Saint Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman

CHAPTER 6

CHÜR HØNGAN WAS STILL ASLEEP WHEN Blacktooth started up, fully awakened by hoofbeats, which stopped near the carriage. Then he heard voices speaking softly in Grasshopper. They were talking about Shard’s cows in the pen next to the barn, until something excited them and there was another burst of hoof-beats, followed by the screams of Ædrea. The monk pulled at the edge of the tarp and peered outside. A few flakes of snow were still falling in the faint morning light. There were three horsemen, obviously Nomads. Two of them held the kicking girlsuspended by her arms between them. Shard began yelling protests from afar, and the hunchback ran out with his musket. Blacktooth turned to awaken Høngan, but he was already up and moving, putting on his wolfskins and the leather helmet with small horns and a metal ornament. He usually wore the hat only when mounted. Blacktooth thrust his hand deep into the upholstery and felt the Red Deacon’s handgun. The girl had missed it.

Chür Høngan climbed out the other door and came into their view from behind the coach, yelling at the renegades in the Wilddog of the High Plains.

“In the name of the Wilddog sharf and his mother, put her down! I command you, motherless ones! Dismount!”

Blacktooth raised the cardinal’s weapon, but his hand was shaking badly. The Nomad not involved with the girl lifted his musket, looked closely at Holy Madness, then dropped the weapon to the ground. The others eased the girl onto her feet, and she promptly ran away. The riders slowly dismounted, and the apparent leader fell to his knees before the advancing Høngan.

He spoke now in Høngan’s dialect. “O Little Bear’s kin, Sire of the Day Maiden, we meant her no harm. We saw those cows over there and thought they were ours. We were only teasing the girl.”

“Only a teasing little rape, perhaps? Apologize and leave here at once. You know those tame cows are not yours. You are motherless. You ride unbranded horses. I heard you speaking Grasshopper, so you don’t belong anywhere near here. Never bother these people; they are children of the Pope, with whom the free hordes have treaties.”

The visitors complied immediately and were gone. The incident had lasted not more than five minutes, but Blacktooth was astounded. He climbed out of the carriage. Chür Ösle Høngan leaned against the coach and gazed absently after them as they rode away toward the main trail through a sprinkle of snow.

“They’re Grasshopper outlaws, but they knew you! Who are you?” Blacktooth asked in awe.

The Nomad smiled at him. “You know my name.”

“What was that they called you?”

“‘Sire of the Day Maiden’? Have you never heard that before?”

“Of course. It’s what one calls one’s sharf.”

“Or even one’s own uncle, on some occasions.”

“But motherless ones recognized you? Last night I dreamed of a king of the Nomads.”

Høngan laughed. “I’m no king, Nimmy. Not yet. It’s not me they recognized. Just this.” He touched the metal ornament on the front of his helmet. “The clan of my mother.” He smiled at Blacktooth. “Nimmy, my name is ‘Holy Madness,’ of the Little Bear motherline. Pronounce it in Jackrabbit.”

“Cheer Honnyugan. But in Jackrabbit, it means Magic Madman.”

“Just the last name. What does it sound like?”

“Honnyugan? Hannegan?”

“Just so. We’re cousins,” archly said the Nomad. “Don’t tell anybody, and don’t ever pronounce it in Jackrabbit again.”

Cardinal Brownpony was approaching from the direction of Shard’s house, and Chür Høngan went to meet him with a report of the incident. Blacktooth wondered if the Nomad was entirely teasing him. He had heard claims of the dynasty’s ultimate Nomadic origin, but since Boedullus made no mention of it, that origin must have been in recent centuries. At least he knew now that Høngan was of a powerful motherline. His own family, displaced to the farms, had no insignia, and he had never studied the heraldry of the Plains. Something else that piqued his curiosity about the Nomad was his apparent close friendship with Father e’Laiden, who called him Bearcub. The priest had often ridden beside the Nomad when he was driving, and their talks were plainly personal but private. They had known each other well on the Plains. From fragments overheard, he decided that e’Laiden was formerly the Nomad’s teacher, but no longer dared to play that role unasked, lest a grown-up and somewhat wicked student laugh in his face.

Blacktooth went to look for his rosary and g’tara in the barn, which was half buried in the side of a hill. Ædrea was not visible, but he could hear the muffled sound of strings being plucked. The floor was swept stone, and a small stream of spring water ran in a channel from beneath a closed door in the rear and out to the cattle pen outside the wall. Above the door was a hayloft. He opened the door and found himself in a root cellar, with a number of nearly empty bins containing some withered turnips, a pumpkin, and a few sprouting potatoes: the remains of last year’s crops. And there were jars of preserved fruits—where could they have grown?—on the shelves. There were three barrels, some farm implements, and a pile of straw for layering vegetables. There was no one here. He turned to go, but Ædrea slipped down from the hayloft and confronted him as he started to leave. Nimmy looked at her and backed away. In spite of the weather, she was wearing nothing but a short leather skirt, a bright grin, and his rosary as a necklace.

He backed away. “Wh-where’s the g’tara?”

“In the loft. It’s more comfortable up there. You can snuggledown in the hay. Come on.”

“The air’s warmer in here than outside.”

“All right.” She came in and closed the door behind her, leaving them in pitch darkness.

“Haven’t you a lamp or candle?”

She laughed, and he felt her hands exploring him. “Can’t you see in the dark? I can.”

“No. Please. How can you?”

Her hands withdrew. “How can I what?”

“See in the dark.”

“I’m a genny, you know. Some of us can do that. It’s not really seeing, though. I just know where I am. But I can see the halo around you. You’re one of us.”

“Us who?”

“You’re a genny with a halo.”

“I’m not—” He broke off, hearing her rustling skirt in the darkness, then the scratch of flint on steel and a spark. After several sparks, she managed to kindle a bit of tinder and used it to light a tallow taper. Nimmy relaxed slightly. She took down two clay cups from a shelf and turned the spigot on one of the barrels.

“Let’s drink a glass of berry wine.”

“I’m not really thirsty.”

“It’s not for thirst, silly. It’s for getting drunk.”

“I’m not supposed to do that.”

She handed him the cup and sat down in the straw.

My g’tara—

“Oh, all right. Wait here. I’ll get it.”

He nervously gulped the wine while she was gone. It was strong, sweet, tasted of resin, and was immediately relaxing. She came back in with his g’tara, but held it away when he reached for it.

“You have to play it for me.”

He sighed. “All right. Just once. What shall I play?”

“‘Pour Me Another Before We Do It Brother.’”

Nimmy poured another cup of wine and handed it to her.

“That’s the name of the song, silly.”

“I don’t know it.”

“Well, play anything.” She flopped down in the straw. Her skirt came up. By candlelight he could see under it. She wasn’t wearing anything there. But something was unusual. He hadn’t seen a girl that way since he was a child, but it wasn’t the way he remembered. He looked at her, the g’tara, the cup of wine in his hand, and the candle. he gulped the wine, and poured another.

“Play a love song.”

He gulped again, set the cup aside, and began plucking the strings. He didn’t know any love songs, so he began singing the opening lines of Vergil’s fourth eclogue to music he had composed himself.

When he got to the words jam redit et Virgo, she made a little puff of wind with her lips and blew out the candle from six feet away. He stopped in fright.

“Pour another cup of wine and come here.”

Nimmy heard the liquid splashing into the cup, then realized he was doing it himself.

“You drink it,” she said.

“How do I get out of here?”

“Well, you have to find the keyhole. It’s not very big.”

He fumbled in the area of the door.

“It’s over here.”

He felt her tugging at his sleeve, gulped the wine before he spilled it, and sprawled beside her in the darkness. “Where’s the key?”

“Right here.” She grabbed what she had grabbed when first they met. He didn’t feel like resisting. They came together, but after a lot of fumbling, he said, “It won’t fit!”

“I know. The surgeon fixed me so it won’t, but it’s fun anyway, isn’t it?”

“Not much.”

She sobbed. “You don’t like me!”

“Yes I do, but it won’t fit.”

“That’s all right,” she sniffled, sliding lower in the straw. “Just come here.”

He had not been so surprised since Torrildo’s advances in the basement. Drunkenly, he feared at any moment Cardinal Brownpony would burst out of the broom closet and yell, “Aha! Caught you!” But nothing like that happened.

When he stumbled out of the barn with his virginity diminished, a smiling Ædrea (semper virgo) sat twirling his rosary, watched him from the hayloft until he crawled into the carriage and pulled down the tarp behind him. The term “against nature“ insinuated itself into his tipsy consciousness. He had never been so drunk.

“Damn that witch!” he whispered when he awoke, but recoiled from the words at once. I am my own witch! quickly replaced them. Help me, Saint Isaac Edward Leibowitz. My Patron, I looked forward to entering that barn—pray for me. I was glad she stole my things. It gave me the excuse I needed to pursue her in pretended anger. The things she stole, I should have given her. I know this now. Why couldn’t I have known it then? I wonder if I knew what I was doing with Torrildo too. I, or the devil in me. O Saint Leibowitz, intercede for me.

Blacktooth had fallen angrily in love. His sexuality had always been a mystery to him. He had wondered about his once deep affection for Torrildo, among others who once had been his friends at the abbey. His erotic dreams had more often involved enormous buttocks than enormous breasts, but now he was suddenly smitten by a girl there was no doubt at all in his mind that it was the most powerful love he had ever felt except his love for the heart of the Virgin, a blasphemous comparison, but true. Or was that lust too?

In spite of their tryst in the root cellar, during the days that followed Ædrea responded to his enamored gaze with a self-satisfied smirk and a shake of her pretty head. He knew what she meant. She, as a bearer of the curse, was forbidden to fornicate with anyone outside the Valley. The penalty was mutilation or death. She had taken an awful chance in seducing him. But what they had done in the barn was only passionate play, not against the basic folklaw. Against his fractured vows, surely. She knew that. At the end, she teased him about how easily she overcame his vows. He knew he was still bound by the vows, and straying once was no excuse for straying again. But without more surgery, Ædrea was physically incapable of normal coitus. Her father had it done to her when she was a child, probably afraid that someone like Cortus or Barlo would rape her. O Holy Mother, pity us.

No one had seen them in the barn, but the pulsation of sexuality that happened whenever the girl and the monk came together did not escape the cardinal’s attention. The Red Deacon caught him alone while Blacktooth was behind the coach lashing bundles in preparation for departure.

“It’s time we talk, Nimmy. Excuse me, Blacktooth. I hear Høngan calling you Nimmy, and it seems to fit. How do you want to be called?”

Blacktooth shrugged. “I’m leaving an old life behind. I might as well leave my name behind. I don’t mind.”

“All right, Brother Nimmy. Just don’t leave behind your promise of obedience. I remind you that Ædrea is a genny. Watch your step very closely here. I’ll tell you, Shard’s was not the first exodus here from the Valley. It’s been happening for years. This place is more than it seems, and Ædrea is more than she seems.”

“I had begun to suspect, m’Lord.”

“You are not to intentionally see her again. If you ever see her again in Valana, avoid her.” He commanded Blacktooth with his eyes.

“This has nothing to do with your vow of chastity, but let this help you keep it. They are hiding a large genny colony back there in the higher hills, but don’t let them know that you know. They’re frightened enough of us to be dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“And there’s something else, Nimmy. Chür Ösle Høngan is an important man among his people, as you found out from those outlaws, but you were not supposed to know, and it is not known in Valana. Now I have to ask for your silence. There is a need for secrecy. He is an envoy to me from the Plains, but you must not tell that to anyone. He is just a driver I hired.”

“I understand, m’Lord.”

“Father e’Laiden is another matter. I had no need to read your mind to see your curiosity about him. About him, you must also say nothing. He grew his beard for this trip, to avoid recognition. I picked him up forty miles south of Valana, and will let him off at the same place, which will make you even more curious. Not even my friend Dom Jarad knows who he is. I’ve told travelers he’s just a passenger to whom I gave a ride. You know I introduced him to Dom Jarad as my temporary secretary. No more of that. You will not mention him to anyone. If you meet him in Valana later without his beard, do not allow yourself to recognize him. His name is not e’Laiden, anyway. About these two men, you will be absolutely silent.”

“I have had much practice at being silent, m’Lord.”

“Yes, well, I took a big chance with you, Blacktooth. Nimmy. For now, your job is just to keep your mouth shut. I may find other uses for you in Valana.”

“That would please me, m’Lord. I have felt useless for years.”

Brownpony turned to look at him closely. “I am surprised to hear it. Your abbot told me you are quite religious, and seemed called to contemplation. Do you think that useless?”

“Not at all, but it’s my turn to be surprised the abbot said I was called to it. He was very angry with me.”

“Well, of course he was angry, partly at himself. Nimmy, he s sorry he made you do that silly Duren translation. He thought it would be useful.”

“I told him otherwise.”

“I know. He thought you were ducking hard work. Now he blames himself for your revolt. He’s agood man, and he’s really sorry the Order lost you. I know how humiliating it was for you at the end, but forgive him if you can.”

“I do, but he didn’t forgive me. I wasn’t even allowed to confess.”

“Not allowed by whom, Dom Jarad?”

“The prior said he would ask the abbot. I suppose he did.”

“Nobody shrived you, eh? Well, Father e’Laiden can confess you if you can’t wait until we get to Valana. I can imagine you need it by now.”

Blacktooth blushed, wondering if the remark implied a reference to Ædrea. Of course it did!

He approached the old whitebeard priest later that day, but the cleric shook his head. “His Eminence forgets something. I’m not even supposed to say Mass. You have seen me do it, but I don’t give the Eucharist, and I don’t do confessions. Saying a private Mass is my own sin if it is one — not involving others.”

A wild and sorrowful look came over the old man’s face, as if he were at war within himself. Blacktooth had seen the look before and shivered. Father e’Laiden was just a little crazy.

Strange traveling companions, he thought. A priest under interdict, a seaman-headsman-warrior, a wild but aristocratic Nomad, a disgraced monk, and a cardinal who was not more than a deacon. Brownpony, Blacktooth, and Høngan were all of Nomadic extraction, and e’Laiden obviously had lived among Nomads. Holy Madness, whose mother’s family was called Little Bear, and e’Laiden seemed old friends, and often talked of Nomad families known to both of them. Only the executioner was unrelated to the people of the Plains. Blacktooth was more puzzled than ever about the Red Deacon’s intentions. The cardinal, he had learned, was head of the Secretariat of Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Concerns, an obscure and minor office of the Curia which he had heard someone call “the bureau of trivial intrigues.”

After two days of light snow the skies cleared. There was bright sun and a breeze from the south. Three days later, the thaw was well under way. Chür Høngan was gone for half a day, then returned with an opinion that the highway was not impassable, although they might have to shovel slushy snow in a few places. Brownpony paid Shard a fair sum in coins from the papal mint, and the travelers took their leave of the village. Only the children, Shard, and Tempus watched them go. The monk’s eyes searched in vain for Ædrea. He was sure she was angry because of his mixed feelings and his avoidance of her. He wanted to let her know he blamed only himself, but there was no way.

She was gone for good.

They were still closer to Leibowitz Abbey than to Valana when they left Arch Hollow, but progress was faster as the road improved. Several days later, everyone’s breathing became labored as they approached the high passes. Something had happened to Earth’s atmosphere since the catastrophic demise of the Magna Civitas. One could only gaze upward at, not climb to, ruins of ancient buildings on mountainsides far above the present tree line. Once the air had been more breathable. And of course Earth herself had changed, sickened by the wars that long ago brought the end of a world. A new world was rising, but it could not grow as fast as the old. Rich pockets of resources had been plundered and dispersed. Now ancient cities were mined for iron. Petroleum was always going to be scarce. Hannegan had needed to plunder his people for copper. Living creatures had become extinct or changed. The wolves of the desert and plains were known to be different breeds, even by those Nomads who wore “wolfskins” but called their nation “the Wilddog Horde.” There was less forest and more grass in the world than before, but not even in the records of Leibowitz Abbey could one learn much about biology before the Flame Deluge and the great freeze that followed. The curse pronounced by God in Genesis had been renewed; Earth and Man were doubly fallen.

On the twentieth evening of their journey, Holy Madness saw Nunshån, the Night Hag. They made camp early, and Høngan had ridden ahead in the late afternoon to check the condition of the passes, and he came back ashen and babbling after sundown.

“I looked up, and there she was standing on a crag against the early stars. Ugly! I have never seen a woman so huge and ugly. There was a kind of black light around her, and I could see stars through it. The sun was behind a mountain, but the sky was still light. Then she cried out to me—a great sobbing sound, wild as a cougar.”

“Maybe it was a cougar,” said Brownpony. “This thin air can make you dizzy.”

“Cougar? No, no, a horse! She was there, and then she was a black horse and galloped away, into the very sky, it seemed!”

Brownpony was silent, busying himself with a plate of beans. Blacktooth studied Chür Høngan’s expression and found it excited but sincere. He had learned that the Nomad was at least nominally a Christian, but Nomad myths were not dispelled by baptism.

It was Father e’Laiden at last who spoke. “If you saw the Night Hag, who is dying?”

“The Pope is dying,” said the Red Deacon.

“Does the Nunshån appear for popes, m’Lord?” asked Blacktooth, almost amused.

“It could be my father dying,” the Nomad said quietly.

“God forbid,” said the cardinal. “Granduncle Brokenfoot must be elected Lord of the Three Hordes, and become the successor of the War Sharf Høngan Ös.” He looked quickly at Blacktooth. “This is something else you must forget you heard, Nimmy.”

“I shall obey, m’Lord.”

For Blacktooth, things were falling into place. There had been no Lord of the Three Hordes since the War Sharf Høngan Ös had led his people to defeat against Hannegan the Conqueror seven decades ago, and been sacrificed by his own shamans. The Jackrabbit Horde had been completely subdued, as well as a few tribes, including Blacktooth’s, of the Grasshopper Horde, and the descendants of these either lived within the Empire as small ranchers, or on the Denver Freestate farmlands. Without the participation of electors from the Jackrabbit Horde, the military and priestly office of the kingship could not be filled. The Hannegans had prevented this from happening. Blacktooth thought of his crazy dream in which he had been Pilate crucifying would-be kings of the Nomads. He believed in the meaningfulness of dreams; such was his Nomad heritage.

Now there were stirrings of rebellion from the conquered peoples, for whom the free Nomads had in Blacktooth’s childhood years displayed only contempt. Chür Ösle Høngan, then, was a relative of Høngan Ös, and his motherline was qualified for the high kingship. Brownpony was involved (meddling?) in Nomad politics, which was the same as Nomad religion, for only the shaman class could be electors. The thought came to him now that the cardinal, the elderly priest, and the Nomad with royal family connections in the Wilddog Horde might have stopped to confer with Jackrabbit shamans before they visited Leibowitz Abbey. Several half-overheard conversations during the journey supported the idea.

He was ordered to silence, and he meant to obey. But to regard it as a matter of no concern to him would be to turn his back on his late parents and their heritage. He was grateful for Chür Høngan’s kindness toward him. One day it might be possible to become proud of his heritage, if pride were not one of the deadly sins his faith warned him against. If the two northern Hordes, the Wilddog and the unvanquished tribes of the Grasshopper, stopped showing contempt for the conquered tribes, Jackrabbit and Grasshopper, he might be able to hold his head up in the world. But he knew the Jackrabbit Horde and his own exiled people must again assert themselves before that could happen. He knew he would be glad to help if he could.

Blacktooth saw her the following morning. She was a young girl, much like Ædrea but beyond Ædrea in beauty. Naked, she stood under a ledge washing herself and dancing in a little waterfall made of new-melted ice. A stone’s throw away, she looked once at Blacktooth, who stopped and stood frozen, his scalp crawling. Her eyes left him to follow Holy Madness, himself unseeing, who rode the cardinal’s stallion. They followed him until a big wad of loose wet snow fell over the ledge and made her dart back out of sight. Seconds later a delicate white mare galloped out from under the ledge and disappeared into a thicket of snow-dripping spruce. Blacktooth shook his head. The altitude made one quite dizzy.

Later, when the Nomad stopped and waited for all to catch up, Blacktooth walked past him and said, “I saw her this morning myself. As Fujæ Go, the Day Maiden.”

“Was she young?” Chür Høngan asked.

“Very young, and beautiful.”

“Whoever he was yesterday, today he’s dead,” said the warrior. “She wants a new husband.”

“She was looking at you. Or the cardinal’s horse.”

Høngan frowned, shook his head, and laughed. “The horse. They say she copulates with stallions when there is no Lord of the Hordes. It’s this thin air, Nimmy. Works on both of us.”

Blacktooth continued to walk while the carriage caught up with the waiting Nomad. There was a trade-off somewhere behind him, and the same horse came back with a different rider.

“Why don’t you ride beside the Axe?” asked the cardinal, for the first time referring to Wooshin by that name.

“Because I have a boil on my behind, Your Eminence, but also because I need to walk.” Blacktooth had smoked some of the strong medicinal stuff the Nomad had brought down from Nebraska, and he was feeling more loquacious and less self-conscious than was his wont. Also, he had lost his fear of Brownpony, and begun to like the man.

“What’s this I hear about you and the Wild Horse Woman, Nimmy? Do you change religions often?”

“I hope, m’Lord, that my religion of today is always just a little improved over my religion of yesterday, and a vision of a maiden in an icy waterfall does wonders for my religion of today, although tomorrow I might question the vision’s reality. But did I say she was the Høngin Fujæ Vurn?”

Brownpony laughed. “You feel, then, that reality and religion might or might not have something to do with each other at this altitude?”

“At this altitude, yes and no, m’Lord.”

“Keep me informed if she turns up again,” Brownpony said lightly, and trotted on ahead.

It was a time of visions. Blacktooth had heard of miracles in the mountains, magic on the plains, and chariots in the sky. The Virgin was appearing simultaneously to small groups of her elect in three different locations on the continent. Furthermore, what her apparition said in the west, her voice in the east put to a severe test. It was almost as if she was arguing with herself. This, perhaps, was the best proof of her divinity, for in divinity opposites are always reconciled. Nunshån and Fujæ Go, Night Hag and Day Maiden, aspects of the Høngin Fujæ Vurn. There was a third aspect; at appropriate times, she became the War Buzzard, presiding over the field of battle, the feeding ground.

It’s just the thin air, Blacktooth told himself. But why not a Wild Horse Woman? He had seen her on horseback when he was a child. He had seen her this morning under the waterfall, and she was the same young woman. The women of the Hordes own the breeding mares, and pass them to their daughters. Nomad women are wonderful breeders of horses. And no warrior rides a mare into battle. To ride a mare is to advertise one’s unreadiness to fight. So Cardinal Brownpony’s stallion is both a mount and a statement. Wild horses are forbidden, except to her betrothed, because they are hers. She is a natural projection of Nomad culture onto the Nomad consensual world, but to admit this is not to say she is wholly unreal. Christians make similar projections; so many apparitions of the Virgin! And she is an arbiter of power on the Plains; by choosing a husband, she chooses a king. It amused him to imagine her choosing a pope.

Blacktooth’s departure from the abbey had not gained him a freedom to think for himself—he had always had that. But now he didn’t have to feel guilty about it. His own religious practice was necessarily suffering because of the journey, and because of his sins, but he tried as often as he could to spend an hour silently reciting Saint Leibowitz’s Grocery List while he rode or lay awake at night: Can kraut, six bagels, bring home for Emma. Amen. Short and sweet, it kept the mind from wandering toward Ædrea. He greatly preferred it to the Maxwell’s Laws Memorabilium that had so confused Torrildo, and perhaps contributed to his delinquency.

But his anger at himself about Ædrea and his feelings kept seeking an outlet. When they camped that evening, the Axe as always asked, “You ready die now?” Blacktooth, without a negative comment, immediately kicked at the Axe’s crotch. The headsman dodged, but the blow glanced off his hip; he laughed with delight. “You very mean man tonight,” he said, and allowed Blacktooth to attack thrice more before he threw him on his face in the melting snow. It was the first time the student had ever touched the teacher, and Wooshin embraced him after helping him to his feet.

This time you ready die, yes?” That was the second night. They were gathering speed as they rode northward and downward. On the fourth night, a messenger with a lantern and a bodyguard trotting along behind delivered the news to Elia Cardinal Brownpony: the Pope was dead. He and the soldier stopped for refreshments with them, then continued southward with a summons for Abbot Jarad and other cardinals across the Brave River. More such messengers would be fanning out from Valana by all roads with the same summons for all cardinal bishops, cardinal priests, cardinal deacons, cardinal abbots and cardinal abbess (1), cardinal nephews and cronies across the continent, while the city of Valana prepared for another conclave.

That night the cardinal huddled in conference with the Nomad and the chaplain, while Blacktooth and the Axe sparred farther away from the fires. On the morrow, they availed themselves of the public baths in Pobla, the first real town they had visited. Father e’Laiden shaved his beard and was seen no more with the rest of them, although Blacktooth caught sight of him later in the company of a fair-haired man in Nomad clothing and with Nomad weapons but with manners that did not come from the Plains. Out of Pobla, Holy Madness rode eastward toward the Plains. Hence too, half an hour later, his Chaplain e’Laiden followed him, accompanied by the blond, urbane young warrior.

Brownpony hired a local driver and proceeded toward Valana with his new servants, a regular headsman and an irregular monk.

Blacktooth had been nursing an unasked question for a long time. Guilt from his encounter with Ædrea made him hesitate, but now he asked it. “M’Lord, back at Arch Hollow, when they were about to rob us, why did you expect the girl to recognize you?”

Brownpony frowned for a moment, then answered easily: “Oh, my office has had some dealings with a group of armed gennies in that general area. I assumed they were a member of the group. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Blacktooth remained curious. Wooshin and Høngan had done quite a bit of exploring in the area, but had spoken only to the cardinal about what they found. He resolved to question Brother Axe.

By early afternoon, they were passing along muddy lanes full of dogs and children through brick and stone villages with log roofs with chimneys belching smoke. There was the sound of the smithy’s forge and women’s voices haggling with vendors over the price of potatoes and goat meat. These villages were now precincts of Valana, surrounding it, having grown up during the schism and the exile, brought by and bringing new commerce and industry to the foot of the mountains whose peaks Blacktooth had seen from the distance in his youth.

But they were too close now to see the peaks, and there was only the hulking presence of the massif to the west. It was all new and dirty, and bewildering to the monk who, although he had spent the first fifteen years of his life within a few days’ ride of this place, had never been inside a city. And the city began to loom up around them as the cardinal’s coach moved deeper into the more heavily populated area, where most of the buildings were, like the abbey, two and even three stories high. And all of it was dominated by the central fortified hill, looming ahead, the hill whose walls enclosed the Holy See, and from which rose the spires of the Cathedral of Saint John-in-Exile, where the vicar of Christ on Earth offered Mass to the Father. Blacktooth was in a daze and barely heard the cardinal, who turned to address him.

“Pardon, m’Lord?”

“Did you know that the plaza in front of Saint John’s is paved with cobblestones brought here all the way across the Plains from New Rome?”

“I had been told, m’Lord, that the area around the Cathedral is New Roman territory. But all of the stones?”

“Well, not all, but Saint John-in-Exile stands on New Roman soil. Imported. That’s why the natives here contend there is no need to go back. In fact, they remind everyone that New Rome itself was built on imported soil.”

“From across the sea?”

“So the story goes.”

“The Venerable Boedullus thought otherwise.”

“Yes, I know. The theory of a schism at the time of the catastrophe. Who knows? How did it happen that Latin came back into use after it was abandoned?”

“That, m’Lord, was during the Simplification, according to Boedullus. The book burners did not destroy religious works. One way of saving precious material from the simpletons was to translate it into Latin and decorate it like a Bible, even if it was a textbook. It was also useful as a secret language….”

“Now, that building ahead of us is the Secretariat,” the cardinal interrupted. “That is where you and perhaps Wooshin will work from time to time. But first, we must find quarters for both of you.”

He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. Moments later, they turned off the stone-paved thoroughfare and onto another muddy side street overarched by branches that were beginning to bud. It was not long until Holy Week, and time to begin choosing a pope.