Gustave glanced over his shoulder at Ms. Kevarian, as if he were about to argue. At last he decided against it, and addressed the young priest. “Abelard?”
“Yes, Cardinal?”
“Will you serve Lady Kevarian?”
Tara hoped he would refuse. The Craft involved would be hard enough without Abelard scuttling along scattering ash in her wake. Sure, he understood his faith better than Tara did, but the Craft was the Craft. What use had she for local mysticism?
Besides, the death of his god seemed to have struck the young priest deeply. Working with the divine corpse might be too much for him to bear.
He looked at Ms. Kevarian, and she looked back. He did not quail, or turn away.
“Yes, Father.”
*
After that, the meeting dissolved into logistics. Ms. Kevarian waved her hand through the air and produced a long list of components they required: candles made from blood wax, a box of bone chalk, various thaumaturgic implements of sterling silver and copper and ironwood. They were to room within the Sanctum, on a floor reserved for guests. Tara asked for a wig stand for her room, and pointedly ignored Ms. Kevarian’s questioning glance. She’d explain later.
Cardinal Gustave had things to do. “You are here to save our Church, but in the meantime I must prepare for its demise.” Abelard led them upstairs to their rooms, which were surprisingly posh when compared with the Gothic complexity of the worship halls below, and with the bright, spacious offices. Tara’s chambers would have satisfied a merchant prince. Pale walls and plush carpet set off the luxurious red leather upholstery of her armchair and the clawed golden feet of her vanity table. The bed was a four-poster, complete with gossamer curtains, like something out of an old novel.
Someone had even found her a wig stand.
Abelard produced a wrench out of a hidden pocket in his robe, opened a panel concealed behind one of the room’s full-length mirrors, and did something that involved a lot of swearing and banging. Minutes later, he announced he had connected her bell-pull to the call box in his quarters, in case she needed anything. He then retired, tripping over the hem of his robe on the way out. Ms. Kevarian remained with Tara to drink a cup of tea and discuss business.
Tara sat on her divan, watching the gas burner’s flame lick the belly of the small iron kettle, and counted to ten before Ms. Kevarian said, “How is Judge Cabot?”
“Dead,” Tara replied. “Murdered.”
Ms. Kevarian blinked, once.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Tara said.
“I won’t say I was expecting his murder, but it was a possibility.”
“You think it has something to do with the case? With Kos?”
“Cabot was one of my oldest contacts in the Craft in this city. If someone tried and failed to kill me, it stands to reason he might be in danger as well.” She stood, and began to pace. Her shadow and her mood sucked light from the room. “He was destroyed, I take it?”
“No hope of raising him. Most of the organs gone. I couldn’t have pulled his memories even if the Blacksuits had left me alone with the body.”
Ms. Kevarian said nothing. The darkness around her deepened.
“You said you knew the man?” Tara asked.
“He worked on the Seril case. Fair judge. That was forty years ago, and he wanted to get out of the game even then.” She stopped pacing and stood, eyes closed, hands at her side, for a moment that stretched. “Tell me the circumstances.”
She told her everything. The butler’s screams, talking her way in to see the body, its condition. Ms. Kevarian asked Tara for exceptional detail there, and she described the corpse, its expression, its disposition, and especially its vertebrae. But the gargoyle interested Ms. Kevarian most.
“Here?”
“Hand to any god you want to name.”
“You’re sure?”
“One minute, seven and a half feet tall, big beak, wings and talons and teeth.” She raised one arm to its fullest extent over her head. “The next he turns inside out and becomes a six-one kind of handsome guy. Dark hair, green eyes. Definitely not a golem. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Is he alone? His Flight—his group—have they returned?”
That question came a little fast. “Is there something I should know?”
“Answer me.”
Her tone chilled the air in Tara’s lungs. She took another breath. “He didn’t say much.”
“He’s in Blacksuit custody?”
“His body is.”
Ms. Kevarian stopped her pacing. Something welled within her chest, a cracking, burbling sound that Tara realized with shock was laughter. “His body. You brilliant girl.”
Tara felt a fierce rush of pride, but by now she knew better than to stop and bask in her boss’s praise.
She opened her purse and reached for the book within. Before she could produce it, Ms. Kevarian laid an iron-cold hand on her wrist. “You’ve done well, but I must be able to answer truthfully when Justice asks me about this.”
“Got it.” She released the book and withdrew her hand. “I was just looking for a pen.”
“Under no circumstances are you to attempt to ascertain whether Cabot’s death was connected with our business here.”
“Of course not,” Tara replied with a knowing nod.
“You are certainly not to pursue this line of inquiry on your own. It seems unlikely that his death has any bearing on our case. Cabot’s death, and our own troubles, and Kos’s demise, are clearly related by no more than coincidence.”
“Clearly.” The kettle screamed. Tara poured some tea into her mug. “And I’m not supposed to start at once?”
“Actually, no,” Ms. Kevarian said. “I need you and Abelard to begin document review. Go through everything we have, and see how complete a picture you can assemble of what happened to Kos. Get a report to me by tomorrow morning.”
“Boss…” That book with its silver-traced binding felt like a lead weight in her purse. Every minute it sat there, the trail grew colder. “Don’t we have more important things to worry about?”
“Extracurricular matters do compete for our attention, but we are obliged to serve our clients.” Ms. Kevarian ran her thumbs down the lapels of her jacket. “In your case, the obligation is personal, as well as professional.”
Tara frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I have a great deal of influence and seniority within our firm, but I am not all-powerful.” Ms. Kevarian paused. Tara waited, and at last her boss found the words she sought. “The circumstances surrounding your graduation from the Hidden Schools convinced me that you had a place with Kelethras, Albrecht, and Ao. However, those same circumstances disturbed some senior partners at the firm.”
Striking at her teachers and masters with fire, with lightning, with shadow and thorn. Laughing as they threw her from Elder Hall into the void above the Crack in the World. Tara swallowed. “I didn’t have much choice in the matter.”
“So I said, when Belladonna Albrecht challenged my recommendation. Nevertheless, my colleagues’ reservations prevailed. For months I advocated on your behalf, without success.” Ms. Kevarian glanced back at Tara, her face composed. “At last, this case came across my desk, and with it my chance. The firm chose me for this assignment, and due to the sensitive nature of the case, they gave me staffing authority. I chose you.”
Tara counted back the days, the hours, since Kos died. Hiring a new associate took time. Ms. Kevarian couldn’t have left for Edgemont more than a day after word of the god’s death reached her, hardly enough time to ink the complex contracts and pacts binding Tara to the firm. “This isn’t settled, is it? You have me for the moment, but they haven’t decided whether to let you keep me.” The language rankled: keep, give, as if she were a possession, or a prize.
“You are on a, shall we say, performance plan. If you perform to my expectations, your position with the firm is assured. If you fail, or compromise our clients, then our time together will be cut short.” She shook her head. “I do not appreciate working under such conditions. I do not wish to threaten you into obedience. I would not have told you, but that I want you to understand the risks you face, and the gravity of the task we were called here to perform.”