rested yesterday, but they’re long gone by now. We know this city better than anyone. We were born of its stone, and it bears our mark. On the rare occasions when we return, we keep moving from hiding spot to hiding spot so the Blacksuits can’t find us.”
Dammit. “How were you planning to bring them the package?”
“Wasn’t.” His voice was fading. A limitation of face-stealing: the consciousness tired easily when free of the body. “They’ll find me, or I’ll find them. By smell.”
A knock on the door. Tara swore under her breath.
“Ms. Abernathy?”
Factors in this case multiplied too swiftly for her taste. Gargoyles. Abelard. Blacksuits. Foolishness.
“Ms. Abernathy, you rang.” Abelard started to turn the doorknob.
“Wait! Hold on a second. I’m not decent.”
The door paused, already open a crack. “But you rang.”
“Hold on!”
“Trying to keep me a secret?” Shale sneered.
“Shut up,” she whispered.
“What if I call for help?”
“Ms. Abernathy, is there someone else there?”
“Talking to myself,” she said as she raised the hammer.
Fortunately, the setup took less time to dismantle than to assemble. A few pulls with the prying end of the hammer, a slow peel from the wig stand, and Shale’s face was safely back in the book by the time Abelard opened her bedroom door. The young priest stood on the threshold peering into the room as if afraid something within might leap out to dismember him. A fresh cigarette drooped from his lips, and he appeared, if possible, more disheveled than a half hour before.
“Ms. Abernathy?”
“Sorry,” she said, slinging her purse back over her shoulder. “Female troubles. Shall we go?”
*
The Sanctum had been built in the optimistic era before the God Wars reached the New World, when the Church of Kos saw the future as an endless sequence of bright vistas, one opening upon the next. Mad with expansionist dreams, the Church planned its new Sanctum with enough empty space to accommodate a century of growth. Then the war came, and the bright vistas crumbled. To this day, great tracts of the Sanctum remained unoccupied and unknown to the world. Which was to the best, really, because sometimes the Church required spaces that were large, unoccupied, and unknown.
This was the explanation Abelard gave Tara when, after climbing another winding stair three stories up from the guest chambers, they arrived at an otherwise unassuming door, which opened, once Abelard found the proper key, into the largest room she had ever seen. The Hidden Schools’ main quadrangle would have fit inside, easily, along with the east wing of Elder Hall.
The entire room was filled with paper.
Loose sheets of foolscap lay piled by the ream in boxes around the chamber’s edge. Near the center, the boxes gave way to thick piles of scrolls, some in racks, some loose. The dry, comforting aroma of scribe’s ink and parchment filled the dead air.
“It’s a lot of paper,” Abelard admitted. “Lots of scribes, and lots of Craft supporting the scribes. Every deal the Church of Kos ever made, every contract with deity or Deathless King. The founding covenant of Alt Coulumb is here somewhere. Not the original, of course.”
Tara couldn’t resist a low whistle at the sheer quantity of information. She’d seen larger libraries in the Hidden Schools and in the fortresses of Deathless Kings, but most of those held the same sets of dusky tomes. This archive was unique in the world. A bare handful of people knew even a fraction of what was written here, and her job was to learn it all. Her mouth went dry from desire and a little fear.
Abelard preceded her down a narrow alley between piles of paperwork. “It’s crazy that we keep all this stuff, but the Church’s Craftsmen insist. They don’t know anything about engines or steam or fire but to hear them talk you’d think they knew the Church better than Kos’s own priests.”
“It’s beautiful.” The words
Dammit. “How were you planning to bring them the package?”
“Wasn’t.” His voice was fading. A limitation of face-stealing: the consciousness tired easily when free of the body. “They’ll find me, or I’ll find them. By smell.”
A knock on the door. Tara swore under her breath.
“Ms. Abernathy?”
Factors in this case multiplied too swiftly for her taste. Gargoyles. Abelard. Blacksuits. Foolishness.
“Ms. Abernathy, you rang.” Abelard started to turn the doorknob.
“Wait! Hold on a second. I’m not decent.”
The door paused, already open a crack. “But you rang.”
“Hold on!”
“Trying to keep me a secret?” Shale sneered.
“Shut up,” she whispered.
“What if I call for help?”
“Ms. Abernathy, is there someone else there?”
“Talking to myself,” she said as she raised the hammer.
Fortunately, the setup took less time to dismantle than to assemble. A few pulls with the prying end of the hammer, a slow peel from the wig stand, and Shale’s face was safely back in the book by the time Abelard opened her bedroom door. The young priest stood on the threshold peering into the room as if afraid something within might leap out to dismember him. A fresh cigarette drooped from his lips, and he appeared, if possible, more disheveled than a half hour before.
“Ms. Abernathy?”
“Sorry,” she said, slinging her purse back over her shoulder. “Female troubles. Shall we go?”
*
The Sanctum had been built in the optimistic era before the God Wars reached the New World, when the Church of Kos saw the future as an endless sequence of bright vistas, one opening upon the next. Mad with expansionist dreams, the Church planned its new Sanctum with enough empty space to accommodate a century of growth. Then the war came, and the bright vistas crumbled. To this day, great tracts of the Sanctum remained unoccupied and unknown to the world. Which was to the best, really, because sometimes the Church required spaces that were large, unoccupied, and unknown.
This was the explanation Abelard gave Tara when, after climbing another winding stair three stories up from the guest chambers, they arrived at an otherwise unassuming door, which opened, once Abelard found the proper key, into the largest room she had ever seen. The Hidden Schools’ main quadrangle would have fit inside, easily, along with the east wing of Elder Hall.
The entire room was filled with paper.
Loose sheets of foolscap lay piled by the ream in boxes around the chamber’s edge. Near the center, the boxes gave way to thick piles of scrolls, some in racks, some loose. The dry, comforting aroma of scribe’s ink and parchment filled the dead air.
“It’s a lot of paper,” Abelard admitted. “Lots of scribes, and lots of Craft supporting the scribes. Every deal the Church of Kos ever made, every contract with deity or Deathless King. The founding covenant of Alt Coulumb is here somewhere. Not the original, of course.”
Tara couldn’t resist a low whistle at the sheer quantity of information. She’d seen larger libraries in the Hidden Schools and in the fortresses of Deathless Kings, but most of those held the same sets of dusky tomes. This archive was unique in the world. A bare handful of people knew even a fraction of what was written here, and her job was to learn it all. Her mouth went dry from desire and a little fear.
Abelard preceded her down a narrow alley between piles of paperwork. “It’s crazy that we keep all this stuff, but the Church’s Craftsmen insist. They don’t know anything about engines or steam or fire but to hear them talk you’d think they knew the Church better than Kos’s own priests.”
“It’s beautiful.” The words
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