“Yesterday you fought for our Lady and were hurt in her defense. So were my brothers and sisters. Scree will take a long sleep in stone before she wakes, and Aev bears new scars. We are built for war. We were made to endure such wounds. You’re human.”
“Only a bit,” she said. “I’m glad to hear the rest are safe.” And: “I’m sorry I didn’t ask about them before. I woke up and ran to the rescue. I didn’t think. Would you like to go to them?”
“They need rest. In flesh, I can ignore my injuries. If helping you aids my Lady, I will help.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I remain strong enough to hurt you.”
The cab halted before the temple doors. “Good enough,” she said. “Come on. Let’s bust some heads.”
37
Abelard sweated before the Grand Tribunal.
“Let the record further state that in conference with God last night,” said Cardinal Evangelist Bede as he paced the flame mosaic floor between the benches upon which other prelates sat, their faces lined and drawn and, where male, bearded, “as part of your vigil you did beseech Him to let Seril and her children stand alone.” What exactly, Abelard wondered on the Bench of Question as he took a nervous drag on his cigarette and held the smoke inside for a rosary bead’s pause—what exactly did all these Cardinals do when not called to intimidate Technicians? He could name most of the elders in attendance, but he’d worked with less than half. Sister Justiciar’s seat was empty, since this was technically an informal hearing. For an informal hearing, though, Bede had summoned a lot of people, most of them angry. At least Sister Miriel looked sympathetic. He exhaled. “At which point, you say, Our Lord Kos drew your attention to an attack on Seril and her children, and asked you if he should intervene.”
An inch of ash quivered at the tip of Abelard’s cigarette. He tapped it into one of the two braziers that flanked him. Their heat made him sweat, and incense fumes clogged his skull. The Lord’s Flame purifies half-truth and illuminates falsehood, ran certain texts which were at best embarrassing to the modern faith, relics of violent younger days. He wished he’d worn lighter robes. “Yes, Your Grace.” He should have lied. God would understand his reluctance to oppose Cardinal Bede, his need to preserve the church in time of trial. But when the Cardinal Evangelist had run into the sanctum last night, anguished, furious, Abelard told the truth.
He didn’t know why. No doubt Cardinal Librarian Aldis could offer three or four bookcases on the ethical underpinnings of his decision. But given the grumpy owl’s glower she directed at him from the benches, he doubted she was inclined to help. Her downward-curving mouth suggested the texts topmost in her mind were those at best embarrassing volumes—especially the bits with detailed diagrams indicating where one should apply the clamps, and at what speed the pincers should be spread.
At least this was better than the last time he’d been dragged before the tribunal. God wasn’t dead at the moment.
As it could be worses went, even Abelard had to admit this was less than compelling.
“You have been privy to many discussions concerning our church’s, and our Lord’s, vulnerability where Seril is concerned.”
“That is correct, Your Grace.”
Abelard took a shallower pull on the cigarette this time. Back during God’s death, or near-death, he’d felt himself sicken with every drag. The Lord’s blessing prevented cancer and heart disease and other problems. Abelard took small comfort in His presence now.
“You know the dangers we face.”
“Some of them, Your Grace.”
He heard an argument outside the hall—raised angry voices punctuated by a heavy blow that threw the double doors wide to admit Tara Abernathy and a man Abelard did not recognize. A protesting cloud of novitiate flunkies followed, trying without success to impede their progress. Cardinal Librarian Aldis stood; the city priests on the right wing squawked at the interruption. Tara looked furious. For a second Abelard allowed himself to hope the room would dissolve in, well, not violence, but at least a good old-fashioned shouting match that would distract the tribunal from him.
Cardinal Evangelist Bede thought fast on his feet.
“Brothers and Sisters,” he said, arms raised, “be calm.” He had the pulpit trick of voice that let his words silence a crowd. “Ms. Abernathy, welcome.”
She sometimes smiled when she was angry—not so much a display of joy as a baring of teeth. “You won’t try to throw me out?” With emphasis on the word “try.”
“Were this a formal proceeding, I would ask you to respect our rites, which limit the chamber to priests. But since this is not a formal proceeding, and you are a trusted advisor, you’re welcome to remain. As for your companion…”