Four Roads Cross (Craft Sequence #5)(85)

“Seril,” Hasim said. “I thought her epithet ironic.”

“Nope.” It felt good to tell the truth to someone who wasn’t already part of the conspiracy. “She’s alive. The doctors say most of you will be good to go after a physical. We’ll reach out to the Talbeg immigrant community in Alt Coulumb. The Church of Kos has guest houses for new arrivals, too. Your choice. If you need anything, go to the Temple of Justice and ask for me—Catherine Elle.”

As they descended the hospital front steps, Lee gripped the back of his own neck in one hand and squeezed. His biceps were a sharp-cornered prism under his uniform shirt. “Refugees, Cat. I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“They’re a foreign problem, from a foreign war. Don’t we have enough of those?”

“They’re here,” she said. “You want to send them home?”

He grunted.

“Just you wait. If the next few days go poorly, we won’t have to help them after all.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’ll be in the same boat. Come on.” The Suit covered her like liquid bliss, and its strength made the world seem simple.

*

The moon rose in Cat’s mind as she ran across midday rooftops toward the temple. She leapt in a silvery arc over a rushing train and lost herself in the logic wash of Justice, her mind a riverbank down which a clear stream of dispatch orders and deductions ran—flash of gutted corpse in Hot Town back alley, calculated vectors for an arrow’s flight, analysis of last night’s criminal activity patterns, comparisons of faces and fingerprints, the thrum of arriving and departing ships, a chorus of half sentences. Then she jumped again, and the river stilled into the silver silence of a smile.

You want to talk with me? the Goddess asked.

She did, though she hadn’t realized it yet. You need help, Cat said.

Yes.

Cat landed with a skid on a tar paper roof, cornered hard, and scaled the building next door, fingers spidering into cracks. It felt good to run. If you broke Justice, ended the Blacksuits, you might be strong enough to fight Ramp.

An interval of surf-rushed quiet followed. Cat swung from a flagpole to the next roof.

The last time I rode to war, I trusted my city to my children. When I died, they went mad, and their madness left scars. If I broke Justice, I could use its power, but then Justice would be no more. And She has Her cold uses. She protects my city, even against me.

You might die.

This reply too was a long time coming. I was born to protect Alt Coulumb. I failed it in my death. These people once feared me as the rabbit fears the hunter, though the hunter comes not for the rabbit but for the fox. Now they fear me as children fear those who strike them. I will not be that Lady again.

If you don’t win, we all lose.

But Justice will remain.

There has to be some way the Blacksuits can help.

Against what? What laws have our enemies broken?

I’ll think of something, Cat said. And: If I offered myself to you—as, you know, a priest—would that change anything?

Are you?

Cat unframed her mind from prayer, and ran alone over rooftops, threaded through with crime and ice.





43

Matt, half-dead on his feet by noon, back sore from long hours standing and selling, almost missed the Craftswoman when she passed his stand. Generally the sixth hour after opening was when his shoulders sagged and thoughts of cold beer filled his mind with the self-sustaining fixedness of a fetish. Claire was likewise drained, and Hannah. Even Ellen had come to the Rafferty booth today, cheerful if quiet as she tended the shrine.

So he almost missed the Craftswoman. When he said, “Ms. Abernathy,” though, she stopped and turned.

“Mr. Adorne.” She shook her head as if to clear cobwebs from it. “No eggs today. I have to pack for a trip.”

“I have a business question I hope you can answer.”

“I need to go. I’m so sorry.” But she did not. “What’s your question?”

“It’s not for me,” he said. “Could you meet us on Cadfael’s rooftop in half an hour? Just a small issue. Won’t take a few minutes of your time. I can pay.”

“Are you in trouble, Matt?”

“I’m not,” he said. “They might be.” He nodded to the girls—to Hannah taking inventory, to Claire frowning at the ledger, to Ellen.

“I have to leave at one,” the Craftswoman said.

“Plenty of time.”

*

Matt did not remember the last time he closed his stall early. Claire had left the Rafferty booth in Hannah’s and Ellen’s care—Rafferty and Adorne both closing early might have caused the sky to fall, the seas run red with blood, or locusts boil from the earth. Far as he could tell from his corner seat on the empty roof of Cadfael’s, the sky hadn’t cracked yet. Shame: a crack might have let the heat escape. Condensation collected on his glass. He hadn’t yet drunk.

“She won’t come,” Claire said.

“She will.”

“Even if she does, what can she do?”

“Give answers,” he said.

Tara arrived on the thirtieth minute by his watch. She stepped blinking into sunlight, escorted by a waiter who indicated with outstretched hand a path through empty tables to Matt and Claire. Tara limped. As she lowered herself to her seat, she kept one hand pressed against her side.