The morning was cold, and a low mist had risen from the River Maltan. The crown of the Sacred Banyan, its trunk erased by the white fog, seemed to hover in the air. Tirseng woke and left the tent, standing momentarily to take in the silence, the tents dripping moisture, the low murmur of the river. One Sherpa, left on guard, lay wrapped in a blanket by the firepit, the bright colors of the blanket muted by the pervading whiteness. Tirseng squatted by the fire and swept dead ash away to find several glowing coals. He nurtured these with bits of bark and twig, and a small blaze started up. "Time for breakfast?" said a voice from within the mist. He glanced up as Ambrose Bierce slowly emerged to stand by the fire. "Did you find him?" Tirseng placed a kettle of water on the coals and said "yes. He is alive." Bierce sat down by the sleeping sherpa and said "it seems you folks had a little party last night." Tirseng grinned, unsnapping the ornate wooden box that held the tea. "You should have come, Ambrose," he said. Bierce nudged a small branch into the flames. "I detest fun and frolic. I can kill a conversation with a single word. From a social standpoint, I'm quite deadly," said Bierce. Tirseng laughed, causing the sleeping sherpa to stir in his sleep."Is that why you live outside the Valley?" said Tirseng. Bierce stretched, loud pops emitting from his back."On target, my friend. I can't stand humans when assembled in numbers beyond, say, twelve. No, I generally prefer my own company. Especially these days, with the Grand Poobah on the throne."

"You do not approve of Monotek?"

"Well, I suppose he's a typical enough dictator. He's a thief, a murderer