Four Roads Cross

by Max Gladstone

  From her height, Tara saw the forest move.

  Shadows detached from the trees—wolves and bears and hawks. Groundwater contamination hit hardest at the food chain’s highest links; squirrels and field mice limped while the wolves ran smooth, faster in death than life. Birds arrowed through the purple sky.

  Dead things flowed up the mountain slopes. The Keeper called them home, as she called to ancient sailors’ compass needles—the earth stolen from her had seeped into these beasts, and now they returned to rest.

  They left trails of rotted flesh, and when they found a niche that fit, they curled there and slept. A wolf pillowed its chin on its paws like a dog beside a fire and wept metal tears that soaked into cracked stone.

  A fingernail of shadow took flight from the Drakspine and approached.

  No. Tara must have had the distance wrong. It couldn’t be that big. There were dragons in the world, of course, but not here.

  She caught her breath when she recognized the sweeping wings.

  The condor landed above her, settling onto a rocky throne. The bird was twice her size, with pinions long and black and red. Worms turned beneath its crest.

  It was beautiful.

  The condor looked down, and Tara looked up. The Keeper had called her children home. How much of the goddess lived in each of them? Could Shale hear her through this bird?

  “I’ll come back for you,” she said.

  The condor nodded, or bobbed its head. The sun’s last light caught its eyes.

  Okay, Tara prayed. Sun’s down. Moon’s up. Whenever you’re ready.

  I’m sorry, the goddess replied. We’re experiencing technical difficulties at the moment.

  * * *

  The gargoyles lasted longer than Daphne expected. Stone did not tire as did flesh. Lacking any well-mannered metabolism, their muscles could not be poisoned by the by-products of their use. Good thing Daphne did not tire, either.

  At last a gargoyle slipped—she caught it in a shell of infinite space, held it still, and pierced. The goddess scrambled to free Daphne’s prisoner, too late—Daphne snared two more, and then a fourth. The goddess tried to burn Daphne from the world, but the circle blunted that attack. Needles of red light pierced gargoyle throats, and the power she tore from them was sweet.

  The fight against Wakefield had been a Craftswoman’s struggle: structures of proof and argument falling before Daphne’s knife only to re-form in answer to each cut. That work was elegant; this, routine. All she had to do was repeat, again and again, the simple, incontrovertible fact that gargoyles could die.

  As could their goddess.

  It would not do to yawn before the Judge. So when the machine Daphne had become finally snared the gargoyle queen, when the Stone Men and Women weakened, she pinched her earlobe between thumb and forefinger—a stopgap remedy an herbalist once suggested she try to keep alert.

  That cleared things up nicely.

  Blood dripped from her earlobe onto her suit. One more bill for dry cleaning.

  * * *

  Fire flared on the sanctum altar. Nestor fell. Bede knelt by his side and cradled the old man’s head.

  Rage swelled in Abelard. He smelled blood, and Craft, and blasphemy.

  He’d spent a day opening his mind to God, and now felt His fury.

  Cardinal Aldis groaned. Veins stood out on the backs of her hands, and at her temples. She fought—they all did—to contain God’s wrath.

  Lord Kos could burn the Craftsmen from the sky—exposing Himself as He protected Seril. To survive, He’d have to kill them all, to press the battle to the world’s corners, to fight and win a God War on his own. Impossible.

  He might try anyway.

  Moans of pain, grinding teeth, shattered prayers, Father forgive, blessed by flame, transfigured into sacred ash—their voices burned with the Godhead, their twiglike fingers clutched to stay a charging boar.

  Bede had caught Nestor when the old man fell. No one had yet stepped up to lead the prayer. Cardinals babbled, drunk on vintages of rage grown rich through years of cultivation.

  But Abelard was no Lord of the Church. He was younger, and less confirmed in anger.

  His knees shook as he stood. Hands reached for him, voices rose to reproach his temerity. He climbed to the altar and turned to face the Cardinals. Their stares fixed him like a butterfly to a board.

  Surely it was harder to die and rise again than to lead the Cardinals in prayer.

  Surely.

  He held out his hands and spoke the words.

  Glory to Your Flame—

  * * *

  The machine that was Daphne Mains advanced to the circle’s edge. The gargoyle queen strained against her razor web.

  “Your Honor,” Daphne said. “Kos’s off-books relationship with Seril is doubly insidious. Kos’s exposure to her undermines his own operations and poses a serious threat to global thaumaturgy. Even when limited by contract, such off-books dependencies are dangerous. This bond, however, depends not on obligation or performance but on a reasonable facsimile of sentiment. Of love.”

  She gestured, and Aev floated toward her in the air. The gargoyle reared against her bonds. A crack opened in her left bicep, so deep that moonlight flowed through.

  “The Craft recognizes noncontractual relationships between competitors only. As Justice Iron Hand affirmed in the Antitrust Cases, thaumaturgical dynamism requires the existence of free entities in competition. There is no direct competition between Kos and Seril. The equipoise of opposites leads to stagnation. Nor does this theological juxtaposition even qualify as equipoise, for the positions of these opposites are not equal. Kos shelters this moon goddess, this memory of a dead age, in her weakness. He has embroiled his creditors and shareholders in a risk with no demonstrated reward—a risk that might well be infinite, for no matter how Seril is attacked, he will always come to her rescue. And rescue will be required, because she is weak.”

  Aev roared.

  “Objection,” Wakefield said, “on relevance.”

  The Judge frowned. “Counsel. Please decide. Do you stand for Seril, or not?”

  “I do not. But as Ms. Mains’s argument touches on my client, I believe I am entitled to speak.” With one hand Wakefield indicated the gargoyles, the crystal towers, the broken sky and cringing city. “We hardly seem to have stood on courtroom procedure thus far.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Ms. Mains has introduced evidence documenting Kos’s previous onetime infusions of soul into the moon goddess Seril. But two instances do not establish a pattern.” Wakefield pointed to the snared gargoyles. “These theatrics might have been saved for a juried case. Despite the torment Ms. Mains is inflicting on Seril at the moment, my client has not intervened. I for one would appreciate it if Ms. Mains either arrived at a point, or stopped wasting our time with procedural pretense and cut to the villainous guffaws. If she wishes a mustache to twirl, I imagine the city below contains a costume shop willing to provide one.”

  “Counsel has a point, Ms. Mains,” the Judge said. “What do you plan to accomplish by tossing these war machines around my courtroom?”

  The moonlight that dripped from the gargoyle queen’s wounds smelled like honey and would taste so sweet. Daphne ached to cross the circle and tongue the broken stone. “I am sorry for the delay, Your Honor. My argument requires one further step.”

  “Take it.”

  “I will show you how vulnerable this off-books relationship makes Kos,” she said. “Now.”

  She held her hand palm down and curled her fingers into a small, tight fist. Her knuckles cracked.

  Glass-blue tendrils dug into the gargoyles’ limbs. They roared with voices of stone.

  And the machine beneath whose shell Daphne, weeping, lay—it sipped Goddess, and shivered.

  * * *

  Cardinal Librarian Aldis turned her gaze on Abelard and for once he did not flinch. Her voice joined his. The others followed. Bede, kneeling, cheeks wet, beside the dais, cradling
Nestor as Abelard had cradled another imperfect servant in another dark time, also prayed. Their voices were one voice from many throats.

  And out from the ashes of deep time

  Did answer to our still greater need—

  Abelard knelt. The city was their army, and he sprinted at the vanguard toward a great Known, a fire bigger and deeper than time.

  He was the city. A church group gathered in the basement of the Slaughter’s Fell chapel where he held service the night before, and he was their cooling coffee and their prayers. Three sooty children in crates dockside whispered prayers to candle flame, and he was with them.

  So was He.

  And He was furious.

  * * *

  There is no drug in all the worlds like a goddess’s taste: an all-body high, a skin-crawling vein-throbbing rush richer for its transgression. Soulstuff not drawn from the natural world, not borrowed or traded from human minds, but raw meaning, ontological satisfaction heated ’til it bubbles in a spoon and shot into the arm with a needle lathed from a child’s fingerbone. Even Daphne-beneath-shells, Daphne-observer, felt that, lapped at it even as she hated the hunger each taste instilled in her.

  Daphne-outside, though, the fighter, the monster built to win—she loved this. Power surged through the engines that comprised her. Maestre Gerhardt had written: gods are beings with which human communities exist in relationship.

  Fine. One relationship was that of diner to meal.

  Seril flagged. Soon Kos would come, and she would have him too.

  * * *

  The God raged. A day of stings, tests, and violation, of questions posed by gnats to His own person, all reached a head in this pustule of indignity. He had ignored the Craftsmen as they broke the world, for there were crimes on all sides of the Wars. He had not joined Seril in battle, for She endangered Their people by fighting. When She died, He wept. He would not lose Her again. Not here, in His own city, when all He had do was close his hand and crush—

  No, Abelard prayed. No, my Lord.

  There was a timeless pause through the city.

  The Goddess screamed, and Abelard knew Her voice. Cat was in that scream, and Aev, and his mother, and Tara, and they were dying, they were being pulled to the edge, they would break—

  Wait, he prayed.

  They need us.

  They do. But if we go to them, we surrender the cause they suffer for.

  She hurts.

  Trust Her, though. Trust Tara.

  * * *

  “It looks bad,” Raz said. “They’re about to give.”

  “Okay.” Cat crouched on the rooftop. “Here we go.”

  And there was silver.

  What are you doing? the Goddess roared. There was too much pain for Her to do anything but roar. Cat felt that pain through the Suit, as if she’d touched a burning kiln. We had a deal.

  Sorry, she prayed, and flew.

  * * *

  And Cat, Abelard added as a silver streak rose through the distorted sky. You can definitely trust her.

  * * *

  Daphne did not expect the cop.

  Winged, quicksilver, she was a thing of violence bent to other ends than war. She flew to the circle’s edge, and her skin reflected Daphne transformed, freed from flesh.

  Ms. Mains, the cop said. You are under arrest.

  She blinked. “You have no authority within the circle.”

  I am not concerned with the case you have come to try. You are assaulting several citizens of Alt Coulumb, including these gargoyles and their goddess.

  “Then Kos claims responsibility for Seril.”

  You’d like that, the cop replied, and there was an edge of smile beneath the silver. But no. Justice is supported by both Kos and Seril, but she’s a separately managed subsidiary, charged with protecting Alt Coulumb’s people. Seril and her children are, technically, people of Alt Coulumb. If you attack them, you face Justice.

  Daphne turned to the Judge, who shrugged, then back to the cop. “Nonsense.”

  I spent a lot of time in the library piecing this together, the cop said. And I hate libraries. But if I’m right, that circle protects you from people who want to interfere with your case. Question is, whether it will also save you from someone who wants you on criminal charges. Let’s see.

  She stepped forward as if the air were a floor, and crossed the circle’s edge.

  The cop shifted her neck as if to crack it.

  Well. That’s interesting.

  “Your Honor,” Daphne said.

  “She has a point, Ms. Mains.”

  “The circle isn’t technically in Alt Coulumb.”

  “The circle isn’t technically anywhere. But Alt Coulumb has long-standing mutual extradition arrangements with the Courts of Craft. You are, of course, entitled to defend yourself.”

  “Very well.” Daphne called lightnings to her. “Arrest me, or try. Do you think that silver suit will save you? I can see its weaving. I will break you and the witless construct you serve.”

  Which is why I didn’t come alone.

  She pointed down.

  The rooftops swarmed with silver. Hundreds of figures waited there, tensing to jump.

  They whistled like arrows through the sky.

  Then the cop hit Daphne in the face.

  * * *

  There we go, the Goddess said. Back on track. Are you still—

  I’m fine, Tara prayed. Just bring the road.

  The moon filled from its crescent, and the sky darkened as lesser stars failed. The mountain, too, faded, and the camp below, and the forest, and the Drakspine ridge—everything but the rock on which Tara sat cross-legged with her briefcase.

  “What’s happening here?” she said, out loud, to the moon. “I mean, really happening.”

  Does it matter?

  “Yes.”

  We are all patterns after a fashion, though of different orders. I can usher you from your order into mine, and sustain you as you travel. Distance is one, here—the moon is the same everywhere.

  “You’re wrapping me inside yourself.”

  For a while.

  “My briefcase, too?”

  Do you always question miracles this much?

  “Yes.”

  Your belongings will remain intact.

  “And my soul?”

  If you wish, though it’s a bit bent. I could help you, long as you’re up here. Ease out some of the sharp turns and snarls.

  “I’d rather walk.”

  I care for my own.

  “I am not yours,” Tara said. “Let’s get that clear. I crossed a continent to save you. I challenged gods and Deathless Kings and I left friends behind. I did all that for my own reasons—none of which were, because you told me to.”

  The Goddess laughed, but her laughter hitched in the middle, as if She was in pain.

  “You have priests and priestesses, and you use them. That’s not my path. I won’t command you, but I won’t be your servant either.”

  What, then?

  “Your partner. If you’ll have me.”

  I love you, she said, strange as you are.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Partners. Now, for Spider’s sake, Tara, get on the damn road. Cat won’t last much longer.

  “There’s no road,” she started to say, but there was.

  She stood. She took up her briefcase, and stepped onto the moonlit path.

  67

  Corbin Rafferty wandered through the shadows of his mind, down empty streets beneath the bloody blasted sky. He walked the road’s centerline, following moonsong.

  Umar trailed him. He was shadow, presence, weight. Corbin did not need to look back anymore. He knew his role.

  Near sunset he found himself home, at the apartment he shared with the girls. Lacking a key, he climbed the fire escape outside and pounded on the living room window—would have broken in, but the place was empty. The apartment looked as he left it the night he fell, the night the moon overwhelmed him. The
girls had been gone for a long time.

  Where?

  The song bore him south to Market Square. He had expected the market to stand empty as the rest of the city, and was surprised to find a crowd. The stalls were closed, more than closed, they’d been cleared, pushed back to make room for an audience, hundreds of them, a thousand, even, on blankets and towels, on the filthy cobblestones Ray Capistano had wet with blood each morning for twenty years.

  This was wrong. They should not be here. Something had broken his market. He knew its smells of trade and need. No one should sit rapt in this square. Who had done this? Who had stolen his place from him?

  He knew. He heard. He smelled the stench of silver.

  She was here.

  She had convinced all these fools, seduced them with false comfort. But desperation tainted the silver stench. She needed these people to believe her lies. He could show them. This was his revenge.

  He ran into the square and followed the gaze of these assembled sheep to the Crier’s dais, where, haloed with moonlight, his daughter stood.

  “Ellen!” he roared, and ran to her.

  * * *

  Raz watched the war in heaven from his rooftop.

  He saw more than a human could; he sensed the forces that warped the world above. But he ignored them and watched Cat fight.

  She was more than fast: she was the only Blacksuit comfortable in the air. Some of the others spread wings, but none could stay aloft for long. They leapt, instead, and bounced off shields, or caught in webs of light. Their Suits turned against them. Broad-winged skeletal bats flew from the Craftswoman’s briefcase to tangle Blacksuits in thickets of bone.

  Cat wrestled a creature made from broken glass. When the Craftswoman hit her, she bled silver.

  Raz walked the blood jade down his fingers, and up again. There was a song inside it. He felt its hunger, bigger, older, deeper than his own.

  He wanted it. He watched her.

  When?

  * * *

  Tara walked the moon road.

  Tara walked with/was the goddess/moon walking herself.

  Space did not exist out here, so how could there be time? How could one being endure separate from others? In this realm stories told each other, tales tangled in tales. On the mountain there was a monastery and within the monastery was a young monk and an old, and the young monk asked the old, master tell me a story, and the master said, on the mountain—