I’m inclined to agree, Raj answered.

  Not worth the effort, in my opinion, put in Center. And in fact, analysis shows that whatever the attitude of these sentinels, they are telling the truth. They believe that the prelate is not inside.

  Still, I wouldn’t mind knocking some sense into them.

  You may get your chance later, Raj said, but Center is right. You should go directly to the plant now.

  Abel took a long breath, held it for a four count, then slowly exhaled. All right, he thought. But I hope I get my chance.

  “Come on, Brother Golitsin,” he said softly. “We have other ways to fulfill our task.” He put a hand on the priest’s shoulder, and Golitsin allowed Abel to turn him around.

  “I’m not afraid of those two,” Golitsin said. “I’d just as soon march right past them and see if those muskets even have powder in them. From the looks of them, they probably forgot to load up.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that you’re right,” Abel answered. “But let’s check out the powder plant first.”

  Golitsin shot Abel a curious glance as they untied the donts under the makeshift arbor. “I would’ve expected that I would be the one pulling you away from the fight,” he said. “Yet I know from reports that you have been known to fight like the dickens when it suits you. You are an uncommon young man, Lieutenant.”

  “I hope that’s a good thing,” answered Abel.

  “Let’s go find our powder,” said Golitsin.

  They rode across town and had to ask for directions several times before they found the Bruneberg Powder Works. It was near the River, and when they approached, the ammoniac odor of curing saltpeter told them they were in the vicinity, and, if they doubted this, the piles of sulfur and willow-wood charcoal nearby showed them to be in the right place.

  There was also the tremendous thunder of the barrel mill, as large as three houses, to let them know they’d found it. This structure dominated the middle of the manufacturing yard. It turned night and day. Something that was inside made an enormous racket against its wooden sides as it turned.

  Lead balls, said Center. Each is as large as a man’s head.

  Center showed Abel what one such ball would look like.

  Why lead?

  It creates no sparks, Center explained. Necessary, for in that turning barrel, gunpowder is born.

  In the yard were the Silent Brothers, the makers of the Land’s gunpowder. There were hundreds of them, all dressed in sooty orange robes and going about a huge variety of tasks.

  They did not speak, for they had no tongues. True to their names, they hardly made a sound at all.

  Even if they could, whatever moans or groans they might make would be lost under the din of that turning mill, Abel thought. It never stops?

  Only to load and unload, Center said. It’s been turning for two hundred years.

  To Abel’s surprise, the entrance to the powder works was not guarded. In fact, there was no military contingent to be seen anywhere in the vicinity, nor priests either.

  “At least the place is fenced,” Golitsin murmured. “But I don’t believe that fence would keep out a herbidak fledgling, much less somebody determined to get in there.”

  “Maybe the Silent Brothers keep them away,” Abel said. “I’d be afraid of those gargoyles and wouldn’t set foot here if I hadn’t been ordered to come.”

  Again they tied their donts outside, this time under the more promising shade of a large overhang that was constructed to cover the piles of raw material. There was a young boy throwing stones against a post nearby, and Abel promised him a handful of figs to watch the horses. They boy agreed readily enough.

  There was a clear path that led through the works to what looked like a central office.

  The smell of urea and feces, both human and animal, was almost overwhelming, especially when they passed the settling ponds where the saltpeter was gleaned from rippled sheets of a specialized papyrus.

  “Now that’s a holy smell,” Abel said and nudged Golitsin in jest. He’d learned over the past days that the priest did have a sense of humor, albeit a dry one that was barely a beat away from irritation. “Does it make you just want to go and throw yourself in the cure tank waters?”

  “I’ll throw you in first,” Golitsin replied. “It’s my duty as a priest to look after my flock, after all, particularly the stubborn and errant ones strayed farthest from Law and Stasis.”

  You might be saying something truer than you know, Abel thought, but he only smiled wryly at the priest and did not reply.

  When they entered the main office, a man looked up from scratching out the totting of figures on a clay tablet. He was using a stylus cut from a river reed with a chipped flake of grainy feldspar fixed to its end—perhaps not optimal, but the hardest rock to be found in these regions. He was sitting in a chair behind
a long plank table that faced the opening through which they’d entered. There was the distinct odor of flitterdung in the air.

  This time Abel took the lead in questioning the gatekeeper. “We’re here to see Director Eisenach,” he said. “We’re told that he is the overseer of the powder plant, although we may be mistaken in his honorific. Does he not hold some sort of military rank?”

  A voice from the back of the room cut in. “I’m a colonel of the local militia, if that means anything to you, soldier, but you can call me ‘director,’ that’s fine. I’m not in command of anything here because I happen to own the place. What can I do for you?”

  The voice belonged to a man who was of indeterminate middle-age. One glance told Abel that he was no soldier himself, whatever his militia rank might say. Eisenach was not fat and definitely not skinny, but possessed an indeterminate pudginess that seem to be spread throughout his body, not concentrating in any one spot, but puffing out arms, legs, and belly to an equal degree. His complexion was sallow and unhealthy looking. The animated wrinkles around his eyes, and his obsidian-colored eyes themselves, chips of life in the doughface, belied this overall appearance of dullness, however.

  He looks like a clever little man peering out from a big brute’s body with those eyes, Abel thought.

  Aye, lad, said Raj. He won’t be a fool, or at least not the same kind of fool as those guards.

  Abel and Golitsin entered the room, and the man at the entrance table, a bird-faced, spindly sort, pushed back his chair, and stood beside it. The long table was topped with neat cakes of what looked, for all Abel could tell, like dung.

  The man nodded slightly in greeting as they walked past him, but then turned, his back to his dung piles, and stared after them. Abel could feel the clerk’s predatory stare on his own back.

  Eisenach, the director, did not stand. He smiled an indulgent smile and bid them speak.

  “We’re from Treville District,” Abel said. “We’ve come to inquire about our district powder allotment. It’s four months’ overdue. We’ve been in constant engagements with Redlanders. We’re running out of firepower.”