The Heretic (22 page)

These had the sliced foreheads that signified they were slaves. Many of the gashes were recent and still healing. The greatest danger he faced at the moment was the fact that he had no such scar on his own forehead. But the presence of the map in its willow tube proved to be exactly what he needed. He looked like a functionary making his way toward the main hall, a Blaskoye minor noble, perhaps, taking a shortcut to get to his destination.

So instead of slinking along and hiding, Gaspar held his head high and walked confidently through the enormous tented area full of bustling slaves. He looked right and left, searching, searching. He looked into the faces of the others, and they averted their eyes, afraid that he was doing the worst thing you could possibly do to a slave—notice them, pick them out for some special duty or punishment.

But he did not find what he was looking for, and he was going to have to ask someone. This might not go so well, he knew, for his garb would immediately be noticed, not to mention his outré accent. For a moment he contemplated luring someone to the shadows and killing them for their clothes, but he didn’t think that he would be able to pull this off in his present state. He was very, very thirsty, and the sight of the slaves taking cups filled with drinks into the main area was maddening.

He walked in circles around the large area, trying to find where they might keep the young slaves, the gleanings from raids and trading among the tribes. Surely a boy of seven would not be put to work that required a great deal of dexterity or strength. They must keep them at some mundane tasks somewhere, and he must discover where that place was. But ducking down side tunnels and into other tents led him nowhere. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t find the boy. After coming so close, he couldn’t find him.

Then he considered hiding and waiting for evening, when he might conduct a more thorough search, but the bustling would never stop. In fact it would increase in the evening. And besides, where was he going to hide? He could not stay in the slave pens and the slave quarters, and he had nowhere else to go where he would not be recognized and called out for an imposter. Already he was receiving odd glances. Was this master never going to leave the service tent? He had to come to a decision. And he decided.

The original plan was not going to work. He had been so sure he would find the boy and be able to leave. But the boy was not here, and he had no more idea where to look. So it was the other plan that he was going to have to use. This was the reason he had brought the maps, after all.

There was no use waiting after that. He turned and followed a slave who was carrying a tray full of beverages out a side door, down a long enclosed hallway, and into the large area that was underneath the enormous Blaskoye main tent.

It was at least a hundred paces in diameter, and so high that if you fell from the ceiling you would die striking upon the ground. Although the tent was made of white fabric, the thickness of it kept out enough of the sunlight that oil lamps were necessary inside during the day for sufficient light. Sitting dens defined by central oil lamps were scattered all over the area. Some of these circles of cushions were empty. Most, however, were taken up by groups of Blaskoye men who were arguing politics, tactics, and all the matters that a conquering people must contend with when they of one and must rule.

After this, it was not difficult to find Dmitri Rostov. He was near the center, and surrounded by a group of eight men who were arguing among themselves while he looked on. There were the two men, the spies, that he had seen and overheard outside. Rostov himself was smiling slightly, ferociously, showing teeth, at some comment that one of his retainers had just made. Gaspar circled around the group, making certain that this was correct, that he’d found the right people, but he was sure. He remembered.

He remember the negotiations when he had refused. He had not refused to give in, but to call his people, his tribe, by another name. No, the good name they had shared for centuries was enough. He did not think of himself as a Redlander, and, foolishly, he’d believed he could convince the other, the other with the glistening black eyes and the white teeth, to leave them that, the name of Remlap.

But Gaspar had chosen to keep the one thing Rostov most wanted.

Now he had a decision to make. Would he hide the map, secrete it somewhere nearby, and use it to negotiate? He did not see that working. No, much better to make it an act of gratitude, of magnanimity. Yes, that was the way to go about it. And without further thought—because to think would be to fail—Gaspar of the Remlaps pushed his way into the circle of retainers and sat down directly in front of Dmitri Rostov.

Immediately two burly men moved in from the side with obsidian knives drawn and would have cut his throat in seconds had Rostov not raised his hand and signaled for them to stop. Rostov looked down upon Gaspar, and Gaspar felt those eyes once again, the cold eyes that reminded him of nothing else than his mother’s tales of the carnadons, a creature he had never seen but that had filled his childish dreams with terror.

“What have you got there, Remlap man?” asked Dmitri Rostov. “And what are you doing still alive after I ran you into the Voidland?”

Gaspar clutched the map tightly and tried to stop his trembling. Still, a tremor rose that was clearly audible in his voice. “I came to apologize for our mistake,” he said. “I know that there is no way we could make up for our transgression, but I have brought a token of our esteem that I hope that you will take as a sign of our repentance and love for you, our leader. We beg to be Redlanders now.”

Moving while he still could make himself function, and fighting back the urge to piss his own legs, Gaspar pulled the top covering from the tube. The two bodyguards, for that is what they were, moved in on him once again, but he smiled and Rostov nodded for them to allow Gaspar to complete his motion.

He took the rolled papyrus map from the woven willow tube.

“Here is a most useful treasure, my sheik,” he said. “It is an intricate recording, a map drawn to perfect scale, of the lands which you rule and must pass through. There are things in here that you do not know, places hidden that we—I—have discovered that will help you guard against your enemies and aid your subjects.” Gaspar’s shaking increased, but he forced himself to go on, to say it: “And I have but one entreaty before I lay this wonder into your hands.”

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 lamplighting,” he said.

“Wastelander!” said Rostov, more loudly. “Answer me!”

Gaspar forced himself to tear his gaze away from the boy. “Great sheik,” he said. “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

“Was that
ever
a question?”