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“Where are you taking us?” Tara asked.

To judgment.

*

“My Lord.” Cardinal Gustave’s assistant hesitated, uncertain whether to continue. “We have news from Justice.”

The Cardinal sat regarding a page of scripture, his flame-red hood drawn back. “Indeed.”

“The Blacksuits have apprehended a small coven of Stone Men within the city, and believe them guilty of Alphonse Cabot’s murder. You asked to be informed if progress was made on the case.”

“Yes.” Cardinal Gustave closed his book. “Thank you, Theofric.”

“Sir.”

The Cardinal raised one eyebrow at his assistant’s hesitation. “There’s more?”

“Sir, Justice has also arrested Novice Technician Abelard, and Ms. Abernathy, Lady Kevarian’s assistant. I understand Lady Kevarian and her opposing counsel, Professor Denovo, are aware of this development, and are on their way to Justice’s Temple. Justice believes they will object to the arrest.” Theofric waited for a reaction, but saw none. The Cardinal hefted the scripture, weighing the prayers and admonitions within. At last he set the book atop a short stack of papers.

“My Lord?”

Gustave stood, leaning too much on his desk. Moving with heavy steps, he retrieved his staff of office from where it rested against the wall. “Inform Justice that I may attend the hearing, though I am feeling unwell.”

“The faithful are still outside our front door, sir. They are no longer chanting, but their numbers have grown, and they could become dangerous. Should I summon an escort for your carriage?”

“No, Theofric.” He strode to the door. “I must contemplate the throne of our Lord. Find me there if you have need.”

*

Alexander Denovo led Ms. Kevarian through the dancing mass; she followed as if through a fog. It was hard to concentrate. Tara had found the gargoyles. Good. But Justice had found Tara, too. Less good.

They reached the street and raised their arms to call for a cab at the same time. He opened the door, and she stepped in. The carriage shuddered them on their way, the clatter of wheels and hooves over cobblestones rhythmic, hypnotizing.

She folded her hands on the lap of her skirt.

“This is fun, isn’t it,” Alexander said with a manic grin. “You and me? Off once more, on a mad mission to save everything we hold dear? We make a good team, don’t we?”

“We’re not teammates. I told you forty years ago.” She wanted to put more rancor into her words, but she felt so tired. “I want nothing more to do with you. You manipulate. You abuse. You’re not trustworthy.”

There should have been more punch in that last sentence. Instead, it hung lame on the air between them, too insubstantial to resist when Alexander leaned forward and kissed her.

At first, she thought she pulled away, slapped him, called upon her Craft and burned him to ash. Then she realized she had done none of these things.

Her stomach turned. His beard prickled and scratched at the flesh of her cheeks and chin. His lips were cold, passionless. Mocking.

She could not bite him, could not strike him, could not stab him or burn him or crucify him with lightning. Only one option was left: she exhaled Craft and shadow into his open mouth along with air. He fell back, stunned, wearing an impish smile.

“What was that?” he said, rubbing his lips. “You shouldn’t be able to do anything at all. You’re incredibly resourceful.”

“What have you done to me?” She tried to scream but it came out as a dull question.

“Elayne,” he said with gentle reproof, “if you know you’re dealing with a man who can twist your own will against you, perhaps you should be careful how much you let him talk?”

*

The Blacksuits carried Tara, Abelard, and the other captives to black wagons waiting on the street outside. Tara and Abelard were only bound about their arms, while the gargoyles were swaddled in iron. Some tried to shift into human form and escape, but the bonds adjusted to fit the prisoner, immobilizing no matter what perversion of human or animal shape Seril’s children assumed.

Tara and Abelard were placed alone in the second wagon with David, who had been knocked unconscious during the fight. Blacksuits latched the three captives’ bonds into bolts in the wagon walls. Cat frisked them herself. She left Abelard’s priestly work belt untouched, but she wrested a crystal dagger from his pocket despite his protests.

After the wagon doors were closed, Abelard examined their restraints, but had no leverage to free himself or the others.

“Abelard,” Tara said. She still couldn’t believe his presence here, much less his attack on Cat. Was he some kind of hallucination?

“Hi.” His sheepish smile dispelled her doubts. No figment of her imagination could have seemed so earnest. “How have you been keeping yourself?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I saw Cat kill Captain Pelham,” he said. “She’d never do something like that. Nor would Justice. There has to be something wrong with them.”

“I don’t mean why did you try to save me. Why were you at the warehouse at all? Aren’t you supposed to be with Ms. Kevarian?”

“Ms. Kevarian went to dinner with Professor Denovo. She sent me to find you. She wants you to know what we’ve learned.”

A chill ran up Tara’s arms and the backs of her legs. “Tell me everything.”

David groaned, head lolling from side to side as the wagon jerked along. A purpling bruise discolored his mouth and jaw, and a strand of blood stained his pale cheek beneath the new-growth forest of stubble.

Abelard started to talk.

*

Cardinal Gustave stood before the pale metal Altar of the Defiant, upon which bloomed the gold wire cage where his God once sat, judge and friend to the people of Alt Coulumb. Wooden bas relief carvings lined the Sanctum walls around him, readouts disguised as decorations. The position of the sun over that ancient battlefield indicated steam pressure levels in the primary valves, while the racing elephants on the opposite wall displayed the power output of various turbines. Though Kos was gone, all readouts remained nominal. God’s covenant with his people would last until the death of the moon.

Provided nothing untoward happened.

Provided.

“I won’t let what happened to Seril happen to Kos,” Elayne Kevarian had said. Cardinal Gustave would not let such a disaster come to pass either.

“Lord,” he said, praying to a God no longer there to hear, “my life’s work has been to glorify You.” Lantern light cast his face in shadow and flickering flame. “I will set matters right.”

He walked from the altar to the floor-to-ceiling window. As he passed the bas-relief carvings, he tapped a carved monkey’s head on the ear, twisted a soaring falcon twenty degrees counterclockwise, raised a trio of frolicking fish a few inches within their wooden pond, and pulled a lever disguised as a lamp stand. Gears clanked behind metal walls and the window rose, jerkily at first, from its moorings. A rush of wind caught the Cardinal’s thin hair in a silver tangle.

The air rising off the Holy Precinct smelled of fresh-cut grass and urban excess. Far below, the gathered crowd with their lit candles watched the Sanctum and waited for their God to present Himself. They sang old hymns half-remembered from childhood, but even in youth their faith had been weak, and they only remembered traces of the holy words. When the songs could not sustain them they turned to chanting, and occasionally to curses shouted at the black tower. They wanted guidance, and He would guide them, later. At the moment, more important matters commanded His attention.

Northward, an elevated train wound serpentine through the crystal towers of the Deathless Kings. Amid those pinnacles, the Cardinal saw the black pyramid of the Third Court of Craft, and beside it, an edifice of white marble. The Temple of Justice.