Four Roads Cross

by Max Gladstone

  Behind her, someone screamed.

  She turned just in time to see a reddish blur streak from her couch to bedroom. By the time the bedroom door slammed, the rest of the night had caught up with her: the trip to the hospital, the pain of healing, endless tests, after-action report, the order to go home, staggering back as dawn blued and pinked the east between skyscrapers. And with her that whole time—

  She opened the window to let out the smell of burning skin, and tugged the blackout curtains shut. “Raz?” She ran to the bedroom door. “Shit, Raz, are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I forgot you were here. Say something!”

  The door opened a crack, and a red-brown eye peered out. Above that eye stretched a charcoaled forehead, regrown skin wet and tender beneath the blackening and cracks. “Your room is a mess,” he said.

  She reached for the burn and he pulled back. “You can come out.”

  The crack between door and jamb widened to admit Raz’s whole face. “How can you sleep in here?”

  “When I’m tired. I keep the public space clean.”

  “I clean the place I sleep.”

  “You’re a sailor, and you sleep in a coffin. You don’t have much choice in living arrangements.”

  “Or not, as the case may be.” He slid out the door. With one fingernail he peeled back an edge of blackened skin.

  She made a face her mom wouldn’t have liked, but to hells with Mom. “Does that hurt?”

  “Yeah. Garbage?”

  “Under the sink.”

  He leaned the can against his leg and deposited charred bits of self inside.

  She watched, intrigued at first. “You want coffee?” She caught herself too late. “Habit, sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No coffee.” She squeezed past him to the sink and poured water in the kettle. “I never put that one together.”

  “Coffee’s one of the few I miss.” Flakes of burned skin made a sound like light rain as they struck the trash bag. “I didn’t notice the first few days of headache. I had a lot of getting used to do, after.” His wave included fangs and all. “Later, withdrawal symptoms were worse. Stabbing muscle cramps in my legs and back. I thought the transformation went wrong. Turns out that’s just the drug leaving your system. Not fair, if you ask me. If a dreamdust addict turns, most of the time she finds someone to share the high. By the time I wake up, most of you have metabolized your caffeine.” His skin was clear, mostly. He returned the garbage can to its cabinet, bent over the sink, splashed hot water on his face, and scrubbed. She’d ground her coffee with a hand mill and dumped the grounds into the press. “Sorry I gave you a hard time about your room. Where I live, you have to tie stuff down.”

  The kettle whistled. She plucked it off the burner, waited half a minute, flooded the grounds, and stirred. “I’ve been busy at the office, and getting my act together. Some things slip through the cracks. Plus, I don’t have many guests. Mom and Dad live out in the Fell, and we haven’t spoken in years.”

  “No gentlemen callers.”

  “No callers, gentlemen or otherwise.”

  “Thank you for inviting me to your secret lair.” He leaned against the counter and watched her press the coffee. Flared nostrils invited the aroma, and he exhaled. “I could have found a hotel.”

  Light tessellated the coffee’s surface as she poured. “My memory of last night’s hazy.”

  “Mine, too,” he said too quickly. “We can just—”

  “You drank my blood.”

  “A taste, to regain enough strength to move.”

  “It felt different.”

  “It would.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I want to know.”

  He touched his chest. “I need what you have, the way you need air. For most suckers that settles the question. Blood’s a resource, like water or oil, and like water or oil, the people who need it do whatever they need to get it. That attitude ignores the why of the condition.”

  “Okay,” she said, meaning, go on.

  He did, with arms crossed. “I only know so much theory, but here it is. When you take the curse, it seals your soul and self. The curse stops change. That’s why my hair grows back if it’s burned off, why my muscles don’t tire. But the seal makes it hard to take soulstuff in. Humans, you get paid or eat a good meal or meditate and you draw the world into yourself. We don’t. This is how we refill.” He pointed to his mouth. “The curse is thousands of years older than Craftwork, but the idea’s the same. Imagine if the only way you could connect with the world was to steal it from someone else.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “I use tricks. The Bounty has its own soul, and we share. There are other ways, which boil down to knowing the other person well, so you can accept and trade, rather than just taking. That’s why it felt different.” He stopped. “Feeding makes a connection between us. The curse wants it to be one-way. I can force it back. At Andrej’s, when you—surprised me, it felt so good, and I wasn’t ready. The curse took over. I freaked out.”

  “Then you blamed me for it.”

  “That was an asshole move on my part.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Why fight what you are?”

  “Because the curse isn’t me. I’m what I was before, only the curse tries to make me something else. It’s old, and it’s had a lot of time to learn how to make people see other people as food. Most suckers don’t last fifty years. They go mad, or get killed, or sleep their lives away. Or they walk out into the ocean and never come back.”

  “I haven’t heard that one before.”

  “We don’t talk about it much,” he said. “I don’t like any of those options. I’ve walked the line for decades, but I still slip.”

  “And last night.”

  “Last night, you’d saved my life three times, and I’d saved yours at least once. I trusted you. I was ready.”

  “Are you still?”

  They were closer than before. She’d pushed herself off the counter and approached him, step by tender step. His mouth was open.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s right for you.”

  Again, the knock, followed by a voice like a knife scraped over a guitar string. Ms. Elle?

  “Just a sec.”

  She marched toward the door and realized halfway there she still wasn’t wearing a shirt. Dammit. A bathrobe hung on a hook in her bedroom; she grabbed it, tied the belt around her waist.

  A Blacksuit stood in the hallway, female of figure, glistening.

  “What’s up?”

  You are summoned.

  “It’s my day off.”

  There is to be a council of war.

  40

  “We’re in trouble,” Tara told those gathered in the cramped black stone room. The Cardinals listened, along with Shale, and Abelard who’d arrived escorted by a few eager monks who in any other setting Tara would have described as groupies, and a few officers of Justice, and Cat. They were all here: clerics, gargoyles, Blacksuits, and the gods they served, whose attention she could detect, when she blinked, as ripples in Craftwork spiderwebs. “Much as I support Cardinal Bede’s decision to decline Ms. Ramp’s deal, he’s left us in a hard spot. In three days, Ramp will bring the weight of the world down on our shoulders. We can’t fight that alone.”

  “Can we fight it at all?” Bede rubbed his pipestem as he smoked. He’d put on a brave show before, but he was worried. Good.

  “Let’s review the plan: your creditors will claim the church misrepresented the risks to which Kosite was exposed. They’ll use that to bleed Him dry.”

  * * *

  Madeline Ramp stood feet wide-spread on roiling chaos amid nightmare clouds, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders broad and square as a general’s. Daphne watched, taking notes.

  Lightning licked from cloud to cloud as immense shapes swelled and sharpened into faces: sku
lls with eye sockets in which strange fires danced, ruined visages of women, cracked marble countenances that might have stared from ruined temples onto trackless wastes, beings bird headed or goat bearded, the world’s secret chiefs swelled to the size of mountain ranges. Some were gods. Some were Deathless Kings. Some were not quite either—she recognized a Southern Throne-Lord by her pitted face and dried tight skin.

  Call them clients. Easier that way.

  “It is a pleasure to see you all again,” Madeline Ramp said. “And thank you for coming on such short notice. Alt Coulumb has taken up our gauntlet. Soon, we begin the war.”

  The thunder laughed.

  * * *

  “Fortunately,” Tara said, “Kos can fight back. He has a broad worshipper base and a diverse portfolio. We can make a strong case Seril has had little impact on his operations, or his creditworthiness, so far. Seril just isn’t big enough—her balance sheet disappears into his operating budget. That’s your first line of defense: cleric up and bluster through. The ‘come at me’ option.”

  “Which leaves the Lady vulnerable,” Shale said. The Cardinals, particularly Nestor, squirmed in their chairs.

  “Right. Alt Coulumb’s people back Kos, but they won’t support Seril yet.” She took a sip of bad coffee and grimaced. A scribe arrived at the door, bearing copied documents; she passed them out, though they were short one copy, so Cat had to share with the Blacksuit rep. “Ramp’s opinion of our side isn’t high. She sees a junior Craftswoman and priests she’s quick to dismiss. Since she thinks we’re weak, she’ll press Kos first—like inviting an idiot’s mate in chess. She’ll try to win quickly. If we don’t crumble, she’ll turn to Seril for the endgame.”

  * * *

  Ramp regarded each of her thunderhead clients in turn.

  “Kos’s clergy’s faith is shaken. First we will strike their core operations, with accusations of mismanagement and undisclosed risk. If we succeed, we sweep the field: if found malfeasant, the priests will have to surrender control over Kos.”

  A man who wore a mask of flesh showed green-flashed teeth. “Your chance of success seems low.”

  “We don’t hope to win this round, just to force Kos’s clergy to retrench theologically. They’ll proclaim faith, affirm core principles, rouse the masses. Which, in turn, will undermine the moon goddess’s attempts to establish herself among the populace.”

  * * *

  “So we should let Kos take care of Himself, and focus on defending Seril.”

  “No,” Tara said. “We use her feint as an opportunity.”

  The skin around Nestor’s eyes crinkled like an apricot’s. “Because it gives us more time?” He was a man of gears and fans and belts, not thaumaturgy. Tara had to slow down, or lose him.

  “Because chess is a bad analogy for an argument. We don’t start with an array of forces and remove them from the board one after another. We start with a blank board and build our position in the context of theirs. They’ll expect us to defend Kos so fiercely we’ll ignore Seril.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How would you shore up faith in Kos, ordinarily?”

  “Preach,” Abelard said. “Encourage prayer and reflection.”

  “Using your current theology?”

  “Of course.”

  “Which sees Kos as the center of your faith, and Seril as an afterthought, or a rival.”

  “Ah,” Abelard said.

  “That’s her goal: her attack will push you into fundamentalism, exposing your flank. Then she’ll strike.”

  * * *

  The chaos beneath Ramp’s feet whirlpooled down and out to form a miniature of Alt Coulumb. Claws of light surrounded the model city, curved down, and pierced.

  “That,” Ramp said, “leaves Seril to us. The moon goddess is not strong enough to defeat a direct attack, and we are not bound to respect her as we are Kos. Since she signed no treaties after the Wars, she is technically a combatant still. If we break her, we resolve the main issue and obtain a captive goddess, not without value. But if Kos comes to her defense, we have him.”

  The raven-faced creature croaked a thunderclap. “How can we be sure of defeating Seril?”

  “She is doubly weak: directly and through her creatures.” A mock gargoyle crouched upon Ramp’s open palm, fangs gnashing as it beat its broad wings. She closed her fingers, and stone dust rained onto the miniature city. “When they break, so will she.”

  * * *

  “Justice might also be a target,” Tara admitted, turning to page three, “but Ramp will probably ignore her. The parts of Seril connected with Justice don’t have enough slack to support the Goddess’s mind. If all Seril has left is Justice, she’ll be as good as dead.”

  “How do we protect Seril, then?” Abelard asked. “Evangelism?”

  “Seril draws faith from her new following in the Paupers’ Quarter. Jones’s interview will help, but it’s not enough. The church has to come clean.” Cardinals shifted uncertainly around the room. “Tell the truth about everything that happened last year, about Cardinal Gustave’s death, even.” She challenged each Cardinal with her gaze. “Support her.”

  * * *

  “What if the church pivots to support Seril?” asked a voice made from the screams of children.

  “Doctrine,” Ramp said, “does not corner well. Which brings us to the church’s second, more profound weakness.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ms. Abernathy.”

  “We have heard good report of her,” the crimson elephant said.

  “She is a good Craftswoman, but she’s young. The church will retain other help for the battle itself—Kelethres Albrecht, most likely—but Ms. Abernathy’s decisions today will determine much, and she’s an optimist. She’ll believe the church can woo a city to supporting Seril—which will not happen in time.”

  “You’re basing a great deal on your estimation of her character.”

  “My assistant”—she pointed to Daphne, who waved—“knows her well. And I have inside knowledge. Besides, Abernathy will remain our principal adversary in the Seril matter. Craft firms can’t defend Seril, since she has made no formal peace with them. Which brings us to the best part.”

  * * *

  “You expect us to undo forty years of religious education in three days.”

  “Of course not,” Tara said. “Hope springs eternal, but the spring constant’s not infinite.” Blank stares. “This is the part you won’t like.”

  Bede crossed his arms.

  “I have a plan to save Seril.”

  Silence.

  “When She died in the God Wars, Her killers carved her to pieces. Denovo remade what was left into Justice, but Seril’s butchers took large sections of her portfolio for themselves. If I get those back, or compensation for their theft, Seril will be able to defend herself against Ramp. She can rise in glory through the night, rule from her high tower, all that good stuff.”

  “Why would we not like that?” Bede asked.

  “There’s a big catch. I have to leave the city, today, for Dresediel Lex.”

  “You can’t.” Abelard rose halfway from his chair. “We need you.”

  “You need a team to defend Kos. I’ll build one. But no Craft firm will touch Seril with a lightning rod, and if we don’t find her missing portfolio, she dies. If I go, we have a chance. If I stay, it’s to fight a losing battle.” She spread her hands. “If anyone at the table has a better idea, feel free to speak up.”

  * * *

  “Tara Abernathy can’t defend Seril. She faces a long grinding battle with defeat at the end. And nothing is more alien to Tara Abernathy. She is brilliant, talented, and fierce. She came from a podunk farm town near the Badlands and worked caravans studying with hedge witches for seven years before she reached the Hidden Schools. The schools kicked her out a thousand feet in the air above the Crack in the World, and she crawled home across a desert surviving on cactus flesh and vulture blood. This is not a woman who knows he
r limits. Back her into a corner, and she will seek a long-shot solution—or invent one. It’s a big world. Plenty of long-shot solutions out there. Deals with old slumbering powers. Pacts with the Golden Horde. Demon mortgages. Lost grails and hidden powers in all their forms. Brilliance can’t bear the prospect of futile struggle. So she’ll go for an edge play.”

  “And fail,” the thunder said.

  “Quests take time she doesn’t have. And when she fails, Alt Coulumb will be ours.” She clasped her hands and shook them as if preparing to cast a die. “Either way, gentlemen, I look forward to the next few days.”

  The storm tolled satisfaction, and high dark clouds laughed, grim and vicious and proud, though not so grim nor so vicious nor so proud as Madeline Ramp.

  * * *

  “Okay,” Tara said. “Let’s get to work.”

  41

  “Thanks for coming,” Tara told Abelard as they rode north to the Alt Coulumb offices of Kelethres, Albrecht, and Ao.

  “You really think this will work?”

  “Maybe.” A pothole jarred them. “If the Cardinals hadn’t played so close to the vest since Seril came back, we wouldn’t be scrambling now.”

  “Churches don’t change overnight,” he said.

  “We’ve had a year.”

  “A year is overnight for a church.” He leaned back into velvet cushions and crossed his arms, smiling around his cigarette.

  “Why so smug?”

  “You said ‘we.’”

  The carriage let them off at the base of a forty-story glass thorn unmarked by gargoyle prayers and veined with elevator shafts. The building had no door, but one opened anyway when Tara approached.

  Black marble and chrome walled the lobby. There were no security guards visible, visible being the operative word. Tara noticed, while they waited for the elevator, that striations in the marble moved when she wasn’t looking.

  “That one looks like a mouth,” Abelard said. “So does that one.”