Four Roads Cross

by Max Gladstone

  She said nothing. The elevator dinged.

  On the ride up, she said, “The next few days will be hard for you.”

  He lit a second cigarette with the ember of the first. “I’ll do what I can. Trust in the Lord and His work. I wish I could go with you.”

  There was something swollen in her throat. Lousy time to come down with a cold. “I’ll be fine. We both will. This will work.” He didn’t ask how she knew, for which she was grateful.

  With a ding, the doors rolled back, and they emerged into a glass maze.

  Anywhere else, Kelethres, Albrecht, and Ao’s local office would reside in a skyspire floating over the city. Craftsmen drew strength from starlight and needed buildings that could rise above cloud cover and clinging smog. Alt Coulumb’s flight interdict made such crystal palaces impossible, so the firm’s interior designers adopted an aesthetic echoing the heavens they were denied.

  Glass walled the foyer, and glass hallways led to glass conference rooms and offices. Some panes were smoked translucent, others matte black; employees could adjust opacity as needed. The receptionist (a suited man with thin dark hair and the thick frame of an athlete who had abandoned his sport) sat at a translucent glass desk; his lower body was a textured black blur.

  Tara’s skin felt so tight she feared it might split. What was she afraid of? This was just an immensely powerful firm she’d snubbed by quitting.

  “Tara Abernathy,” she said to the receptionist, “and Technician Abelard of the Church of Kos Everburning, for Elayne Kevarian.”

  The receptionist rifled through a book whose writing tangled and rearranged as the pages turned. “She’s not in the office. And she’s dreaming.”

  “It’s urgent. Any way you could slot us in?”

  “Your name, again?”

  “Abernathy.”

  He flipped to the rear of the book, consulted an index, changed back, frowned, scribbled a note on a slip of paper, and slid it into a pneumatic tube.

  Far beneath the wooden floor, in a chamber walled with concrete, silver, polycarbonate steel, and sound-deadening foam, rows of dreamers lay chained to tables, gagged and blindfolded. The gags muffled their screams and kept them from gnawing off their tongues. An attendant took the receptionist’s note from the pneumatic tube, bent beside a dreamer, removed the muff from her ear, and whispered the message there. The woman went rigid, twitched, and with the quill pen bound to her free hand scribbled a response on a roll of paper that spooled beneath her pen nib. The attendant razored the response free, returned to the vacuum tube, and—

  Tara knew the process—she’d never been much of a nightmare jockey, but one did familiarize oneself with the basic tools of one’s profession—but she was glad she didn’t have to watch. Blood and piss didn’t mesh with professional attire. But that, as the Iskari said, was war. No arguing with efficiency: in under a minute, the pneumatic tube vomited her answer. “A technician will join you shortly.” A complex Craftwork sigil occupied the center of his desk, all correspondence runes and irreproducible angles. He traced a glyph-line sequence, and green fire trailed his fingertip. “Have a seat.”

  “Maybe we could leave a message?” Abelard whispered.

  “We can still talk to her. We have to jump a few hurdles first, is all.”

  “What kind of hurdles?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”

  The tech escorted them down a smoked-glass hall to a chamber of tables with tops molded to fit the usual human extremities. “Lie here,” she said, with a slight Camlaander lilt, “side by side, if you please.”

  Tara kicked off her shoes and lay back. The table adjusted to her body’s contours. Abelard drilled his finger into the tabletop, then watched the wood flow to fill the pit he’d made. “Come on,” Tara said. “We don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  Abelard reclined.

  “Do you sleepwalk?” the tech asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Tara shook her head.

  “Good.” She adjusted a few levers and turned a few wheels beneath the bed. “Any preexisting medical conditions? No smoking, please.”

  Abelard set the cigarette, still burning, on the table.

  “Thank you.” From a drawer in the wall the tech produced two paper-wrapped wreaths and slit the paper with a knife. “Completely sterile. Hold still.” The circlets were stainless steel and hinged. Sharp prongs jutted inward.

  Abelard squirmed as the needles settled against his skin. “Is this necessary?”

  “Yes,” said Tara and the tech at once.

  She’d done this before, but still she drew her breath when the tech bent over her. The circlet crimped her hair as it closed. Stupid design—probably built by balding Technicians to balding spec. The circlet’s spikes needled her skin.

  “Very good,” the tech said. Had they chosen her for her accent? It should have soothed, but nothing set Tara so on edge as the sense she was being soothed. The tech’s fingers pressed firm, soft, and cool against her wrist. The woman was paid to touch people, and did so with as much routine disregard as one would expect. Tara wondered—not a prurient interest, just abstract curiosity—whether the tech had to set all that aside when she lay with a lover, the way Craftswomen learned to discard habits of boardroom argument at home. Were this woman’s hands always her instruments?

  Abelard laughed when she took his pulse.

  “Hold still,” the tech said. “You’ll feel a tickling sensation.”

  Then the needles went in, and the pain started.

  * * *

  Fangmouthswallowinggroundingoutgearsanddigestedtopulpbyathicketofthorncurledshapes

  to wake from the dark dream of herself in a well-appointed office where, told to sit, she sat

  Walkforwardtosomethingyouthinkisfreedomdownahalllinedwithrazorsangledin

  and with every step the razors near, halfway down the hall and they press against your skin, dimpling flesh, and you can’t turn back because the light beyond the door at the end of the hall is so beautiful you could fall into it forever, at last, happy—there’s a monster behind you but you’re not afraid of monsters, even ones like this sculpted from childhood centipede fears, hooked legs too large for that enormous body and moving fast, a primal terror that barely makes sense because when save in the farthest mouse-shadows of history did your ancestors have to fear spiders? No, monsters do not scare you. But to face them, to defend yourself, would be to turn from the light at the end of the razor hall, which you cannot do. Your life waits there for you. Light washes you like water, like the tears you weep, like—Mom—rare as a father’s approving smile, it’s there and only your own skin is stopping you so you

  step

  into

  the

  razors

  and

  the

  razors

  bite

  and you scream, you bleed, they’re inside you, cold lines rasping bone, but you’ve done this to yourself and having come so far what’s another

  step

  or

  scream?

  As Tara struck the deep and primal unifying terror, unseen machines channeled her through that fear, tore her to a gurgle of white noise like grinding glass and seashore rush and trills on a sharped violin.

  And she was through.

  Panting. Crouched. Naked.

  She made herself clothes: the cream-colored suit Shale bought her. Arranged her hair. Looked down through glass into a city.

  She crouched under Rampart Boulevard in Alt Coulumb’s Central Business District. Skyscrapers plummeted to a vanishing point beneath her. Men and women and golems and snakelings and skeletons strolled below, their feet inches from hers, separated by a translucent pane of crystal perfectly flat on Tara’s side. They did not realize they walked upside down. Robes, slacks, and dresses draped in the usual way. Braids did not fall up. A carriage rolled past. She heard nothing.

  Stomach and world turned somersaults together. She looked up
in hope of relief.

  Bad idea.

  She stood on what seemed a crystal plane, beneath which Alt Coulumb jutted down into blue sky. But the plane was in fact a shallow bowl rising in slow swell on all sides, here slashed with ocean froth, there scraped with green, the crystal curve at vision’s edge so tall it would shame the tallest mountain Tara had ever seen—no, not the bottom of a bowl at all. She craned her neck back and back, and far above the walls arched and joined to a domed roof, and up there she saw stars that were streetlights and stars that were also stars.

  She stood in the empty inside of the globe.

  She felt the architecture of this dream. She could scream into the void. She could pound the glass with enough force to crack planets and burn stars. It would never break. The world’s hollow heart was her empire and her tomb.

  But she was not alone.

  Abelard lay beside her, moaning. He flickered in and out, by turns old and young, corpse shriveled, rotten, infant, empty robe, man-shaped inferno.

  The dream’s third occupant stood with her back toward them—a slender woman in a dark suit, with short storm-white hair. This was a strange angle from which to see Elayne Kevarian. With her back turned, she might be anyone.

  She was not.

  Ms. Kevarian took a silver watch from her pocket. She snapped it open, consulted its face, closed it again.

  Tara gripped Abelard’s shifting shoulder. “Pull yourself together.”

  The shivers slowed, and his form congealed. She helped him to his feet. “Thank you,” he said. In the crystal globe’s silent center, even a whisper carried. “Does everything you do hurt this much?”

  “Are you both decent?” Ms. Kevarian asked. “I have a tight schedule.”

  “Yes,” Tara said.

  Her old boss’s footsteps were loud as drumbeats as she turned. The face was much as Tara remembered: sharp, marked with thin lines cut by decades of Craftwork. Black eyes flicked over Tara, right to Abelard, and back to Tara for a second review. The mouth, efficient as a lizard’s, turned up at one corner. “It is good to see you, Ms. Abernathy. I’ve heard much about your work with the Church of Kos. The community is palpably relieved Kos’s church finally has a competent full-time advisor—even if their gain was my loss.”

  She felt a thrill. Once she would have done anything to please this woman. Once? “It’s good to see you, too,” she said. “You remember Abelard?”

  “Of course. You have come up in the world, Technician. Congratulations.”

  He bowed his head, too nervous for the formality to take. “Thank you.”

  “You’re on a case?” Tara said.

  “As ever. The Shining Empire this time. A member of their Divine Guard has died. I’m charged to resurrect her without disturbing the giant monster whose consort she is. An interesting problem. What can I do for you?”

  “I don’t suppose you can tag out of your current case for a few days? We have a situation here.”

  “Kos is in trouble,” Abelard said. “And Seril.”

  “In three days,” Tara explained, “our creditors and shareholders will challenge Kos’s by attacking Seril. I have to focus on a long shot that might save us, and I need—we need,” she corrected with a glance to Abelard, “to stall the enemies at the gates.” She produced a folded document: a copy of Ramp’s challenge.

  “Who’s the opposing counsel?”

  “Madeline Ramp, with Daphne Mains assisting.”

  “Ramp. Interesting.”

  “You’ve worked with her?”

  “A practicing theorist—the most dangerous kind.” Ms. Kevarian flipped through the document. She nodded at various points. “Ramp was involved—you’re aware of the Alt Selene outbreak, in the eighties?”

  “I know she lives in Alt Selene. I didn’t realize—”

  “She waded into the singularity and killed it before the city died. She wrestled omnipotence into submission. I’m sure she has a raft of interesting stories.” Ms. Kevarian shrugged. “Also a prominent contributor to the Forum on the Will and Its Transformations, the misguided knitting circle Alexander passed off as a journal. She’s competent. I wish I could help.”

  “You can’t?”

  “The Shining Empire case is consuming the overenthusiastic murderball coach’s proverbial one hundred ten percent of my time. In a week, I could assist. But you do not have that week.”

  “This is a formal request from the Church of Kos,” Tara said. “There’s budget behind it. We’re not asking for a favor.”

  Abelard stepped forward. “Technical Cardinal Nestor and Cardinal Evangelist Bede sent me to retain your services.” He seemed proud he’d said the whole line without stumbling. Strange he should be so daunted by a pro forma request, yet able to deliver that speech in front of the tribunal. Tara always found heart-baring stuff harder. “Ma’am.”

  “I wish I could abandon this project,” Ms. Kevarian said. “But several hundred miles of coastline and a hundred million people are in danger of attack by, I swear, giant moths, if I abandon my work. However.” She slid the folded paper into her pocket; Tara felt the information slip from dream to dream, like playing cards sliding past each other. “Thankfully, my firm has other partners.” A black notebook appeared in her hand; she paged to the end, frowned. “Young Wakefield should be through in Regis by now, and has experience with this sort of thing. Wakefield’s no friend to gods, but the challenge won’t require empathy to defeat. If that’s all…”

  “It’s not,” Tara said, “actually.”

  “Is this the part where you ask for your old job back?” But from Ms. Kevarian the jab felt easy. “I’m afraid you may be too expensive for us at the moment.”

  “Nothing like that,” Tara said. “This long shot I have in mind. I need to talk to people who might not take a meeting from me otherwise.”

  “I can make introductions. With whom do you wish to speak?”

  “I need to see the King in Red.”

  “We have not spoken in a while,” Ms. Kevarian said. A deep pit lay beneath those words. Tara felt that if she stepped wrong she might tumble through them and fall forever. “We are not so close as once we were.”

  “We need Seril’s lost portfolio. The custody chain stops with him. There’s no time to bring formal action against the King in Red—I doubt we could win in court. His pockets are deep. But I need to try, and the Deathless King of Dresediel Lex won’t take my card.” Ms. Kevarian darkened in the dream. Don’t press her, a wise inner voice counseled Tara, but Tara never had much truck with wise inner voices. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was bad blood between you.”

  “I’ll contact him,” Ms. Kevarian said. “I cannot guarantee it will help your cause.”

  “I’ll take the chance.”

  “I should go. The Imperial guard needs its monsters. It has been pleasant to see you both. I must visit Alt Coulumb soon, in peacetime.”

  “I’d like that,” Tara said.

  Ms. Kevarian turned to leave.

  “Um,” Tara said, which stopped her. Stupid syllable, but she’d spent the entire conversation curious. “When we worked together, I called you Boss. I’m not sure what I should call you now.”

  She blinked owl-slow. “Elayne, Ms. Abernathy.”

  “Tara.”

  “Tara.” She seemed to find that amusing. “Good luck.”

  And as Elayne smiled, the glass world shattered into day.

  42

  Black cuts lined the lips of the man in the hospital bed. When he spoke, his skin pulled against fresh scabs. “Water.” His Kathic bore an accent Cat didn’t know.

  She nodded to Lee, who poured him a cup and passed it over.

  “You’re in Alt Coulumb,” she said. “In Blacksuit care.” She rested one hand on the rail at the foot of the bed. “We recovered you from an exploitative indenture two nights ago. I’m Officer Elle. This is Officer Zhang. You can call me Cat, if you like. What’s your name?”

  The h in “Ko’hasim�
�� had a rough edge Cat didn’t look forward to failing to imitate. “Call me Hasim.”

  The name structure at least she could place. “Talbeg?”

  “I am a Doctor of Divinity from Agdel Lex.” He finished the water. Lee poured him more. “Alt Coulumb. Are the others here?”

  “A few went to intensive care. Most are unconscious. The girl, Ala”—she pointed to where the child lay asleep—“told us we should talk to you, or to the woman with the braids, who’s passed out. She’s fine,” she said when he opened his mouth, “just sleeping. You all had a long night.”

  “What happened?”

  “We hoped you could tell us,” Lee said.

  “We found you in the hold of a smuggler ship called Demon’s Dream, captained by Maura Varg. That sound familiar?”

  “I do not know either name.” Hasim seized the rails at the side of his bed. Muscle in his thin arms corded as he pulled himself upright. “If this is Alt Coulumb, we seek asylum.”

  “We’ll get there,” she said. “But we need to know more about you. How you got into that hold, for example. You’re responsible for some confusion.”

  “Last night,” Lee said, “when Officer Elle tried to wake you up, demons crawled out from inside you. Caused a lot of trouble before we stopped them.”

  Hasim’s fingers trembled as they traced the scabs around his mouth. “What my partner’s trying to say”—Cat frowned at Lee, who crossed his massive arms, unconcerned—“is that we’re wondering how you got in that ship. I know this is hard, but if you think back—”

  “There is war in the Gleb.”

  “I heard.” She wished she’d heard more, or paid attention when she had. Even Criers mangled the names. “Didn’t realize it had reached Agdel Lex.”

  “Refugees have,” he said. “I run a clinic for small gods. In the backcountry, desert spirits devour the bodies of gods fallen in the Wars. They claim one town at a time. They come to the villages to eat their gods, or bind them to service. Some survive. Some run, and many to our city. I take them in, if I find them.”

  “When did you start using dreamdust?”

  Cat made a mental note to talk with Lee about interviewing witnesses. Lee spent most of his shifts Suited.