Four Roads Cross (29 page)

“Where did you learn all this?”

“I read a book. Besides, it's part of the language.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well—the larval stage of your gracklet, called a vurm, looks like a centipede yea long.” He held his hands a foot apart. “They make cocoons in the trees. The rallybirds didn't realize what was going on until it was too late. But the more they lost, the dumber they all became, and grackle can eat a lot of rallybirds. More food makes 'em breed faster.”

“Okay,” she said, warily.

“Why do you think, when we talk about the virtues of industry and clean living, we say, ‘The rallybird gets the vurm'?”

Golem feet trod down the road with unbroken stride, and wagon wheels rolled.

She hit him in the shoulder, hard.

“Ow.”

She hit him again, then pushed him so he almost toppled over.

“Careful. You'll spill my coffee.”

“Do you know what a dad joke is?”

“Nothing wrong with a good shaggy-gracklet story.”

“You are a horrible person.” But she had to say it through laughter. He rubbed his shoulder where she'd punched him. “I thought Corbin's jokes were bad. Do you get them from the same guy? I could tell the Blacksuits and get him locked up, for a nice reasonable time like let's say forever.”

“Your dad tells jokes?”

“Not as much as he used to.”

He remembered that, dimly—Corbin Rafferty never precisely pleasant, but at least wry, vicious in a way that put all the room but him to chuckling. Recently, though, just mean. “How is he, at home?” Felt dirty to be talking about this after a good laugh, but for once, and maybe because of the laugh, Claire seemed in a mood to talk.

“Drunk a lot. You've seen him angry. He gets sad too, when he doesn't think anyone else sees. Keeping life together is hard for him.”

“Is he—is he hard to you and your sisters?”

“That in the square, that's as mean as I've seen him. He shouts. Shoves. Screams. Breaks things. Sometimes we shout back. Hannah especially. We're all cats drowning in a bag at home.” Claire flicked the reins, though the golem did not change stride. “After Mom, he tried to keep it together. He drank to take the edge off, I guess. Only Corbin has a lot of edges. You can take off one after another until only a little nub in the middle's left, and once you've gone that far maybe you keep going.”

“So you take care of the girls.”

Her arms clenched, drawing back the reins, and the golem slowed. Matt watched her force herself loose. The tension didn't leave her shoulders, back, or arms, but she faked relaxation well enough. “I pick up what he drops. I maintain.”

“What that gargoyle did to him won't last forever. He comes back, he'll walk the same trail as before. And that's bad for him, and dangerous for you.”

“I know, Mr. Adorne.”

Which was a door closing.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“If there was a way to force him to rest, I'd take it. The girls need the space. So do I.”

A bump shifted crates in the truck bed. Matt turned to right a few squash which further jostling might have rolled onto his eggs. “I might have an idea,” he said when he settled back beside her.

“What?”

“Rather not say much until I've talked to people. Don't want to promise anything.”

They crested the ridge and descended from the forest to the city below, its road-veined circle quartered by the bite of the bay. “Matt.”

“Yes?”

“The story. Gracklet?”

“They're real. I made up the bit at the end about the vurms, and there's a name for rallybird that sounds better in Eld. But gracklet are about as common as mountain lions in the Geistwood, maybe a quarter the size, solitary for the most part. They claim territory like spiders do. Friendly, though. Human soulstuff's too tight-wound for them to drink, and they'll only go for you with their fangs if they're hurt or you threaten their eggs. I saw one once when my dad took me camping. Scales aren't as bright as they get down south, but still brighter than you tend to find up here in winter country. You see one, you offer a bright feather to Kos and a silver coin to Seril.”

“If this is another setup for a joke, I will hurt you.”

“Honest. Old Coulumbite tradition there. Mom's side of the family, and her people go back to this soil. It's a strange world we live in.”

She nodded, though that might have been a bump in the downhill road.

*   *   *

Tara woke beneath a too-familiar ceiling. Pale yellow metal beams supported white panels overhead; a metronome ticked her heartbeat and a needle pen scraped the sound's shape onto a palimpsest. She sat up and swore at the pain in her skull, then swore again when she saw the man reading a magazine in the chair across from her bed.

The metronome popped prestissimo as she forced herself to her feet, arm still fabric-cuffed to the heart monitor. Her hospital gown billowed, and stitches pulled in her side. She drew her knife by reflex; the speed of its departure grayed her vision.

Not that there was anything objectionable, on first glance, about the man in the chair, reading a copy of this month's
De Moda.
He was lean and strong, a pleasant topology of muscles evident beneath white shirt and charcoal slacks. Good chin. Very green eyes. Emerald, almost.

“What?” Shale said, half-risen. “What's wrong?”

She caught her breath and guided her nightmares of claws and teeth and chains back to the prisons where they lived in daylight. Her knife faded into the glyphs that ringed her hands and webbed her arm. “Nothing,” she said. “I haven't seen you looking human in a long time.”

He glanced down at himself, confused. “Did I get it wrong?” The features looked different draped over his skull.

“No. I mean, the wardrobe's a bit missionary.”

“That's the point.”

“The last time we talked like this was after I cut off your face and stapled it to a mannequin.”

“I remember,” he said without humor.

“So, we survived.”

“Nobody's more surprised than I am.”

“I did what I could,” she said. “There were too many.”

“Is this how Craftswomen say thank you?”

“We don't, as a rule. But, thank you. I remember the ambulance. Before that it's blurry, except for … the fire. Damn. So he did it.”

“Kos aided us.”

“He shouldn't have. I need to get to the sanctum. Where in the nine hells are my clothes?”

“Shredded. Unless you want to pass for a cover model on a planetary romance, I think they're a lost cause. Try these.” He pointed with the rolled-up magazine to a garment bag on the chair beside him, which bore the crossed-keys logo of Adelaide & Stears. “I guessed your size. Hope I wasn't too far off.”

She snatched the bag and closed the curtains around her bed with a wave. As she untied the back of her gown, she heard him say, “You're welcome.”

*   *   *

The nurses had a fit when Tara tried to check out. Fortunately, the hospital knew how to handle fits. Tara ignored the usual arguments: that she should spend the day in bed at least; that her injuries, though superficial, merited observation given the slow infections that could spread from demonglass. Not a risk to her. Probably. Under normal circumstances. Regardless, she couldn't afford the time.

“That was an unorthodox exit,” Shale said when they were safely a block away from the hospital. “They probably aren't used to patients who turn into eight-foot-tall shadow monsters and jump out a window.”

She removed her jacket and clipped off stray tags with her work knife. “They'll be happy to have their bed back. Why shops put so many pins in button-front shirts I'll never know.” She drew one from her collar, the third she'd missed in her hurry to dress. “Blood for the cotton gods?”

“It's so you can wear them fresh without ironing. You'll see it most often with golem-loom shirts, though a few tailors use them, too.”

She donned the jacket and flexed her arms to test its fit. The fabric was the color of churned cream, and lush to the touch. “Fashion's an odd interest for someone who wears clothes once every never.”

He crossed his legs. “I was made to be a scout, a spy.” His voice sounded strange denuded of its rumbling bass undertones and the susurrus of gravel.

“I remember.” Another pin in her side. That one at least had to be part of some weird ritual, or else a joke. Not that there was much difference between the two, in her experience.

“Infiltration is more than speed, and stealth is more than shadows. This flesh mask helps me walk through a city unnoticed, but skin is only part of the problem. People notice clothes that don't fit. Before the God Wars it wasn't hard. Clothes changed slowly. I once knew the traditional attire of all walks of life from the old Quechal kingdoms, from Iskar and Telomere and the Ebon Sea and Schwarzwald, Dhisthra and the Gleblands, Zur and Trälheim and the Shining Empire. I could pass for Telomeri street scum, a Zurish horse-lord, a midrank Imperial scholar with a gambling dependency. My knowledge staled slowly, since few were so pampered as to change their attire for a season's fashion. After the God Wars, though”—he shook his head in wonder and confusion—“golem mills and Craftwork-enhanced manufacture made clothes cheap, and as gods' holds relaxed, fashion churn spread from fops to the normal world. Though recent Iskari scholarship has challenged that narrative.” He shrugged, which gesture too seemed strange in his human guise—less threatening without wings.

“You read fashion magazines to be a better spy.”

“In Dresediel Lex four years ago, young men wore spats to nightclubs. Spats. Three decades back, young New World urbanites developed an affection for flare-hemmed trousers and suits the color of stained wood. Imagine trying to enter an office wearing such dress today. I would be memorable, and memorable is bad for a spy. And, having made a study of the discipline, it's fascinating to see the ways you people—mean humans—repeat old themes, coding religious iconography into fabric. Last year a hemstitch developed in the gowns of priestesses of the Vasquan man-gods made a forceful appearance at the Tehan Fashion Show.”

“It's a good suit,” she said, removing what she hoped was a final pin, and with some reluctance added, “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

A larger part of her than she was comfortable with wanted to take him at his word. She had enough soulstuff saved at First of Alt Coulumb to cover rent and loans, but doubted her tiny surplus could absorb a shopping trip by a fashion-bug gargoyle. Still—“I can buy my own clothes.”

“Yesterday you fought for our Lady and were hurt in her defense. So were my brothers and sisters. Scree will take a long sleep in stone before she wakes, and Aev bears new scars. We are built for war. We were made to endure such wounds. You're human.”

“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 worse
s 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.”