Principatл Bronte Doneto could not travel with any vigor. There were days when he could not endure more than an hour on the road. Two weeks passed. The party covered no more ground than a normal band might have spanned in four days. Fortunately, no one seemed interested in interfering. And, Else noted, the Principatл's color and health improved steadily as he put distance between himself and Antieux.
Once back in Ormienden, at the Dencitл Monastery, the Principate decided to convalesce.
'Hey, Pipe. Want to hear some news?' Pinkus Ghort asked one morning.
'If it's the real thing. I'm not looking for any more of the same old thing.'
'Guess I can't help you, after all.'
'Groan. So rain on me.'
'Just Plain Joe came in from his lookout down by the bridge. He says people are headed this way. Eight or nine of them. He thinks one might be Bishop Serifs.'
'Well. Makes you wonder what kind of sense of humor God really has, doesn't it?'
'Makes me wonder if the Maysaleans maybe don't have it right when they say it was the Adversary who won the war in heaven.'
'Good thing our boss can't hear you. He'd have you burned.'
The Principatл had been making those kinds of noises lately. The Church was bleeding and Bronte Doneto was determined to cauterize its wounds.
Ghort was cynical about the whole thing. 'Doneto is posturing. He don't believe the shit he's putting out. It's excuse crap he tosses around so he can do cruel shit and claim he's got a good reason.'
Else observed, 'You're awfully critical of the guy who's paying you to protect him.'
'He ain't paying me to lie about him, only to keep his ass alive.'
Else shrugged. 'I don't think I'd have the moral flexibility to protect somebody like Serifs. Somebody wanted to cut his throat, I'd probably hand him a knife and hold his coat while he's working.'
Ghort got a laugh out of that.
Bishop Serifs went straight into the monastery. He was not seen again for days. Else noted that Osa Stile became invisible when the bishop did so.
Several days later a message arrived from Brothe. It included news that Grade Drocker had made his way successfully to the Castella dollas Pontellas in the capital city.
Which news caused Pinkus Ghort to declare, 'My heart is all aflutter. The world can go on. Old Ugly lives.'
'I was kind of thinking that way myself.'
More interesting news washed the thrill of the sorcerer's survival away. A substantial Arnhander force had rushed into the Connec. It was besieging Antieux. Else observed, 'That won't do the Patriarch's cause any good. Those people won't be simple twice.'
'Fine by me,' Ghort said. 'Let them sit there freezing their asses off and starving. They ought to put all Arnhanders through that. And double for that asshole, Adolf Black.'
'Every day I spend around you I find out about somebody else that you don't like.'
Ghort laughed. 'He's got me figured.'
Bo Biogna had just wandered in. 'What've I been missin'? What's so funny?'
'Life itself,' Else replied. 'Sit down and look at where you're at. Then remember where you hoped you'd be now, say, twelve years ago.'
Biogna shook his head. 'Pipe, I got a notion you're a good guy to have in charge when the shit comes down but the rest of the time you're too fuckin' serious.'
Ghort sneered. 'Now Bo's got you nailed.'
'Blame it on my upbringing.' Which was a truth that revealed nothing.
The time spent loafing around at the monastery, waiting for Principatл Doneto to heal up, passed into Else Tage's personal history as close to halcyon. Not once before in his life had he had a month where he had so little to do.
Then snippets of news about the Arnhander disaster in the Connec began to arrive. At first Else was sure the reports were exaggerated. But next day a courier arrived from Brothe. He brought orders from the Patriarch himself. The Collegium would convene to formulate the Church's response to the massacre. Not only had the Connecten heretics spit in the face of all good Chaldareans, they had raped away the lives of numerous members of the most important families of Arnhand.
Bronte Doneto assembled his band. 'We're not ready to travel. But travel we must. The Instrumentalities of the Night walk the earth unopposed. The Holy Father has summoned me. He plans to charge me with managing the Church's response once a course is decided.'
Odd choice of words, Else thought. The messenger said Sublime wanted Doneto back in Brothe because he needed the Principatл's voice and vote in the Collegium. The Collegium frustrated Sublime's ambitions too often, thwarting him just to remind him that even the Voice of God on Earth was subject to checks.
Else told Ghort, 'Doneto must have sensed something that wasn't in the literal text of the summons.'
'He saw what he wanted to see.'
Bo wanted to know, 'What happens after we get him home, Pipe? To us, I mean.'
'I don't know. I'm not sure I care. I'll be in Brothe, which was where I was headed when I ran into you guys originally.'
His path had taken several unexpected turns but he was not dissatisfied, overall. He had learned a great deal about the west. He had become a tick in its fur. And now he was headed toward the center of the web again.
'I like that,' Ghort said. 'I was headed for Brothe myself when I let me get distracted by a chance to get rich.”
Else said, 'Well, let's all go get rich in the heart of the old empire.'
Doneto began traveling the next day.By then more rumors had reached the monastery, painting the Arnhander defeat in darker, bloodier colors. There had been few survivors, even amongst the nobles and clergy, who usually bought their ways out of the consequences of military disasters.
This would rock the world. This would define the future. After this, surely, Sublime would abandon all overseas ambitions and focus completely on the Connec.
Bronte Doneto was in better health but could not travel with any speed. A week after leaving the Dencitл Monastery his party still had not departed Ormienden.
The travelers were nervous. Things of the night had been active throughout the hours of darkness, though with no obvious purpose. When they were restless, then so must be the creatures of the day.
Grumbling softly, Else walked with Just Plain Joe and Pig Iron. Bo Biogna tagged along behind. They made up the rear guard. With the mule being the most useful of the bunch.
Pinkus Ghort was out front, as vanguard and point, shouting back alarms about ghosts in the mist.
It was cold. Colder than Else had encountered, ever, in Dreanger. The wet weather did not help. It hid night things that were not false alarms.
Just Plain Joe teased Else about how he had gotten soft since he had come south.
Winters in the land whence Piper Hecht purportedly hailed were renown for their savagery. Each summer the ice did not retreat as far as it had the summer before.
Else did not keep up his end of the banter. He watched Bishop Serifs and Osa, examining the depth of his own devotion to his god and country. He could not imagine enduring what Osa had.
Else suspected that Serifs's awful behavior had come about because of Osa's bedroom manipulations.
The weather was miserable. A cold, fine mist kept falling. That wore a man down, made it hard to concentrate. The resentment and controlled hostility of the local populace did not help, nor did the constant presence of night things in the mist, even by day, just beyond the range of vision.
A psychotic depression brought to life, Else thought. This was what he had expected the west to be like all the time.
The mist crawled with shadows and whispers.
