No surprises, but that didn’t make reading the list any easier.
“—To investigate allegations Kos Everburning has substantial off-book liabilities. I know you’ve heard the same reports I have, and I want to stress that we hope to resolve this situation in a straightforward, mutually agreeable fashion. We’re not interested in posturing, and the last, and I do mean last, thing my clients want is for this to affect their bottom lines.”
Ramp’s eyes were flat as the gold circles that sometimes flashed inside a cat’s. And beside her sat Daphne Mains: former classmate, fellow victim, the woman whose breaking had forced Tara to confront the blight Professor Denovo made of her life, the woman Tara thought dead in every way that mattered.
Focus, dammit.
“I’m happy to hear,” Tara said, “your clients are concerned about proper bookkeeping and the risks of disguised liability.” Especially since most of them had their own dump heaps for underperforming assets, she did not say. “But Kos Everburning’s dealings are all aboveboard.”
“As I told Ms. Ramp,” Bede said.
“I wish I could leave it at that.” Ramp’s wide smile showed too many teeth. “But what are we to make of reports Kos is backing a fledgling goddess?”
Abelard sat down beside Tara, stiffly. The question had been directed at Bede and Nestor, but if Tara let the Cardinals speak there was too much risk they would lie, or try something clever. Madeline Ramp would eat their clever alive. “I’ve heard the same reports,” Tara said. “And I understand why they give your clients pause.” Don’t look at Daphne. Watch her boss, and keep your voice level. Were Ramp’s teeth filed to points? “There is another goddess operating in Alt Coulumb, by mutual agreement with the Church of Kos. Their relationship is based on nonoverlapping magisteria. A few onetime grants of soulstuff have changed hands, but no formal dependency exists. Your clients can rest assured her presence does not alter Kos’s risk profile.”
“Gargoyles on rooftops, and moonlight in alleys,” Ramp said. “I’m not the only one in this room who’s drawn the obvious conclusion. Seril, or a new entity assuming her portfolio, is at work. The old moon goddess and Kos were lovers, if I understand correctly. That’s a lot closer than nonoverlapping magisteria.”
“The two entities aren’t necessarily the same,” Tara said. “And even if they were, there’s no dependency. Kos and Seril ruled together before her death, but their operations were distinct, as should be obvious from Seril’s participation and death in the Wars, and Kos’s neutrality. If she’s back—or another entity has assumed her mythological role—that entity would have the same relationship to Kos. Again, hardly an undisclosed risk.”
These words were courtesies, outlines of attack and defense, salutes and overtures, acknowledgments of strength and weakness outlining one direction their battle might run in court. Ramp leaned back, at tremendous ease. “Tara, my clients are afraid Seril—let’s just call her that—affects Kos’s ability to fulfill his obligations. If she’s running around without any formal limits, who knows what she might do? She was vicious, in the Wars.” Ramp’s shoulders twitched, a mock shiver. “If someone like that’s in the picture, my clients face a lot more risk than was disclosed to them when they acquired substantial stakes in Kos, especially when we take into account Kos’s near death last year. Now—” Tara was about to respond, but Ramp raised one glove, fingers spread—the leather was diamond-patterned like alligator hide and grooved where the lines of her palm would have been. Ramp had, Tara saw, a very long life line. “I know, and won’t insult you by claiming otherwise, that my clients supported Kos’s resurrection. We accepted your argument that his death did not reflect underlying thaumaturgical issues, especially after Alexander Denovo’s insider trading came to light. But if Seril’s back, she’s a liability. And if she is a liability, my clients deserve to know, so they can manage their exposure. That only stands to reason.”
Abelard, beside Tara, sat statue stiff. He’d almost smoked his cigarette to the filter. Ash dripped onto his robe.
That was the trap: Ramp, plain speaker, chaining fact to simple fact and every link biting into their collective throat.
“You can check our books,” Tara said.
“It’s the implicit guarantee of support that concerns us, not the quality of your records.”
“There is no implicit guarantee.”