Four Roads Cross

by Max Gladstone

  “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.

  He didn’t know why. No doubt Cardinal Librarian Aldis could offer three or four bookcases on the ethical underpinnings of his decision. But given the grumpy owl’s glower she directed at him from the benches, he doubted she was inclined to help. Her downward-curving mouth suggested the texts topmost in her mind were those at best embarrassing volumes—especially the bits with detailed diagrams indicating where one should apply the clamps, and at what speed the pincers should be spread.

  At least this was better than the last time he’d been dragged before the tribunal. God wasn’t dead at the moment.

  As it could be worses went, even Abelard had to admit this was less than compelling.

  “You have been privy to many discussions concerning our church’s, and our Lord’s, vulnerability where Seril is concerned.”

  “That is correct, Your Grace.”

  Abelard took a shallower pull on the cigarette this time. Back during God’s death, or near-death, he’d felt himself sicken with every drag. The Lord’s blessing prevented cancer and heart disease and other problems. Abelard took small comfort in His presence now.

  “You know the dangers we face.”

  “Some of them, Your Grace.”

  He heard an argument outside the hall—raised angry voices punctuated by a heavy blow that threw the double doors wide to admit Tara Abernathy and a man Abelard did not recognize. A protesting cloud of novitiate flunkies followed, trying without success to impede their progress. Cardinal Librarian Aldis stood; the city priests on the right wing squawked at the interruption. Tara looked furious. For a second Abelard allowed himself to hope the room would dissolve in, well, not violence, but at least a good old-fashioned shouting match that would distract the tribunal from him.

  Cardinal Evangelist Bede thought fast on his feet.

  “Brothers and Sisters,” he said, arms raised, “be calm.” He had the pulpit trick of voice that let his words silence a crowd. “Ms. Abernathy, welcome.”

  She sometimes smiled when she was angry—not so much a display of joy as a baring of teeth. “You won’t try to throw me out?” With emphasis on the word “try.”

  “Were this a formal proceeding, I would ask you to respect our rites, which limit the chamber to priests. But since this is not a formal proceeding, and you are a trusted advisor, you’re welcome to remain. As for your companion…”

  “I vouch for him. As a trusted advisor.”

  Bede spread his hands beneficently. Wide sleeves draped from his arms to form a fabric wall. Abelard risked a wave and a smile, neither of which Tara acknowledged. “I was just asking Brother Technician Abelard why, though he knew the danger God’s aid to Seril would pose to our city, church, and Lord, he nevertheless advised Him to help Her.” Bede revolved, slow as a planet, to face Abelard, and the room’s focus followed him.

  Dear God. Abelard had joined the Technical Novitiate because he never liked preaching, always felt naked on the stage. Silent seconds spiraled to centuries. But through all the centuries, a fire burned.

  He stood.

  “Because my Lord trusted me,” he said. Bede opened his mouth, but Abelard pressed on, like running: falling forward to catch himself word by word. “My Lord showed Himself to me, though I did not see Him at first.” Tara stopped moving. He didn’t know how to read what he saw in her. “Last night, by asking my advice, by giving me a chance to choose, He led me to understand Himself: Lord Kos loves, and He must fight to defend those He loves. He would not be Himself if He let Seril fall, any more than I would be myself if I abandoned my friends, or my church. To turn from that truth is to turn from Him, as did Cardinal Gustave—to deny our living God and satisfy ourselves with the worship of His dead image, of a picture on a wall that does not change or ask us to change. We must accept that He needs Her, that He was less in Her absence. In Her return, we come to know a face of Him hidden for fifty years. You say I have endangered our God. I say I have grown to know Him, and the greater danger that lies in deafening ourselves to His purpose, in abandoning His truth for a version of Him that may seem comfortable. Faith is a state of constant examination and openness. In faith we must be vulnerable. Only in this seeming weakness do we live with God.”

  No one spoke. Bede’s mouth closed.

  Abelard breathed out a long thin sigh of smoke. “If I am wrong, I submit myself for guidance. But I do not think I am.”

  * * *

  Tara despaired of understanding the religious mind, but she knew how to read a room. When she entered that strange almost-court (no Craft circles to be seen, no judge, not even a bowl to catch shed blood), she’d pegged Abelard for dead.

  Then he spoke, and many in the audience made the three-fingered triangle sign of the Flame and lowered their heads in an attitude that looked like prayer.

  His argument didn’t even hold, unless the words had different meanings than she thought. Faith, for example: How could one’s fiduciary duty to church and God compel one to act against the interests of both? Yes, God and priests had goals beyond their own survival, but survival had to be prior certainly?

  Her mind groped around the edge of a question she did not know how to ask. She wasn’t alone: Cardinal Evangelist Bede stood stunned. “Thank you, Brother,” he said. “Cardinals. I have no further questions, and must consider the Technician’s words.”

  He bowed stiffly and swept out.

  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 of
ten 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.”

  “That’s insane,” the Cardinal Librarian said.

  Ramp shrugged. “My clients have fiduciary duties to their investors.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  “Aldis, please.” Bede set one hand on the table. The Cardinal Librarian’s teeth clicked shut. If she’d held a sword, Tara would have feared for Bede’s safety. “They can claim whatever they’re willing to fight for in the courts. And we’ll fight back.”

  “Of course you will,” Ramp said. “I’ve tried to talk my clients down, but they can’t wait long—three days at the most. You’ll find notice of our suit here.” She tapped the envelope. “But there is another option.”

  Ramp produced a second envelope, thicker and red and sealed in wax, from the inside pocket of her jacket. “Less bloodshed and mystic battle, more compromise. This”—laying the envelope beside its bone-white sister—“is a binding version of the agreement we discussed yesterday. Sign this, and your church affirms its separation from Seril Undying. The language here formalizes an open market relationship between the two deities. Your gods’ personal affairs remain their own business, far be it from me to assert otherwise, but this will stop any off-book shenanigans, unmediated by contract. If Seril needs help, she’s free to offer market-rate payment, or seek outside investment. If Kos wants to work with her, he’ll have a range of options, including formal merger. It’s a good deal. I fought hard to convince my clients to offer it. Sign this, and save us both a lot of trouble.” She lifted her hand from the envelope. “But I can’t hold off my filing while you consider. If you want to take the deal, I’ll need blood on paper by end of day.”

  Hard sharp silence followed. The red envelope and the white glowed on the table. Classic hustle, Tara thought, scornful and admiring at once: hard road and easy and little time to choose. So classic she doubted the red envelope held any poison beyond the deal. Deception was beside the point. Formalized separation left Kos protected, and Seril exposed.

  Everything Bede wanted was in the red envelope: an out that would save his God and church from Seril, regardless of that God’s own will. The Cardinal Evangelist had hauled Abelard before a tribunal for making the same choice the wrong way. Tara might not be able to change his mind, but she needed time to try.

  Bede didn’t give it to her.

  His robes brushed the ground as he stood. Knuckles planted on the table, he leaned forward. “We need no time to discuss.” Hells. None of her options looked good: preempt Bede in front of the Cardinals? Suicidal. Slip inside his mind, force different words out of his mouth? Ramp would notice, and Daphne—they knew better than anyone what tools she had at her disposal. Besides, such an approach was unambiguously evil. Give the man a brief heart attack?

  Bede licked his lips. Sweat beaded on his brow.

 
; Only in this seeming weakness do we live with God.

  Tara prepared the heart attack.

  Before she could act, Bede spoke. “Our Lord and His Lady have endured a thousand years. For us to sign that document would be to fail in our faith.”

  Tara kept her jaw from dropping.

  “Very well,” Ramp said. The red envelope burned. The stink of hot wire filled the conference room. In seconds only ash remained on the undamaged tabletop, beside the bone-white envelope. “A pleasure as always, Your Excellencies. We’ll see you in court.”

  39

  Cat lay in bed, head gummed and teeth filmed and most of her hurting. Sun and shadow from slatted blinds striped her slantwise. Healing wounds pulled when she stretched, and she yowled. Her hand explored her ribs, all gauze and tape, ridged stitches and regrown flesh. She sat up. You never realized how well your skin fit your body until it didn’t anymore.

  Swing legs over the bed’s edge, lean forward, stand. Dirty clothes crumpled underfoot. She picked up a stained shirt with her toes, transferred it to her hand, and tossed it to the hamper, where it rolled down the heap of dirty laundry already there and wedged against the wall. Cat felt more satisfied than she should have. The shirt’s disposal left a gap in the layer of clothes that otherwise carpeted her floor.

  Always felt strange to sleep late on a workday. Justice—Seril—brooked no argument on the subject. Go home. Sleep until you wake up. Heal. She hoped she’d get paid for the downtime. Last night was easily a double shift.

  Of course, that assumed there was anything left to pay her.

  Barefoot in bra and pajama pants, she padded into the living room. Dark here, too, blackout curtains drawn. How long had she slept, anyway? Seventy-seven demons from seven hells did the can-can on the right side of her head. Fuck. Cursing felt good—relieved the something or other. The cat-shaped clock hanging over her sink ticked its tail back and forth and showed a time she did not want to believe.

  She opened the blackout curtains, pulled up the slat blinds, and leaned her forehead against the window. Eight floors down, a woman pushed a baby carriage along the broken sidewalk. A train passing two blocks over rattled the window, and Cat felt-heard the rattle in her skull. It didn’t hurt. And she smelled—burning?