Four Roads Cross (Craft Sequence #5)(74)
She removed her jacket and clipped off stray tags with her work knife. “They’ll be happy to have their bed back. Why shops put so many pins in button-front shirts I’ll never know.” She drew one from her collar, the third she’d missed in her hurry to dress. “Blood for the cotton gods?”
“It’s so you can wear them fresh without ironing. You’ll see it most often with golem-loom shirts, though a few tailors use them, too.”
She donned the jacket and flexed her arms to test its fit. The fabric was the color of churned cream, and lush to the touch. “Fashion’s an odd interest for someone who wears clothes once every never.”
He crossed his legs. “I was made to be a scout, a spy.” His voice sounded strange denuded of its rumbling bass undertones and the susurrus of gravel.
“I remember.” Another pin in her side. That one at least had to be part of some weird ritual, or else a joke. Not that there was much difference between the two, in her experience.
“Infiltration is more than speed, and stealth is more than shadows. This flesh mask helps me walk through a city unnoticed, but skin is only part of the problem. People notice clothes that don’t fit. Before the God Wars it wasn’t hard. Clothes changed slowly. I once knew the traditional attire of all walks of life from the old Quechal kingdoms, from Iskar and Telomere and the Ebon Sea and Schwarzwald, Dhisthra and the Gleblands, Zur and Tr?lheim and the Shining Empire. I could pass for Telomeri street scum, a Zurish horse-lord, a midrank Imperial scholar with a gambling dependency. My knowledge staled slowly, since few were so pampered as to change their attire for a season’s fashion. After the God Wars, though”—he shook his head in wonder and confusion—“golem mills and Craftwork-enhanced manufacture made clothes cheap, and as gods’ holds relaxed, fashion churn spread from fops to the normal world. Though recent Iskari scholarship has challenged that narrative.” He shrugged, which gesture too seemed strange in his human guise—less threatening without wings.
“You read fashion magazines to be a better spy.”
“In Dresediel Lex four years ago, young men wore spats to nightclubs. Spats. Three decades back, young New World urbanites developed an affection for flare-hemmed trousers and suits the color of stained wood. Imagine trying to enter an office wearing such dress today. I would be memorable, and memorable is bad for a spy. And, having made a study of the discipline, it’s fascinating to see the ways you people—mean humans—repeat old themes, coding religious iconography into fabric. Last year a hemstitch developed in the gowns of priestesses of the Vasquan man-gods made a forceful appearance at the Tehan Fashion Show.”
“It’s a good suit,” she said, removing what she hoped was a final pin, and with some reluctance added, “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
A larger part of her than she was comfortable with wanted to take him at his word. She had enough soulstuff saved at First of Alt Coulumb to cover rent and loans, but doubted her tiny surplus could absorb a shopping trip by a fashion-bug gargoyle. Still—“I can buy my own clothes.”
“Yesterday you fought for our Lady and were hurt in her defense. So were my brothers and sisters. Scree will take a long sleep in stone before she wakes, and Aev bears new scars. We are built for war. We were made to endure such wounds. You’re human.”
“Only a bit,” she said. “I’m glad to hear the rest are safe.” And: “I’m sorry I didn’t ask about them before. I woke up and ran to the rescue. I didn’t think. Would you like to go to them?”
“They need rest. In flesh, I can ignore my injuries. If helping you aids my Lady, I will help.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I remain strong enough to hurt you.”
The cab halted before the temple doors. “Good enough,” she said. “Come on. Let’s bust some heads.”
37
Abelard sweated before the Grand Tribunal.
“Let the record further state that in conference with God last night,” said Cardinal Evangelist Bede as he paced the flame mosaic floor between the benches upon which other prelates sat, their faces lined and drawn and, where male, bearded, “as part of your vigil you did beseech Him to let Seril and her children stand alone.” What exactly, Abelard wondered on the Bench of Question as he took a nervous drag on his cigarette and held the smoke inside for a rosary bead’s pause—what exactly did all these Cardinals do when not called to intimidate Technicians? He could name most of the elders in attendance, but he’d worked with less than half. Sister Justiciar’s seat was empty, since this was technically an informal hearing. For an informal hearing, though, Bede had summoned a lot of people, most of them angry. At least Sister Miriel looked sympathetic. He exhaled. “At which point, you say, Our Lord Kos drew your attention to an attack on Seril and her children, and asked you if he should intervene.”
An inch of ash quivered at the tip of Abelard’s cigarette. He tapped it into one of the two braziers that flanked him. Their heat made him sweat, and incense fumes clogged his skull. The Lord’s Flame purifies half-truth and illuminates falsehood, ran certain texts which were at best embarrassing to the modern faith, relics of violent younger days. He wished he’d worn lighter robes. “Yes, Your Grace.” He should have lied. God would understand his reluctance to oppose Cardinal Bede, his need to preserve the church in time of trial. But when the Cardinal Evangelist had run into the sanctum last night, anguished, furious, Abelard told the truth.