It took Blacktooth a moment to realize that second master the man referred to was Cardinal Brownpony. “What makes you say he is at the edge of war?” he asked.
The man paused. Being cautious. “In a sense, we are always at war.” It was a generality to get rid of the subject.
Nimmy did not pursue it.
He had dreamed about the open grave at the abbey, and it was the first place they visited after exchanging greetings with the gatekeeper, because the gatekeeper pointed them toward it without breaking his silence. To Nimmy’s surprise, the open grave had been moved. The old one was recently filled, and a new wooden cross bore the name of the grave’s occupant:
HIC JACET JARADUS CARDINALIS KENDEMIN, ABBAS.
The date of death was two weeks old.
“Brother St. George,” a familiar voice called out to him.
He turned to see Prior Olshuen approaching. He was looking with astonishment at the Yellow Guard, which bristled with swords. The prior was in mourning. The whole monastery was in mourning. Blacktooth went to the chapel to pray sterile prayers for his mistakes, but it felt like self-indulgence. After a while, he went with mounting dread to seek a conference with the prior.
It was a truly massive hemorrhage. While offering Mass on a Wednesday morning, Abbot Jarad, having consecrated the bread and the wine, turned to his community in choir and began to say the “Ecce agnus dei” when he turned white, emitted a strangled yowl, and fell down the sanctuary steps with a great crash and a ringing of brass chalice and paten on the stone floor. “Body and blood all over the pavement,” said Brother Wren. The Cardinal Abbot of Saint Leibowitz died without regaining consciousness.
CHAPTER 15
And let the Abbot be sure that any lack of
profit the master of the house may find in
the sheep will be laid to the blame of the
shepherd.
BY THE TIME NEWS OF ABBOT JARAD’S DEATH reached Valana from the Texark telegraph terminal, the Holy See and most of the Curia had already departed in the direction of New Rome, while Cardinal Brownpony had taken the more northerly route to the sacred meeting place for the Weejus and Bear Spirit shamans. The message went first, of course, to the Sacred Congregation for Religious, whose presiding cardinal had gone with the Pope. His vicar promptly notified SEEC and the Secretariat of State. Cardinal Nauwhat at SEEC was one of the few cardinals who lingered in Valana, and he promptly sent messengers to chase after Brownpony and the Pope, but they had been gone for some days and would not be easy to find on trackless grasslands. Had Nauwhat sent the message with a Nomad skilled in distance signaling, it might have arrived before those to whom it was addressed, but Nauwhat had not inherited Brownpony’s Nomad connections with Brownpony’s office, and the messengers would have to wander for a time.
The 6th of September 3244 was a Tuesday. The moon was five days beyond first quarter, and arose well before sundown. The Wild-dog’s lookouts who watched from the boundaries of the settlement at the “Navel of the World,” the breeding pit of the Høngin Fujæ Vurn, saw at last a tiny plume of dust on the horizon. A lone rider waved his arms in a Nomad signal meaning “Church,” and repeated it until he knew he had been seen, and was therefore recognized as the expected guest from Valana. But alone?
Father Ombroz was astonished, for he had expected the cardinal to be accompanied by his young secretary and at least one familiar bodyguard. He immediately sent for Oxsho, his young acolyte and most recent student, a warrior who was remotely related to Chür Høngan, and who had served at the priest’s Masses for three years now.
“I can’t go to meet him, because of the funeral,” he told the young man. “I want you to stop him before he gets much closer, and warn him of the news. Treat him as you would treat a great uncle, with utmost respect. But you must tell him things he will not want to hear. Hurry, before he gets too close to camp. Try to stay on low ground, or behind a rise. Enemies will be watching. Remember to mention what is said of his mother, whether it is true or not.”
“Certainly, Father,” said Oxsho, and immediately rode out of the encampment. The youth was as surprised as his master to see that the new Vicar Apostolic had come alone, with a bedroll and a musket, wearing only a red skullcap—easily concealable—to distinguish himself from any other citizen trespassing on Nomad land. The young acolyte had too many things to say to give the cardinal an opening through an exchange of pleasantries. Still staring straight at Brownpony’s apostolic ring after kissing it, he began listing the items in the Wilddog news. He seemed ill at ease, and did not directly meet the cardinal’s curious gaze.
“Bearcub’s father died last night. The sharf is dead. The Mare here is a widow again. The funeral is tonight. It was a ritual death.” His glance flickered up to Brownpony’s face to make sure he understood the word “ritual” in this context. A slight wince from the cardinal revealed his comprehension. “But there was much argument among the Bear Spirit and the Weejus. The slaughtering festival would be on Friday, when the moon is full.”
“Would be? What does that mean?”
“They postponed it. It lasts several days, and it was about to begin. A postponement of so holy a celebration is without precedent, but it was inappropriate for the Great Uncle to be, uh, to die, while cattle are being slaughtered. And, uh, you know, the feast.”
“I see. Go on.”
“The funeral will be tonight. Much has happened, m’Lord. A representative from the Church in Texark is here: Monsignor Sanual. An observer from Benefez, but also a spokesman. He ordered Father Ombroz on behalf of the Archbishop to return to his order in New Rome ...”
Brownpony laughed. “I can imagine how the good father responded. Well, as his new Vicar Apostolic, I shall order him to stay. I am very sorry to know that Granduncle Brokenfoot is dead. Your teacher gave him the last sacrament, of course?”
Ombroz’s acolyte stared at him for a moment, as if not comprehending, and resumed his list. “The Lord Chür Høngan thinks he has located your mother. He said to tell you she is on her way to this place. He cannot be sure. For that and various other reasons, the desire of Kindly Light, the Grasshopper sharf, to see you spend the night in the devil-woman’s breeding pit is probably going to be frustrated. His arrogance does not sit well with the Weejus.”
“I may very well spend a night there anyway, whether Hultor Bråm wants it or not.”
The young Nomad seemed alarmed. “It is a terrible place, m’Lord. Many have died there.”
“Men do die, everywhere.”
“She slays anyone she rejects.”
“Are you not a Christian?”
“Yes, but she is not!”
“Perhaps I can convert her.”
Oxsho showed great consternation. “The Høngin Fujæ Vurn—”
Brownpony cut him off. “Of course I would not try. But how else would I prove my right to rule over your Churches? Monsignor Sanual may join me, if he pleases.”
The young Nomad giggled. “I think he would wet his cassock.”
“Tell me, what makes Holy Madness think my mother is alive?”
“I know only what Father Ombroz said—that the Sisters who raised you spoke only the Jackrabbit dialect, and wrongly translated her family name.”