Yes.
Cat landed with a skid on a tar paper roof, cornered hard, and scaled the building next door, fingers spidering into cracks. It felt good to run. If you broke Justice, ended the Blacksuits, you might be strong enough to fight Ramp.
An interval of surf-rushed quiet followed. Cat swung from a flagpole to the next roof.
The last time I rode to war, I trusted my city to my children. When I died, they went mad, and their madness left scars. If I broke Justice, I could use its power, but then Justice would be no more. And She has Her cold uses. She protects my city, even against me.
You might die.
This reply too was a long time coming. I was born to protect Alt Coulumb. I failed it in my death. These people once feared me as the rabbit fears the hunter, though the hunter comes not for the rabbit but for the fox. Now they fear me as children fear those who strike them. I will not be that Lady again.
If you don’t win, we all lose.
But Justice will remain.
There has to be some way the Blacksuits can help.
Against what? What laws have our enemies broken?
I’ll think of something, Cat said. And: If I offered myself to you—as, you know, a priest—would that change anything?
Are you?
Cat unframed her mind from prayer, and ran alone over rooftops, threaded through with crime and ice.
43
Matt, half-dead on his feet by noon, back sore from long hours standing and selling, almost missed the Craftswoman when she passed his stand. Generally the sixth hour after opening was when his shoulders sagged and thoughts of cold beer filled his mind with the self-sustaining fixedness of a fetish. Claire was likewise drained, and Hannah. Even Ellen had come to the Rafferty booth today, cheerful if quiet as she tended the shrine.
So he almost missed the Craftswoman. When he said, “Ms. Abernathy,” though, she stopped and turned.
“Mr. Adorne.” She shook her head as if to clear cobwebs from it. “No eggs today. I have to pack for a trip.”
“I have a business question I hope you can answer.”
“I need to go. I’m so sorry.” But she did not. “What’s your question?”
“It’s not for me,” he said. “Could you meet us on Cadfael’s rooftop in half an hour? Just a small issue. Won’t take a few minutes of your time. I can pay.”
“Are you in trouble, Matt?”
“I’m not,” he said. “They might be.” He nodded to the girls—to Hannah taking inventory, to Claire frowning at the ledger, to Ellen.
“I have to leave at one,” the Craftswoman said.
“Plenty of time.”
*
Matt did not remember the last time he closed his stall early. Claire had left the Rafferty booth in Hannah’s and Ellen’s care—Rafferty and Adorne both closing early might have caused the sky to fall, the seas run red with blood, or locusts boil from the earth. Far as he could tell from his corner seat on the empty roof of Cadfael’s, the sky hadn’t cracked yet. Shame: a crack might have let the heat escape. Condensation collected on his glass. He hadn’t yet drunk.
“She won’t come,” Claire said.
“She will.”
“Even if she does, what can she do?”
“Give answers,” he said.
Tara arrived on the thirtieth minute by his watch. She stepped blinking into sunlight, escorted by a waiter who indicated with outstretched hand a path through empty tables to Matt and Claire. Tara limped. As she lowered herself to her seat, she kept one hand pressed against her side.
“You’re hurt.”
“Rough night.”
“I know the feeling,” Matt said.
“I doubt it.” But she looked more amused than offended, and ordered a beer. “Busy day, too,” she said by way of justification, though he’d asked for none. When the waiter disappeared: “What do you want?”
“You know Claire Rafferty.”
“Not by name.” She held out her hand. Claire hesitated, then clasped it.
The waiter brought beer. Matt ordered a sandwich, Claire a sandwich, and Tara nothing. “I’m just passing through.” When the waiter left: “What’s the problem, Matt?”
When Matt tried to speak, he found his throat dry and his words all twisted. Tara’s expression wasn’t fearsome, exactly, but behind it ground the gears of a great machine.
“Matt wants you to help me take the business from my father,” Claire said.
“Tell me more,” Tara said.
“You know about the argument in the market a few days back. The gargoyles. That was us. My sister dealt with them before, and my father wanted her to show people for—some reason. He got violent.” She held her water glass in both hands. “I do most of the work in the stand already. And he needs help, which he won’t get on his own so long as he works.”
Tara drew a dry circle on the tabletop with her middle finger. “And he leads the family Concern.”