Four Roads Cross (Craft Sequence #5)(86)

“You’re hurt.”

“Rough night.”

“I know the feeling,” Matt said.

“I doubt it.” But she looked more amused than offended, and ordered a beer. “Busy day, too,” she said by way of justification, though he’d asked for none. When the waiter disappeared: “What do you want?”

“You know Claire Rafferty.”

“Not by name.” She held out her hand. Claire hesitated, then clasped it.

The waiter brought beer. Matt ordered a sandwich, Claire a sandwich, and Tara nothing. “I’m just passing through.” When the waiter left: “What’s the problem, Matt?”

When Matt tried to speak, he found his throat dry and his words all twisted. Tara’s expression wasn’t fearsome, exactly, but behind it ground the gears of a great machine.

“Matt wants you to help me take the business from my father,” Claire said.

“Tell me more,” Tara said.

“You know about the argument in the market a few days back. The gargoyles. That was us. My sister dealt with them before, and my father wanted her to show people for—some reason. He got violent.” She held her water glass in both hands. “I do most of the work in the stand already. And he needs help, which he won’t get on his own so long as he works.”

Tara drew a dry circle on the tabletop with her middle finger. “And he leads the family Concern.”

“Yes.”

“If he really has been negligent, you can press him out.” Tara set her beer down on top of the circle she’d been drawing. “One afternoon at the Court of Craft and you’d be done. But the Craft is serious.” She laid her hand on the table, fingers softly curled. The sun dimmed and knelt. A chill wind blew from nowhere. A flame leapt from Tara’s palm to her fingers and danced from tip to tip—but flame was not the right word. Matt didn’t know a word for it, or the not quite glow it cast. “A bond through the Craft is as like, and unlike, a real relationship as this light is like a fire. This burns, but there’s no heat, and it has edges that cut, which a real fire does not. If I do what you ask, it will burn your relationship with your father and replace it with a Craftwork bond. It’s an option.” She closed her fist around the flame. Almost-light ran in rivulets up her arm along tracks like tattoos Matt hadn’t seen before. “But there are others.”

“Like what?”

“Mediation,” she said. “Which requires talking to him—with a Craftswoman present, to ensure your bargains take. It’s hard, but offers more chance of healing. If you care. Either way, the choice is yours.”

Neither Claire nor Tara had looked at Matt. He folded his hands. Sunlight kneaded warmth into his skin.

“I’ll be out of town for a few days. When I’m back, if you still want to go to court, I’ll help.” She looked as if she wanted to say something other than what she said next: “Think it over. Either way, I won’t charge.”

“Thank you,” Claire said.

“For what? I only offered you a hard choice.”

“At least I have one.”

Tara pondered her remaining beer. “I have to go. Flying out of Alt Coulumb this evening. Lots to do before then.”

“You seem worried,” Matt said.

“I am.” She stood. “But I can’t talk about it now. Take care of yourselves in the next few days, okay?”

“We will.”

“Good luck.”

After she left, the waiter brought the sandwiches.





44

Tara caught a cab at sundown and settled in to read and ponder fate.

The near crash shocked her awake. The horse reared, hooves pawing. The carriage rocked and landed hard on bad shocks.

Tara dove out the door, blade drawn, shadow-clad, expecting cutpurses, demons, treachery, some machination of Madeline Ramp’s. She found Shale in the center of the road dodging hooves, hands raised. A black leather valise rested at his feet.

Tara released her knife and banished her shadows. “What the hells are you doing here?”

Shale snatched his bag and darted past hooves toward her. “Coming with you.”

“No.” She touched the beast’s flank, and it steadied, though its ears slicked back.

“You needed me to translate. You might need me again.”

“Aev put you up to this.”

“She would be angry if she knew I was here,” he said. “I already bought a ticket.” A white hologram-stamped card protruded from a side pocket of his valise. “I will follow you.”

“I could stop you.”

“You are fighting for my people. I endangered us all two nights ago. Let me help.”

The horse snorted and scraped a spark off the cobblestones.

“Fine,” she said. “Get in before I change my mind.”

He carried the valise as if it weighed very little—not that Tara’s luggage was much larger—but a blink told Tara the bag lacked any magical capabilities, folded space, or hidden compartments. “That’s all you brought?”

“Books,” he said. He pulled the door shut, and they rolled west into the night.

“No toothbrush? Clothes?”

“This flesh doesn’t work the same as yours. Close enough for imitation only. I do not need to eat in this form. My sweat’s pure water unless I wish it otherwise. Conserves salts.”