Reach the point. Kos died when He should not have. The battles in Iskar were a factor in Kos’s demise, but could not have been so had He been at full power. We accept this for the comment.
Tara waited as the eyes of Blacksuits and chained gargoyles turned to her. She heard tobacco burning at the tip of Abelard’s cigarette. Steepling her fingers, she began to pace.
“Kos was not at full strength that evening because for the last several months he had worked in secret with Judge Cabot to transfer much of his own power out of the Church’s control without its knowledge. Proof of this is on file at the Third Court of Craft.
“Kos contacted Judge Cabot because he learned, through the prayers of the Judge’s son”—she pointed to David, who blanched at being singled out—“that Seril Green-Eyed, Seril Undying, survived the God Wars. Broken, nearly powerless, but alive, preserved by the fervent belief of these few Guardians and others like them. From David, Kos learned that some of his own priests had kept Seril’s survival from him.”
*
Abelard could no longer restrain himself. “That can’t be true.”
Tara had anticipated his interruption, and turned on him with a rejoinder. “You said the Priests of Kos mistrusted Seril and Her Guardians. Is it difficult to imagine some welcomed Her death? Welcomed it enough to prevent Kos from knowing that a part of Her survived?”
The world lurched from side to side. He realized he was shaking his head. “How could they do something like that, even if they wanted to? Men can’t blind gods.”
He said it without thinking, and should have anticipated her slight, pleased smile. “Gods are not almighty. The Craft can circumscribe their powers. The white gravel paths of the Holy Precinct trace a binding circle strong enough to prevent a weakened Seril from contacting Kos. It worked, too, until David Cabot found Seril, and brought news of Her survival back to the City.”
“It’s true,” David said to the watching Blacksuits and to Abelard. “I prayed when I returned to Alt Coulumb. Lord Kos visited my dreams at night, and saw my soul. I led Him to the Guardians, and He began to visit their dreams as well.”
Abelard’s chest clenched around the smoke in his lungs. He sucked air through his cigarette. Which was more improbable: that Tara was lying, or that she was telling the truth? There were traitors within the Church. To bind Kos, to blind Him even in part, was hubris beyond hubris. But someone had blinded Justice, once.
Tara nodded. “How long ago was this, David?”
“Four months. A little more.”
“And after Kos learned Seril was still alive, he sought out your father, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
David’s brow furrowed. “Seril was weak. Lord Kos wanted to help Her by giving Her some of His own power, but He couldn’t do it Himself, because the Church would know. He worked with my father to set something up. I don’t know the details.”
“Wouldn’t Kos’s Church have noticed their god plotting behind their back?”
“They worked late at night, when nobody would notice.”
“By late at night, you mean…”
“After midnight, and before dawn.”
“Abelard.” He recoiled a step as Tara turned back to him. “You told me you had problems contacting Kos during your watch, between one and four in the morning. How long ago did those problems begin?”
“Four months ago,” he replied when he found his voice.
“Four months ago,” she repeated. “Four months ago, the Blacksuits also started to experience a drain on their power, also between one and four in the morning. Isn’t that the case?”
The chamber’s silence weighed on Abelard. He struggled to breathe, and to answer her question. “That’s what Cardinal Gustave told Lady Kevarian, and she told me.”
“Justice is powered by excess heat from Alt Coulumb’s generators, right?”
“Yes.”
“So anything that made the generators run cooler could have caused the outage.”
“That’s right.”
“And if Kos directed the bulk of his power outside the temple, to attend to matters he didn’t want you, or any of his priests, to know about—that would make the generators run cooler, wouldn’t it?”
Fire glared briefly at the tip of his cigarette, in his mouth, in his throat, in his stomach. His clothes felt too tight. His body felt too tight. “Yes. It’s possible.”
She broke eye contact with him and turned to the statue. Black curls swayed about her shoulders. “Four months ago Kos learned Seril was not dead. Four months ago Judge Cabot purchased a pair of Concerns and gave them secretly to Kos, who combined them into a single receptacle for his soulstuff. Kos moved a great deal of his power to this Concern in the small hours of the morning, when nobody but Abelard was watching. He intended to pass control of the Concern to Seril, restoring to his old lover a fraction of Her former glory. As he worked, his fire burned less fiercely in Alt Coulumb’s generators, and Justice grew weak.
“You can find traces of all this at the Third Court of Craft. Cabot sealed most of the files connected with Kos, but everything’s still there—except for Seril’s name on the final contract of transfer. That name was erased from the sealed records by someone who could burn writing off a piece of paper without damaging the surrounding page. This person did not, however, erase the transfer’s date. It was scheduled for yesterday morning.
“Craft is more than words in a ledger, though. A schedule does not guarantee a transfer: a piece of the Concern had to pass from one party to the other. A key. Yesterday Shale was sent to receive this piece from Judge Cabot, and bring it to his Flight, and his Goddess.”
She swung on Cat, the statue of ebony. “Tell me. What do you think happened yesterday morning in Judge Cabot’s garden?”
*
Cat would have taken a step back had her feet not been rooted to the floor. Ordinarily, with the suit on, she felt neither fear nor remorse. She was an instrument of the Lady she served, and a pleasant haze of inevitability cushioned her every action. But Tara’s eyes—
No, not her eyes. Or, not just her eyes. Tara’s pupils, sharp and cold and black as space, were the twin points of a blade that was her entire self, a blade that pierced the Blacksuit and skewered Cat where she stood. For the first time in Cat’s memory, she wanted to speak to someone while suited, not in her official capacity, but as a human being.
She wanted to say, “I’m sorry.”
Tara didn’t give her the chance.
“Describe the condition of Al Cabot’s body.”
The statue of Justice responded in a smooth chorus. Cabot’s body was—
“Not you.”
Gods are not used to being interrupted. Resurrected divine constructs have less experience overall, and as such are even less used to it.
Pardon me?
“You contain many elements, correct, Lady? Your mind works in many directions at once. One segment of you may conduct investigations, another direct patrols, and a third pass judgment.”
Cat swallowed, and felt Justice as a pressure around her throat.
“I want to talk with the part of you that visited Cabot’s penthouse.”
I will speak for it, Cat said without meaning to.
Her flesh chilled. That had been her voice—Justice, talking through her, rather than with her. Never before had she felt so overshadowed, a passenger in her own mind.
“What summoned you to Judge Cabot’s apartment?”
Several months ago, he requested security wards that would record an image at the instant of his death.
“Why did he have these wards installed?”
He believed his business dealings might place him in danger. He was too concerned for his own privacy to request a bodyguard, but he felt this system would protect him against violent death.