Wakefield nodded once. After four hours, that white suit still looked fresh from the cleaners.

There was a city beyond the conference room and far below. What gods think near is distant for man. Here they sat, air-conditioned, discussing the logistics of response, containment, and interdepartmental coordination. This was an important meeting, Abelard told himself. Poorly informed Craftsmen were worse than no Craftsmen at all, and without Craftsmen they would lose their case against Ramp, and the gods would die. This work was necessary.

But not for Abelard. He had little skill in thaumaturgy; he was here due to his relationship with Lord Kos. Out there on Alt Coulumb’s streets, Prelate Evangelist Hildegard led teams of brothers and sisters through to preach the new moon gospel. Abelard should be with them. The Cardinals knew this. So did God Himself.

So why was he here?

“—Ms. Saqqaf will be responsible for shareholder outreach,” Wakefield was saying. No trace of—what?—touched that pale gray eye. “Interest” was the wrong word for what was missing, since there was interest there, the interest of snakes in mice. “Emotion” was no better fit, because scorn was an emotion. Maybe “humanity”—but that was a bit chauvinist.

“Thank you,” Saqqaf said. “After we were retained, I reached out to the core shareholders on Cardinal Bede’s list, reaffirming our fundamental thaumaturgical stability. Large-scale clients, while understandably anxious, are for the most part willing to honor their agreements, though the cold-blooded squids at the Iskari Defense Ministry”—and Abelard had an intimation Saqqaf was being precise in her description—“request further guarantees to compensate for the risk they face in dealing with us.” Grumbles around the table. Bede champed his pipestem between his teeth. “It’s a small stake, with an option for buyback in a year’s time. I say we give it to them, since our negotiating position is, let’s say, constrained.” Translated: We don’t have time to fight this battle. Why not pay to make it disappear?

Bede took hold of his pipe and leaned against the table. Abelard did not listen to his response. Maybe God had brought him here to correct the Cardinals if they went astray? But he barely understood the issues under discussion. He could hold his own against anyone in matters of engineering, but when the conversation veered to evangelism and archive work, he was lost.

But God wasn’t.

Oh.

Snarled gears unmeshed in his mind to mate again.

Abelard prayed, for real this time, and conference voices blurred into a polyphonous drone.

He greeted the Lord of Flame with a still heart. He surrendered his worldly mind to the spark. Fire curled an autumn leaf into a fist of ash.

He listened—not for words, splinters of the Lord’s thought, but for the rhythm beyond words.