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second-in-command
of the Crucifist Church. While the Grand Pontiflex has the final
say on any matter concerning the church, there are a lot of
official decisions that he doesn’t have time to make, and these are
made by the Pontiflex Minor.

    A Pontiflex Minor is chosen by the Grand
Pontiflex upon his ascension to office.

    After sprinting down the side-tunnel of a
side-tunnel, Novanostrum and Zanther have managed to barricade
themselves inside a provisioning room used long ago by the miners
who dug the steamtunnel.

    Novanostrum grabs a dusty mug from a metal
shelf, wipes it with his sleeve, and holds it under a nozzle
sticking out of one of the barrels. He twists the knob and a
frothy, amber liquid falls into his mug. He sniffs it, puts it to
his lips, and takes a draught.

    “It’s beer, and…it’s good .”

    A second later, Zanther’s filling his own
mug. “Oh man, it is good,” he says, trying to gauge how much
beer is left in the barrel and in the other barrels, “we should
probably hang out here for a while until those lizard people forget
about us.”

    Madra and D’kassar are sitting at a table
inside the old man’s hut, drinking hot cocoa.

    “And that’s when my wife walked in! Heh, rest
her soul,” the old man says, eliciting laughter from his
guests.

    “Ha! And did you explain to her that the
woman was just a witch responding to your ad in the Kleighton
Gadabout? ”

    “I was too embarrassed to tell her I took
that ad out in the first place. I had a big mole on my bum, and
rather than going to the apothecary and paying some physic to cut
it off, I thought I’d be clever-”

    “And sell it to a witch!” D’Kassar
interjected.

    “It’d be funny if my wife didn’t start
punching the witch and get herself turned into a groundpig.”

    “But you got her changed back, right?” Madra
asked.

    “No way to turn her back. Had that
groundpig for ten years, was a damn shame when it came time to eat
it.”

    “No way!” D’kassar shouted.

    “Yep, fed the thing to her family for Beaster
Feast. You see, I’d already told everyone long before that she’d
run off with a philosopher, but her parents still came to visit
once a year. Well, one year, when they showed up, I realized I’d
forgot to go the market, so…”

    Zanther and Novanostrum are each five beers
deep into a hazy midafternoon drunk.

    “Hey Nove, I gotta ask you, if you’re some
big-shot wizard, why are you running around the countryside like
some bum. Shouldn’t you be flying on skyships and flanked by
servants?”

    “I had some problems at the Academy. Compared
to the Universitorium, their courses are a little
more…rigorous.”

    “Oh? Go on.”

    “Well, kids, it’s time for this old man to go
to bed. Like I said, in the morning we’ll walk on over to the
village and I’ll show you where Slotterhaus, the mayor, lives. I’m
sure he’ll be able to help you find your friends; it’s his job to
know what’s going on in Zweissergrund.”

    Feeling dehydrated and cranky, Zanther and
Novanostrum stagger cautiously out of the cave. Encouraged by the
lack of lizard people, they manage to make their way back to the
main tracks.

    As they walk along the metal rails, they
notice a sound, a melodic sound, like a lullaby being plucked on
strings.

    “Brace yourself,” Novanostrum says.

    Varello appears, flanked by dozens of
serpentites. He plays a suspended second, and the lizard people
charge the two of them. Novanostrum swings his staff at them,
managing to clock one on the head, while Zanther cuts one through
its midsection and clangs his steel against the blade of yet
another.

    “Don’t fight them , Zanther.”

    Zanther has an epiphany and stops hacking
apart the lizards, instead charging towards Varello and bringing
his blade down through the lute, reducing it to a pile of strings
and splinters.

    The lizards blink their huge eyes, conscious
of having been played as puppets against their will. They turn