“You’re talking about two years of operating budget. We could rebuild cities with that power. Heal people.”

“If the Goddess had anything to offer in trade, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I wish I could help you,” he said.

That was it. The flat no.

She heard gods die a long way off, and did not like the sound.

“Mr. Altemoc.”

“Caleb.” His voice was flat and a little sad, as if his first name were the greatest concession he could offer.

“Caleb. I studied your Concern on our trip here from Dresediel Lex. A bridge between gods and men, that’s your slogan.”

“Yes.”

“That’s Alt Coulumb. The city’s not perfect, but its gods are trying, and so’s the church. For forty years Kos ruled alone, complacent. With Seril back, He’s worked more to help His city. If She goes, He’ll collapse.”

“I have to care for my people.” She heard the thorn twisting in his voice. “What would I tell the board?”

“Tell them you spent their donations to save a city. To heal a wound made long ago, in the Wars.” She shifted forward on the bed and laced her fingers. “I’m not a hired gun. I have friends in Alt Coulumb. I left them to fight a losing battle on the chance you could help us. Shale, who took your place, he’s under that mountain wrestling a demon-goddess from the dawn of time so we can have this conversation. I am breaking every rule of negotiation: I have no leverage to exploit, and no alternative. You don’t know me well enough to know how hard that is. But here I am. What would you do, if these were your friends?”

He had an even, unreadable expression.

Gambler, for certain—and knowing that, she knew illegibility was a mask he wore to hide.

His eyes were darker than hers, but a gold halo surrounded the pupils, like a false-colored picture of a collapsing star.

“Save them,” he said.

She waited.

“The board will kill me.”

She wouldn’t fault them if they did, but she didn’t say that. Nor could she say any of the other preprogrammed words: you’ve made the right decision, or, pleasure doing businesses, or let’s talk details. She managed “thank you,” and hoped it was enough.

He touched a bruise on his cheek. “Now I know why you hit me so hard.”

“You have a punchable face.”

“That explains a lot.” He held out his hand. The scars there took fire. “Good luck, Ms. Abernathy.”

“Tara,” she said. Small concession for a small concession.

“Tara.”

They shook, as did the world.

61

61

Corbin followed Umar down empty Ember Street. He did not look up at the impossible sky, but could not escape it by looking down. Weird lights cast weird shadows. Twisting reflections shimmered from shop windows, from parked carriages, from skyscrapers, from the muscles of Umar’s back.