“Yes, they’ll move on Lindron last, when they’re certain of it.”
“Which leaves the northern districts and us.”
“Agreed,” Abel said. “But I would add one thing. You said they are drawn by ire at our competence. I would say that they are very angry at one commander in particular: you. They want your head. It is the way the Redlanders think. From them, a single charismatic leader rises and fights his way, or tricks his way, into leading a band, a tribe. Sometimes he even grabs for himself a godlike status.”
“Utter heresy.”
“Yes, I know,” said Abel. “You know this, but they don’t know. They understand us as badly as we understand them. For them, there is no Law of Zentrum. No Thursday school lessons. Whatever poor excuse for being something other than meat and dust that they have-well, that must be the way the world is for everyone, they believe. Their gods are the gods. Those gods’ rules are the only way men can rightly behave. So they figure we have exactly the same motives, that we are exactly the same men as they. They figure that if they shoot the dont in the head, the rest of the beast will collapse.”
“And you’re saying I’m the head.”
“To them, you are the godhead on Treville District,” Abel replied. “I believe they are particularly targeting you, Father.”
Joab sat back, took a long sip of wine. “Great,” he said, shaking his head. “Do they not realize that any competent officer can do as I do, that one will do so if he is called to take my place?”
“I’m not so sure you’re right about that,” Abel said. “But they surely do not understand how we organize and build in redundancy. Or even what organization means in a farming society such as ours. They are herders. But they’re learning. You saw it. They were much better commanded at Lilleheim than we’ve ever seen them before.”
“Agreed.”
“They may be organized enough to move in two directions at once.”
“How do you mean?”
“A feint,” said Abel. “To draw you out. You in particular. To draw the Regulars into a dry plain, say, where they can use their donts and overrun the Regulars, destroy the Militia. They don’t want to attack us in the town, not really, because they lose all advantage, and we gain several, not the least of which is fighting on our own turf. They have no villages, much less towns, of course.”
“You may be right,” Joab said. He paused in the midst of his thought and then displayed the slightest smile. His voice grew more heated with what was evidently conviction-and a plan. “In fact, I think there’s a good chance that you are. But where and when? I want to do more than guess.”
Oh no, Abel thought, realizing, before he could formulate it exactly, what his father had in mind. He’s had an idea that he believes will solve two of his problems. Damn it, he may be right.
“We’ve been reacting since Lilleheim,” Joab said. “It’s time to start acting. But we need more information.”
“That’s what the Scouts are for,” Abel said weakly.
“You’re a Scout. I’m sending you.”
“But I’m on detached duty with the Regulars,” Abel replied. “By your orders, I might add.”
“Yes.” Joab nodded. “Exactly. I need Sharplett nearby, to deal with threats. No, you will go. Long reconnaissance. Take four squads, and a command group.”
“That’s half the Scouts.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough to get me dispositions on the Blaskoye,” Joab said. “Real information. You say they are getting organized, and I believe you. For years we couldn’t estimate strength or likelihood of attack because they were diffuse and haphazard in their ways. Organization leads to predictability.”
“How long, Commander?”
“I’ll give you two three-moons.”
Ninety-two days, Center said.
“Where?”
“Awul-alwaha, the Great Oasis, would be a good bet,” Joab said. “No one has seen it in our lifetimes.”
“I’ll need maps. A dont train. I’ll need to make maps.”
“Of course.”
“Weldletter.”
This took Joab back for a moment, and it was Abel’s turn to smile. Weldletter was Joab’s best cartographer. His father would hate to let the man go. But it made eminent sense, and Joab would know it.
“Bastard,” Joab muttered. “All right. Take him.”
“I’ll need a week to prepare.”
“You have three days,” Joab said. “Take the pre-positioned supplies at the Upper Cliffs.”
“Sharplett will boil over.”
“Let me deal with Sharplett,” said Joab. “And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Absolute secrecy,” he said. “I am convinced the Blaskoye have ears and eyes in Treville. No word is to get out, on pain of the lash and the stockade. Impress it on your men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joab leaned over the map, looked Abel in the eyes. “Especially no word to the women. This auxiliary. No one.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I’m sure you do,” Joab replied. “Now you’d better get to it.”
Abel tapped a shoulder in salute, then turned to depart. He controlled his expression, but could not keep the flush from his face. He was steaming, gritting his teeth and about to gouge his palms with his own fingertips. But just as he reached the door, Joab spoke again, softer now, not in the tones of a commander but in those of a father.
“A wager,” his father said. Abel stopped.
He didn’t turn back around to face Joab. “What?”
“My bet is that it will be gone like a fever when you return. She may come to her senses. You might. One of you probably will.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you may be returning from relative safety into great danger,” Joab said. “Those Jacobsons play for keeps.”
Abel nodded. He let himself breathe out.
His father continued in the same low, soft voice. “But so do I,” he said. “So do I.”
Observe:
One day Mahaut crossed the room by herself, went to stand by the window, parted the curtains, and felt the sun on her face.
She wanted to tell him, waited, even sent word. But then the note came back that he was away with the Scouts, that it was an extended expedition, and that it wasn’t known when he would return.
So she tried to forget him. But a strange thing happened. The dreams began to change. Oh, there was always the bullet within her, the splay of lead. But sometimes now it was not his, the Blaskoye’s, bastard child, but was her own and no one the father. And when this happened in the dreams, Abel was there. Standing somewhere nearby, quiet. Always with his own guns, that short-barreled musket and the flare-muzzled dragon blunderbuss pistol with the scrollwork and rotating flintlock. And she would ask him what he was doing, and he would answer “Waiting,” and she would ask him what he was waiting for, and he would say “For the baby,” and she would know he meant the bullet.
“Why?” she would ask.
“Because I need it,” he said.
“Why do you need it?” she would ask again.
And he would look not at her, but away, into the distance. And he would finally answer “I need it to shoot him with it. It’s the only bullet that will kill him. And I aim to kill him.”
And she would wake from those dreams with her heart beating wildly, and-
— she had to now admit, must admit-
Flush with desire.
He’d better not get himself killed out there, she thought, not yet.
Because I have to tell him I love him.