“I think he tried to stab me, Axe.”
“You do?” Axe snickered. “Well! The cardinal warned me about Ulad, and he is very unhappy with him as Ædrea’s replacement. The man has a habit of going berserk once in a while. He’s only temporary, in my opinion; the New Jerusalemites were so infuriated by our master’s rejection of Ædrea as persona non grata that they made Ulad her replacement. They can be arrogant.”
“Why isn’t he caged up?”
“Well, one, because the cardinal wants him to meet this Nomad he’s bringing home, and two, because he’s apparently a warrior of power and a high officer of a small army that’s supposed to be on our side.”
“Our side against whom, for the love of God? Do your one and your two make a three? Which is our side?”
“Why, our master’s side!” Wooshin snapped, glaring at him. “Your loyalty is a question in my mind, Brother St. George. Do not think I would not cut your throat if you ever betray him!”
“Whoa, please! It’s me, Blacktooth. I was just trying to understand his thinking.”
“That is not your place.”
“Are you the one to tell me my place and keep me in it, Axe? This is new.”
“I can’t tell you your place, but don’t let me catch you out of it.”
This is new —yes, and real. It was the first time he had felt real menace from the old warrior. Brownpony must be more angry than he realized. His fear of Wooshin at the abbey was founded on nervous imagination. But lately he had learned that Wooshin lived only to carry out his master’s wishes and protect his person and his welfare; this was the warrior’s highest good. Blacktooth, of a different persuasion in matters of loyalty, had disobeyed his master. Wooshin knew it, at least in a vague way, because the monk had been gone so long. Things were not the same between them, although Axe had just saved him from Ulad’s dagger. Ædrea had changed everything about his life. Just as Ulad came back with a bandaged forearm, a coach pulled by four beautiful gray stallions appeared from the east and stopped in front of the Venison House. The standard-bearer of the totemic Grasshopper triumph pole rode up, dismounted, and stood at attention with his standard in front of the restaurant.
“Forth come the banners of the king of hell,” Blacktooth said sourly, quoting an ancient poet.
Nimmy later learned that when Brownpony met Hultor Bråm, the latter was riding in his royal coach, probably of Eastern manufacture and stolen during a raid into the Eastern timberland, and he was accompanied by sixteen well-armed horsemen, while the Prince of the Church himself had left behind even his formidable bodyguard and brought along only a meek-looking Valana policeman. Bråm seemed embarrassed when he saw that the lone Churchman was his host, and promptly sent all but two of his warriors home. Thus Brownpony rode back alone in the coach with a surprised but not yet friendly sharf. As the party dismounted, Ulad the giant strode toward the coach and presented himself to the cardinal, who frowned at him, spoke a few words, and waved him away.
“He will call you first,” the giant said to Blacktooth, and to Axe, “You shall guard the entrance.”
Ulad was plainly upset. “They should put all Nomads in jail when they come to town.”
“Then how could they do any business?”
“Their only business is to steal!”
“I see. With you, it’s a hobby, with them a business.”
Ulad growled, and Wooshin nudged the monk again.
Next to the driver sat a Nomad with a long rifle and a mean mouth. Two mounted warriors rode guard. A policeman and a Nomad got out of the coach and then helped the prelate and another Nomad get out. The second Nomad was fancier than the first. Ulad was plainly disappointed to see that the Nomads were not in custody. Three Nomads and the policeman stayed with the carriage while the fancy Nomad and the prelate went inside to eat.
The coach was dirty from crossing the Plains but was of costly design and workmanship. The horses, while obviously tired, were elegant and well-bred animals that could be sold for at least a thousand pios as a team. The door of the coach was enameled blue and gold, with a touch of red on the crest that showed through the dust on the door. Someone was talking about the crest. They stood among a small group of people who, upon passing by or coming out of the inn, saw the Nomads and the police and the well-fitted coach with its spirited team, and lingered, becoming a crowd. Blacktooth kept a wary eye on Ulad.
“I tell you it can’t be the Secretary’s,” the grocer from next door was saying. “Those aren’t his arms, nor any Churchman’s.” “What about the motto?” said a woman beside him. “It’s Latin, isn’t it?” When the grocer shrugged, she turned to a friar who had come out of the inn and was staring at the coach. “Isn’t it Latin, Father?”
“As a matter of fact, it isn’t”
“It can’t be Nomadic!” she said.
“No, it’s a Church language, all right. It’s English.”
“What does it say?”
“I’ve been out of school for twenty years,” said the cleric. He turned to go, but paused to add, “It says something about fire, though. And that’s Cardinal Brownpony inside, so you’d better leave.”
“You leave, Father! I live here.”
“Maybe the Pope’s starting his own fire department,” said a student from Saint Ston’s who turned out to be Aberlott.
Blacktooth himself put them straight. “The motto says: ‘I set fires.’ It’s the heraldry of a Grasshopper war sharf.
“See you later,” he said to his ex-roommate, left the group, and went to stand near the window.
Inside the tavern, the cardinal shared a meal with the Nomad officials. The fare was chicken cooked with herbs served with a local beer. The hungry plainsmen were polite enough not to scorn the lack of beef, but they did scrape away every trace of greenery from the meat. Bråm was continuing a monologue he had begun on the road, but the cardinal saw his secretary at the window and beckoned him inside. Blacktooth entered and found his master being theologically harassed by an offensive sharf in the crudest of terms.
“The father of the mother of God is also her son and her lover,” the Nomad was saying. He squinted toward the window and pretended not to be watching the cardinal. “That’s the way our Weejus explain it.”
The cardinal took another bite of chicken and chewed vigorously while he looked at Bråm.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“No,” Brownpony lied. “Say it again.” His Grasshopper dialect was adequate but he occasionally looked at Blacktooth for support.
“The father of the mother of God is also her son and her lover. This is the way the Grasshopper Bear Spirit sees it as well.”
“Just so.” Brownpony dipped the chicken leg in the sauce and took another bite. Hultor Bråm was trying to antagonize him in the most obvious possible way.
The sharf straightened and frowned. “‘Just so’! You agree?”
“‘Just so’ means I heard what you said, Sharf. I’m a lawyer, not a theologian. Have a piece of chicken.”
“He invites you to have a piece of chicken,” said the monk, sensing a Wilddog usage.
“If you’re a lawyer, then why don’t you have me arrested?”
“Because I’m not a theologian’s lawyer, and if I had you arrested, you would be of no use to anybody.” He looked at Blacktooth, who nodded. Only occasionally did he need to clarify what was being said.
“You’re the Pope’s lawyer.”