Namkhai turned and spotted Gansukh emerging from the forest. ?gedei’s young pony raised a hand in greeting when he saw Namkhai looking at him, and he angled his horse toward the two men. “Hai, Namkhai,” he said.
“Hai, Gansukh,” Namkhai said. “You fell behind.” He looked around and spotted the short shaman and his equally tiny pony. “Even the old wizard got here before you.”
“I saw a squirrel,” Gansukh offered as an explanation.
Namkhai stared at the young rider, considering what he saw. Gansukh sat stiffly in his saddle, and his clothing was rumpled and ill fitting. The left side of his face was turned away, a posture that seemed forced and awkward—as if he were hiding something from Namkhai’s view. Though he seemed both dazed and exhausted, his face was at ease, with a tiny satisfied smile. There was a blotch on his neck, a dark stain that hadn’t been completely wiped away.
“It was a very big squirrel,” he said in response to Namkhai’s quizzical eyebrow.
Namkhai nodded thoughtfully as he let his gaze roam over Gansukh’s mount. It was a darker color than he remembered, and both the saddle and the cloak bound to the cantle were much finer and less travel-stained than he would expect of a horse rider like Gansukh. “I do not like squirrels,” he said finally.
Alchiq chuckled, and then spat a chewed bit of meat on the ground. “Who does?” he said innocently. “Nasty rodents. That one will not be missed.”
Namkhai laughed. “No,” he said. “Not in the slightest.” He bowed his head to Gansukh once more. “That is a beautiful horse,” he said. “I suspect such an animal would cost... fifty cows or so. A suitable payment for outstanding debts, don’t you think?”
Gansukh patted the horse’s neck. “Suitable enough,” he said. “I am satisfied.”
“As am I,” Namkhai said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Et Factum Est Ita
And thus it was done.
When the votes were tallied, the Cardinals were in agreement. Castiglione would be their new Pope, and the very result Fieschi had been fighting against the last few days had, ironically, become the solution to his troubles. Castiglione would not be Pope long enough to unduly influence the Church.
It was not an optimal solution, but it was one that would allow him time to lay a more solid foundation for the next election. When they could dispense with the nonsense of worrying about whether the Holy Roman Emperor could influence the election in any way.
There was still the minor annoyance of what to do about Father Rodrigo should he resurface, but, as Capocci had pointed out, in several days it would no longer matter. All of the Cardinals looked eager to put the grievous error of their first vote behind them. Da Capua, in fact, had such a permanent crease in his forehead that Fieschi suspected that he would, within the year, retire to a monastery and live out his days, staring at the walls and plucking his lyre.
De Segni and Capocci took responsibility for informing the few priests, bishops, and lay servants necessary to ensure cooperation in the Papal mummery, as Capocci called it.
Fieschi went outside, squinting in the midday glare, and began to cross the broad central meadow of the Vatican compound toward the Castel Sant’Angelo. The board was decent there, compared to the miserly rations served from the makeshift kitchens outside Saint Peter’s.
He was nearly to the castle when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned quickly, to see a young messenger approaching at a run. “Cardinal Fieschi!” the young man cried as he arrived. “I was told you are Cardinal Fieschi?”
“I am,” he said, with a frown of caution.
“I have a message for you from His Majesty, Emperor Frederick,” the young man said, bowing while gasping for breath. “I am to wait for your response before returning.”
He handed Fieschi a small piece of parchment that had been folded into thirds and sealed with the imperial eagle. Intrigued, Fieschi broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read.
The note was short and to the point, written in Frederick’s own scrawl. Do come for a visit soon, dear Sinibaldo. There is a delicate matter that I wish to discuss.
The missing priest, he thought, interpreting Frederick’s message. He didn’t get very far. He should have suspected that a madman wandering around the countryside would have been found by the Emperor’s men. He glanced up at the dome of the basilica. Did it matter that the Emperor had the missing priest? he wondered, and then he smiled as an idea occurred to him. If the priest was mad, and he could convince the Emperor that this madness was part of a larger conspiracy, then perhaps he could redirect Frederick’s attention elsewhere.
The heavy wooden door was thrown open so forcefully it bounced from its hinges and almost ricocheted back at Cardinal Fieschi.
“I know where he is,” he gloated.
“Who?” Léna asked as if she didn’t know who the Cardinal was talking about.
“Your young friend will be with him,” Fieschi said, ignoring Léna’s question. He pointed at Ocyrhoe. “You will be coming with me,” he said.