As they gained altitude on their northward journey, it began to snow lightly. The Nomad took the stallion and began exploring side trails. Before evening, he returned with news of some abandoned buildings less than an hour from the main road. So they turned off the papal highway and drove a few miles along a rough trail until they came to a rickety village. Several spotted children and a dog with two tails fled to their homes. Brownpony looked questions at Chür Høngan, who said, “There was nobody here when I was here a while ago.”
“They were hiding from an obvious Nomad,” the Red Deacon said, smiling.
But then a woman with one large blue eye and one small red eye came out of a hut to meet them with a pike and bared teeth. A hunchback with a musket limped rapidly after her. Blacktooth knew that the cardinal had a pistol well hidden in the upholstery, but he let it alone. He looked around at half a dozen sickly-looking people.
“Gennies!” gasped Father e’Laiden, who had just awakened from a snooze in the carriage. There was no contempt in his voice, but it was the wrong word to utter at the moment.
This was obviously a small colony of genetically handicapped, fugitives from the overpopulated Valley of the Misborn, which was now called the Watchitah Nation since its boundaries were fixed by treaty. There were pockets of such fugitives throughout the land, and they were usually at defensive war with all strangers. The hunchback lifted his musket and aimed first at Chür Høngan, who was driving, then at Blacktooth.
“Both of you get down. And the others inside, get out!” The woman’s voice dog-whined the Valley version of the Ol’zark dialect, confirming their origins. She was as dangerous as a whipped cur, Blacktooth sensed. He could smell the fear.
Everyone obeyed except the Axe, who was freshly missing. The executioner had been riding Brownpony’s horse only moments before. At the woman’s call, a blond young girl came and searched them for weapons. She was lovely and golden, with no apparent defects, and Blacktooth blushed as her soft hands patted his body. She noticed his blush, grinned in his face, pushed close, seized and squeezed his member, then darted away with his rosary. The woman angrily called her back, but the girl was gone long enough to have hidden his beads. Blacktooth was almost certain the girl was a spook, that is, a Valley-born genny who passes for normal.
He remembered stories he had heard of ogres, perverts, homicidal maniacs among the gennies. Some of the stories were filthy jokes, and most of them were told by bigots. But, having heard the stories, he could feel the shame from them, but not forget in the face of these menacing figures that one or another of the stories came true from time to time. Anything was possible.
Brownpony stirred at last, stepped down from the carriage, and with some majesty put on his red cap. He said to them, “We are Churchmen from Valana, my children. We have no weapons. We seek refuge from the weather, and we shall pay you well for shelter and a cooking fire.”
The old woman seemed not to hear him. “Get all their belongings, from inside and on top,” the woman told the girl in the same tone.
The cardinal turned to the girl. “You know who I am, and I know who you are,” he said to her. “I am Elia Brownpony of the Secretariat.”
She shook her head.
“You never met me, but you do know of me.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Move!” said the old woman.
The girl climbed inside and began throwing out clothing and other belongings, including Blacktooth’s chitara, then thrust out her head and asked, “Books?”
“Those too.”
Brownpony’s concealed pistol would be next, Blacktooth thought, as he wondered why Brownpony insisted that he was known to the girl. He was not self-important, not an egoist who expected to be recognized everywhere. For now the cardinal shrugged and stopped protesting. Apparently, the girl never found the pistol.
Suddenly a muffled cry came from the direction of the largest hut in the cluster. The deformed woman looked around. An old man with mottled skin and white hair appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood Wooshin with his forearm against the old man’s throat. The Axe could almost make himself invisible. Having circled the village and approached from the rear, he held up his short sword for their edification. Evidently this was the chief of the village, for the woman and the hunchback immediately dropped their weapons.
“You must not rob them, Linura,” the old man scolded. “It’s one thing to take their weapons, but—” He broke off as Wooshin shook him and brandished the sword.
The woman fell to her knees. The girl ran. She came back with a pitchfork, darted behind Brownpony, and pressed the tines against his back. “My father for your priest,” she yelled to the headsman.
“Put your knife away, Wooshin,” Brownpony called, and turned to face the girl. She jabbed him lightly in the stomach and bared her gritted teeth in warning.
“Are you not the Pope’s children?” asked the cardinal, using the ancient euphemism for the misborn. He turned about, his arms spread wide, facing each of them. “Would you harm the servants of Christ and your Pope?”
“For shame, Linura, for shame, Ædrea!” hooted the old man. “You will get us all killed or driven back to the Watchitah by acting this way.” Then to the girclass="underline" “Ædrea, put that away. Also take care of their horses, then fetch us some beer. Now!”
The older woman lowered her head. “I only meant to search their baggage for arms.”
“Put your knife away, ’Shin,” the cardinal said again.
“I want my rosary and my g’tara back,” said Blacktooth to the girl, who ignored him.
The old man advanced to kiss the Red Deacon’s ring, found none, and kissed his hand instead. “I am called Shard. That is our family’s name. You will be welcome to stay in my house until the snow stops. We have not much to eat just now, after the winter, but Ædrea can perhaps kill a deer.” He turned to the old woman with his arm raised as if to cuff her. She gave the musket to the girl and hurried away.
“We carry corn, beans, and monks’ cheese,” said Brownpony. “We’ll share with you. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, so we’ll need no meat. Two of us can sleep in the carriage. We have tarpaulins to protect it from the cold wind. We thank you, and pray the weather lets us leave soon.”
“Please forgive the rude welcome,” said the mottled man. “We are often visited by a small bands of Nomads, drunks or outlaws. Most of them are superstitious, and fear the flag.” He pointed to the yellow and green banner that flew from the gable of his home. It bore the papal keys, and a ring of seven hands. As a warning of papal protection, it had become the flag of the Watchitah Nation. “Even those who don’t fear it soon see we have nothing of value, except a girl, and leave us in peace, but my sister trusts no one. But three days ago, we were visited by Texark agents posing as priests. We knew they were sent to spy on us, so we have been very suspicious.”