Four Roads Cross (Craft Sequence #5)(76)

Tara cut through the crowd (not literally—these were her clients, after all) to Abelard. He still stood and stood still, cigarette in hand, head pendant on his long thin neck. “You saved my life,” she said.

“I’m sorry I made things harder for you.”

“Thank you.”

She held his gaze though hindbrain reflexes demanded she look away. Much swam in there she couldn’t read, but she found no blame.

Abelard smiled. “I should be thanking you. I don’t often have a chance to save the day.”

“That was a hell and a half of a speech.”

“I didn’t mean to go on so long.” He stuffed his free hand deep in the pocket of his robe. “I thought a lot of things when I saw you in danger. Not all of it fits into words. I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say safe,” she said, “but I’m alive, so thanks.”

She did look away, then. Shale stood behind her, accompanied by a nervous-looking junior monk. “Ms. Abernathy?” The monk bore a white business card in both hands, as if it were very heavy. “You have a visitor. As do the Cardinals.” Other monks sought red-robed senior priests and priestesses in the crowd.

Tara didn’t read the card. She knew the name printed there. Ramp. “Duty calls.”

Abelard glanced at his fellow clergy. “I’ll be fine.”

He winced when she squeezed his shoulder. “Catch you later. Stay strong.”

She left, and the tide of monks closed in.





38

The Evangelists, thank any and all gods, had coffee: grim, nasty stuff, notes of hydrofluoric acid, undertones of charcoal, ground glass mouthfeel, aftertaste of squid. The sheen across the top reminded Tara of oil slicks she’d seen. But at least it was coffee, by someone’s definition. “I don’t understand,” Shale said. “Why do you drink the stuff if so much of it is foul?”

“Addiction,” she replied, “or hope. Inclusive or.”

“Some people add milk.”

“If I wanted milk, I’d drink milk.”

Through the meeting room’s glass window Tara saw Ramp chatting with the Cardinals—Bede at the head of the table, fingers laced over his broad belly. Tara tensed. As Cardinal Evangelist, Bede’s word on how to deal with Ramp was final. Had he understood Abelard? Or had he left the tribunal angry?

Daphne waited, one arm propped on a cubicle wall, examining crayon drawings tacked to the gray felt. She wore a fresh suit, but her skin looked slept-in.

“Morning, Daphne. Long night?”

She nodded cloudily. “A bit. Your assistant?” Raising her travel mug to Shale.

“Basically.” She felt him bristle, but didn’t care.

“Glad you made it. I dropped by your office earlier, but the doorman said you were already at the sanctum. This won’t take long.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Daphne’s forefinger brushed a drawing of a house that looked the way houses looked in Edgemont, correcting for a five-year-old’s tenuous grasp of architecture and perspective: peaked roof, two stories, front door, square window. “Priests have children?”

“Contractor.”

“Wonder if the kid has ever seen a house that looks like that.”

“Did you even ask Ramp to reconsider?”

“She’s the boss. Our clients have millions of souls invested in your God. This isn’t a game where you let your kid sister win because she’ll feel bad about losing.”

“Six million people live here.” She did not raise her voice, she thought.

“And billions live on this planet. A cascade failure if Kos collapses—”

“He won’t.”

“If, I said.” She turned a quick circle to see if anyone else had heard them. Elevator doors dinged open; the Cardinal Librarian swept past in a whisper of robes. “You always told me to run the odds. Our analysts say there’s a real chance of cascade. Altars deserted. Continents failing into collection. Swarms of ravening undead. Demonic repossession. Lords alone know what would come out of Zur or the Golden Horde. And King Clock squats in the Northern Gleb—the Deathless Kings can’t fight two wars at once and strangle one another at the same time.”

“Fearmongering is no substitute for argument.”

“Do you want our clients to pretend the world’s a place where nothing bad ever happens?”

“I can fix this. Give me time.”

Daphne counted bodies through the meeting room’s glass. “That’s the last of the Cardinals. I’m sorry, Tara. They can’t start without you.”

Chin high, shoulders back, she marched. Shale remained outside, arms crossed, inhumanly still.

Bede had saved her a chair. She settled and tried to look calm. Daphne sat near Ramp, who finished her scone, pocketed her gloved hands, and reviewed the room with mild, pleasant surprise, like a host receiving friends. “Your Excellencies, I’ll keep this brief.” She smiled at her own bad joke. “Yesterday you said Kos’s aid to the goddess Seril represented onetime largesse. Last night we observed a significant transfer of power from Kos to Seril in a time of need, suggesting the goddess is in fact an off-books liability.” From her briefcase she produced a white envelope that must have been made out of stellar core to judge from how it drew the Cardinals forward in their seats. Even Tara felt the document’s pull. “In light of this new information, my clients feel compelled to action. They are exposed to any undisclosed risk connected with Kos, and the risk Seril presents is functionally limitless. My clients believe your church defrauded them by failing to disclose that risk, and they are filing suit against you. They intend to seek a Court-mandated restructuring of Kos and Seril, to protect themselves and the world.”