“He wasn’t worried about poison? Or death by Craft?”
Cat’s head tilted of its own volition. As a Craftswoman, I expect you know how hard it is to poison someone who has spent his life as deep in darkness as the Judge. His wards would capture the impressions of any Craft used against him.
So complete was Tara’s poise that the bonds clamping her arms to her sides seemed mere adornments. “Tell me about the Judge’s body.”
A flood of images poured through Cat’s mind, too fast for her to comprehend, oceans of blood interrupted by islands of flesh and shoals of broken bone. His body was opened along the spine and his vertebrae removed, thirteen of them then arranged around the corpse in a circle. His arms and legs were splayed, and his eyes plucked out. Craft kept Cabot’s soul bound to his physical form until released by some trigger. Out of the corner of her eye, Cat saw the young human prisoner—the man who claimed to be David Cabot—shake and sweat as if in the throes of a deep fever.
“Do you think one of these Guardians could have done that?”
You claim their mad goddess survives. Who knows what she might be capable of?
Snarls rose from the assembled gargoyles, and Cat felt eleven pairs of furious emerald eyes fix on her.
“Seril Undying,” Tara said carefully, “is an echo of Her former self. But even if She had the strength to accomplish this, She would not have needed the aid of blood and bone. As I told your Blacksuits, Lady, the technique used on Cabot resembles Craft doctors use to preserve a patient until her body recovers. Only a rank amateur would need so powerful a focus as the patient’s spine to produce this effect.
“But there are amateurs in the world. Stranger than the use of the spine was the corpse’s pristine condition. Human Craft takes power from the world around it. Touch it to dead flesh and that flesh decays. Yet Cabot’s body was unspoiled. The power used to bind his soul did not come from a mortal Craftsman or Craftswoman.”
You accuse a God? A priest?
“A god wouldn’t need the spine any more than I do. A priest working miracles with Applied Theology would not need it either. He would tell his god what needed to be done, and the god would do the difficult bits for him. Without a god, an Applied Theologian lacks the control to bind a soul, or to burn a name off a contract without harming the rest of the book. But there are ways to steal divine power, siphon it, and use it to fuel your own Craft. Today Abelard found a circle built for this purpose within the Sanctum of Kos, in an area only the clergy could access.” She glanced over her shoulder at Abelard, who nodded by way of confirmation.
“This circle works by draining heat from the generators’ exhaust before Justice consumes it. When used, the circle weakens the Blacksuits, the same way they were weakened when Kos made Alt Coulumb’s generators run cool. If I’m right, Justice had several brown-outs yesterday, one of which began about an hour before Cabot died.”
Justice did not reply. Cat wanted to assent, but she was trapped within herself.
“The Judge was … dismantled … before Shale”—Tara pointed to the slender Stone Man—“set foot on his rooftop. Killed by a priest with a god’s power but a student’s skill—the same priest who used Kos’s fire, finely controlled, to erase Seril’s name from the records in the Third Court of Craft. He feared that if Seril gained access to Kos’s body, She would destroy what was left of him, and do to his clergy what his clergy did to Hers.
“Shale found Judge Cabot lying in a pool of blood, and unwittingly broke the Craft that kept him alive, as the murderer expected. Cabot died, triggering his security wards. Shale had opportunity, but neither motive nor method. Our priest had all three.”
*
Abelard clutched at Tara’s arm. “Do you actually think a priest did this?”
“I do.”
“We couldn’t, I mean, nobody would have…” Both sentences withered to ash in his lungs. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “But I have a suspicion.”
Suspicion, Justice boomed, is insufficient.
The waiting Blacksuits leaned forward, birds of prey prepared to launch themselves at the accused. Justice looked on, merciless.
Time ran down like an unwound clock, and was shattered by a deep, familiar voice. “I have evidence to introduce in Ms. Abernathy’s support.”
Many heads turned in the Temple of Justice, but none so fast as Tara’s. The ground beneath her feet shook, and rage sped her beating heart.
Through the doors of the grand hall, thumbs thrust into his belt loops, black eyes blazing and chin held high, strode Alexander Denovo. Elayne Kevarian followed him.
19
“Professor,” Tara said coldly as he advanced. “Why are you here?”
“Tara.” He saluted her. His smile was wide and white as a deep wound. “I’d like you to remember this in the future. Me riding in out of the night to save your ass.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“If it hadn’t sounded like Justice was about to confine you to her deepest, darkest dungeons, I would not have stepped in to help.”
Ms. Kevarian said nothing. Perhaps she supported Professor Denovo, though it was outlandish to think so. Or—was her step more wooden than usual, her expression more stiff? Tara blinked and looked on the world with a Craftswoman’s eyes, but the hall was too crowded with interlacing weaves to identify the cobweb strands that would have bound Ms. Kevarian’s mind to the Professor’s, had he suborned her. Tara thought back frantically. Had her boss been in step with Denovo as they entered the chamber?
“Well?” the Professor asked. “No ‘Thank you, Professor’? Fortunate for you that I’m a generous man.” He addressed the goddess he had blinded. “I can prove the truth of Tara’s allegations. A senior official within Kos’s Church hired me four months ago to investigate a power failure. In my research, I learned of the god’s desire to aid our stone companions.” The nearest gargoyle lunged for his legs; a blinding flash erupted from the floor, and when Tara blinked the spots from her eyes, the Guardian lay in a fetal position, clutching his smoldering abdomen and surrounded by chips of broken stone. Denovo had not looked away from Justice, nor allowed the attack to interrupt the flow of his speech. Tara felt his voice more than heard it, familiar as a bad habit and every bit as compelling.
“A rift between god and clergy is dangerous at the best of times, and, Lady, these are not the best of times. Knowing my services as a specialist in deific reconstruction might be required, I sought a position as counselor to Kos’s creditors, having a personal inclination to represent their side in such engagements. I first learned of Judge Cabot’s death this afternoon, and was understandably horrified.”
Denovo raised one finger. “Thus far my testimony consists of my word against the Church, but I can prove that Shale,” pointing with his full hand, “did not kill Judge Cabot. In fact, he has nearly completed his mission unawares.”
“He doesn’t have any part of the Concern,” Tara objected. “I would have seen it.”
“Would you indeed, if it had been camouflaged by a paranoid god and a Judge made wise by decades of service?” Denovo raised one eyebrow. “I have a great deal of experience with such things. I can see. As can Lady Kevarian.”
“It’s true,” Tara’s boss said, voice steady and sharp. “I can see it within him.” No sign of stress, but she agreed so readily. Had she and the Professor inhaled at the same time? The hair on the back of Tara’s neck rose. Against either of them, she was outmatched. Against both, she would be a child set against an avalanche.