by Tamsyn Muir
“Tied the noose,” said Palamedes Sextus. “You gave me the rope. You have severe blood cancer … just as Dulcinea did. Advanced, as hers was when she died. Static, because the Lyctor process begins radical cell renewal at the point of absorption. All this time we’ve been talking, I’ve been taking stock of everything that’s wrong with you—your bacterial lung infection, the neoplasms in your skeletal structure—and I’ve pushed them along. You’ve been in a terrific amount of pain for the last myriad. I hope that pain is nothing to what your own body’s about to do to you, Lyctor. You’re going to die spewing your own lungs out of your nostrils, having failed at the finish line because you couldn’t help but prattle about why you killed innocent people, as though your reasons were interesting … This is for the Fifth and the Fourth—for everyone who’s died, directly or indirectly, due to you—and most personally, this is for Dulcinea Septimus.”
The coughing didn’t stop. Not-Dulcinea sounded impressed, but not particularly worried. “Oh, it’s going to take a great deal more than that. You know what I am … and you know what I can do.”
“Yes,” said Palamedes. “I also know you must have studied radical thanergetic fission, so you know what happens when a necromancer disperses their entire reserve of thanergy very, very quickly.”
“What?” said the woman.
He raised his voice:
“Gideon!” he called out. “Tell Camilla—”
He stopped.
“Oh, never mind. She knows what to do.”
The sickroom exploded into white fire, and the bonds pinning Gideon snapped. She fell hard against the wall and spun, drunkenly, lurching back down the corridor as Palamedes Sextus made everything burn. There was no heat, but Gideon sprinted away from that cold white death without bothering to spare a glance behind as though flames were licking at her heels. There was another enormous CRRR-RRR-RRRACK and a boom. The ceiling shook wide showers of plaster dust down on her head as she threw herself bodily through a doorway. She ran for her life down the long corridors, past ancient portraits and crumbling statues, the grave goods of the tomb of Canaan House, the mechanisms of this feeble shitty machine crumbling as Palamedes Sextus became a god-killing star.
Gideon fell to her knees in the atrium, before the dried-up fountain with its dried-up skeleton and his soggy towels. She put her forehead to the lip of the fountain’s marble and pressed a dent into herself, still listening to the muffled sounds of destruction behind her. She pressed as though sheer surface contact alone would allow her to get off the ride. How long she did that for—how hard she pressed, and how long she huddled—she did not know. Her mouth was tight with wanting to cry, but her eyes were dry as salt.
Years later—lifetimes later—there was movement at the entrance of the atrium she had flung herself through. Gideon turned her head.
White steam poured from the hole. Within the steam stood a woman: her fawn-coloured curls sadly sizzled to nothing, her deep blue eyes like electromagnetic radiation. Huge wounds exposed her bones and the bright pink meat inside her arms and her neck and her legs, and those wounds were sewing themselves up even as Gideon watched. She had wrapped herself in the bloodied white sheet that had covered her sickbed, and she was standing upright as though it was the easiest thing in the world. Her face was old—lineless and old, older than the rot of the whole of Canaan.
The woman Gideon had kind of had the hots for held a gleaming rapier. She was barefoot. She leaned in the smoking doorway and turned away, and she began to cough: she spasmed, retched, clung to the frame for support. With a great asphyxiating bellow, she vomited what looked like most of a lung—studded all over with malformed bronchi, with wobbling purple barbs and whole fingernails—onto the ground in front of them. It went splat.
She groaned, closed those terrible blue eyes and pushed herself to stand. Blood dripped down her chin. She opened her eyes again.
“My name is Cytherea the First,” she said. “Lyctor of the Great Resurrection, the seventh saint to serve the King Undying. I am a necromancer and I am a cavalier. I am the vengeance of the ten billion. I have come back home to kill the Emperor and burn his Houses. And Gideon the Ninth…”
She walked toward Gideon, and she raised her sword. She smiled.
“This begins with you.”
36
CAMILLA HIT THE ADVANCING Lyctor like the wrath of the Emperor.
She crashed into her from the side, her two knives flashing like signal lamps in the sunlit hall. Dulcinea—Cytherea—staggered, flung up a parry, gave ground. She needed distance to bring her rapier to bear, but Camilla denied it to her; every step she fell back, the cavalier pushed forward, attacking so fast and with such ferocity Gideon could hardly see the individual strikes. For a second or two she thought Cytherea was meeting the blows with a bare hand, until she saw that a shank of bone had sprouted from the backs of her knuckles.
Camilla Hect off the leash was like light moving across water. She punched her knives into the Lyctor’s guard over and over and over. Cytherea met them ably, but such was Camilla’s speed and perfect hate that she could only hope to block the thunderstorm of blows; she could not even begin to push back against them.
This gave Gideon time to stand, to ready her sword and slide her gauntlet home, biting the straps tight with her teeth. It was a relief to know she would never have to tell Camilla that her necromancer had died. She was already fighting as though her heart had exploded.
“Stop it,” said Cytherea. Camilla did not hear her. She drove past the Lyctor’s guard and found her blade trapped in a thicket of spines that had evolved from the offhand spur of bone. The spines, flexing like snakes, began to curl over the guard, past her hand, onto her wrist.
Scarcely missing a beat, she stepped in and headbutted Cytherea in the face. The Lyctor’s head snapped back, but no blood showed. She laughed, thickly, hoarse. Camilla’s body jerked, still pinned by the tangle of bones around her hand. Her other knife fell from slack fingers to clatter on the floor. Her skin seemed to ripple and take on a greyish tinge. She began to wither.
As Gideon sized up the best angle to join the fray, a bleached, skeletal hand emerged from behind Cytherea and grabbed her face. Another hand gripped her sword-arm at the wrist. Over Gideon’s shoulder, the skeleton in the fountain began to stir. Harrowhark stood at the top of the stairs, hands full of white particles, her skull-painted face as hard and merciless as morning: she flung them out before her like she was sowing a field. From each grain of bone a perfectly formed skeleton arose, a huge angular mass jostling and crowding on the stairs, and they poured out in single formation to rush the Lyctor one by one. She went under in a sea of bone.
Camilla hauled herself away from the rushing, grinding ocean of Harrow’s mindless dead, clutching her knives more firmly in her recovering hands—the muscles in her arms were visibly springing back into shape. Gideon advanced, heart in her throat, moving to take Camilla’s place.
“Leave it!” barked her necromancer. “Nav! Here!”
Six more skeletons sprang to her call. They were unstrapping something from Harrow’s back—it was Gideon’s longsword, shining and heavy and sharp. She unbuckled her scabbard and let the black rapier fall—shook her gauntlet off next to it, and gave them both a private prayer of thanksgiving for services rendered—and she caught her sword by the hilt as it fell toward her. She wrapped her hands around its grip and hefted its old familiar weight.
The squirming pile of skeletons exploded outward, and so did the floor. Bricks and tiles and splinters of wood scythed across the atrium like shrapnel. Gideon threw herself behind the fountain, Camilla dived behind an old sofa and Harrow wrapped herself in a hard white cocoon. Skeletons tumbled through the air like morbid rag dolls, bone shrapnel pinging off every surface. Cytherea the First emerged from the clusterfuck, coughing into the back of her hand, looking rumpled but entirely whole.
From the hole emerged one long, overjointed leg, then another. And another. A fretwork of bones, a n
et, a lace of them—long stingers of teeth, a nesting body, a construct so big that it turned one’s bowels into an icebox. The hulking construct that had killed Isaac Tettares filled the room behind its mistress, stretching itself out and expanding, pulverising a wall and a staircase as it emerged. Its great bone head lolled and loomed above them, masklike, with its hideous moulded lips and squinted-shut eyes.
But now this benighted vision stood before its natural predator, the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House. As yet more skeletons jerked and clambered upward from their fallen comrades, Gideon got up, dusted herself off, and found Harrow standing in a pool of osseous dust and facing the construct with a hot-eyed, half-delighted anticipation. Without even thinking about it, her body moved to take her rightful place: in front of her necromancer, sword held ready.
“This is the thing that killed Isaac,” said Gideon urgently. The enormous construct was still trying to wriggle one leg free from the floor, which would have been funny if it hadn’t been so terrible.
“Sextus—?”
“Dead.”
Harrow’s mouth briefly ruckled. “A necromancer alone can’t bring that down, Griddle. That’s regenerating bone.”
“I’m not running, Harrow!”
“Of course we’re not running,” said Harrowhark disdainfully. “I said a necromancer alone. I have you. We bring hell.”
“Harrow—Harrow, Dulcinea’s a Lyctor, a real one—”
“Then we’re all dead, Nav, but let’s bring hell first,” said Harrow. Gideon looked over her shoulder at her, and caught the Reverend Daughter’s smile. There was blood sweat coming out of her left ear, but her smile was long and sweet and beautiful. Gideon found herself smiling back so hard her mouth hurt.
Her adept said: “I’ll keep it off you. Nav, show them what the Ninth House does.”
Gideon lifted her sword. The construct worked itself free of its last confines of masonry and rotten wood and heaved before them, flexing itself like a butterfly.
“We do bones, motherfucker,” she said.
Her arms were whole again. Her most beloved and true companion—her plain two-hander, unadorned and perfect—smashed through tendrils and teeth like a jackhammer drill. Stinging flails of bone met her blade and exploded into grey foam as she stood her ground and pummelled them with great, swinging arcs of good cold Ninth House steel.
With Harrow there, suddenly it was easy, and her horror of the monster turned to the ferocious joy of vengeance. Long years of warfare meant that they each knew exactly where the other would stand—every arc of a sword, every jostling scapula. No hole in the other’s defences went unshielded. They had never fought together before, but they had always fought, and they could work in and around each other without a second’s thought.
Gideon pushed for space. She forced a path, step by careful step, toward the centre of the construct. A tentacle lashed out at her leg; she sliced it open on the downswing and danced away from a stiff whip of molars aimed straight at her heart. Behind her, Harrow took it: it trembled into its component parts, then became a dust of teeth, which settled into a glue that stuck wobbling tendrils together so they broke themselves into pieces trying to smash away. What Harrow did not take, Gideon struck down. She struck at spines with the mad fury and sudden belief that if she just hit and hit and hit—accurately enough and hard enough and well enough—she could rewrite time and save Isaac and Jeannemary; save Abigail, save Magnus.
But the size of the thing defied thought, and every strike created shrapnel. Harrow was doing something, shielding her somehow; the air was a hail of sharp particles that ought to have shredded her skin, and yet none of them seemed to reach her. Even so, the white-out of pinging, ricocheting chips made it hard to see her target. From the corner of her eye, she saw Camilla running through a blizzard of teeth and spines and swinging bone lappets with both knives crossed in front of her chest—then she was gone, lost to view.
Gideon ploughed through a veil of flimsy bone shafts. They were under the bulk of the construct now. Six more skeletons sprang to life and formed a perimeter—these were pillars without legs, thrust through the floor, with the big plated arms and bone-wadded shoulders of the construct in the Response room. They grappled great breadths of the construct’s tendrils to themselves, and in the clearing between their backs Harrow flexed her fingers together. She shook finger bones out of her sleeves and slapped the trembling phalanges between her hands like clay. Gideon was busy shearing off questing tentacles that snaked past the skeleton guard and went for her necromancer, catching only a confused glimpse of the slim rosary of knuckles that Harrow was looping around her arm. Then Harrow flung it upward like a whip, and it punched straight through the monster’s midsection, burying itself somewhere deep.
She barked at Gideon, “Get clear!”
Two of the skeleton-pillars, still hugging tangled bunches of bone, bowed apart to make a path. Gideon pulled her hood down over the exposed skin of her face as she squeezed through the gap and staggered clear, away from the nightmare of splintering fibulae and tibiae. But before she could find her footing, Cytherea the First leapt from her place of ambush.
She was utterly beautiful and entirely terrible: whole, unhurt, untouched by anything that had happened to her. The wounds from Palamedes’s last spell seemed to have vanished as if they’d never been made. It was like she wasn’t even made of flesh. A memory flashed up through the haze of adrenaline: Do I look like I’m in the queendom of my power?
The Lyctor’s rapier thrust whipped out like a fang, like a ribbon. Gideon knocked the stupid fucking thing aside with her two-hander, and turned the momentum into an overhead strike. Cytherea raised her free hand, grabbed the heavy blade, and held it still. A thin trickle of scarlet ran from the base of her thumb down the inside of her skinny wrist. Behind them the construct shook and swayed and thrashed with whatever the hell Harrow was doing to it, and Cytherea’s eyes locked on Gideon’s.
“I meant it,” she said earnestly. “You were wonderful. You would have made that little nun such a cavalier—I almost wish you’d been mine.”
“You couldn’t fucking afford me,” said Gideon.
She stepped away and wrenched her sword upward—pulling Cytherea’s arm up with it—closed the gap in a hurry, and kicked the Lyctor’s legs out beneath her. Cytherea lost her grip and collapsed into the bone-litter strewn across the atrium floor. She coughed and winked at Gideon, and the scattered bones rose up and closed around her like waves, hiding her from sight.
From above came a terrible muffled bellow—a lowing forced through pursed lips. The construct was howling. It tried to surge forward, but the movement kept getting arrested in midjerk, as though pinned to the floor. Its tendrils slapped and drove against the ground, tilling up billowing clouds of wood pulp and carpet fragments. The thing gave a frustrated final push and overbalanced, then came down hard on the floor right where her necromancer had been. There was an agonizing crash as the fountain shattered under its weight. Gideon’s heart was in her throat: but there was the dusty black figure emerging from the wreckage, ropes of teeth wrapped around her wrists where she had jerked the thing to ground, a vanguard of skeletons swatting tendrils away from her.
Gideon fought her way toward her blindly, clipping off strands and trailing chains of bone as she waded her way to Harrowhark. The construct still pursued her, its legs scrabbling to find purchase as the floor buckled and quaked beneath it, sharpened beaks of bone bearing down on her adept. Harrow was forced to split her focus between fending them off and keeping her hands on the reins holding the construct to earth, blood shining on her forehead with the strain. Gideon arrived just in time to plant herself in front of her necromancer and smash a drilling lappet to shards.
“I need to be inside you,” Harrow bellowed over the din.
“Okay, you’re not even trying,” said Gideon.
Her necromancer said: “It’s all I can do to pin it in place, so you need to finish it for me. Breach the legs—I
will show you exactly where—and then I can keep it quiet for a while.”
“Seriously? How?”
“You’ll see,” said Harrow grimly. “I apologise, Nav. Get ready to move.”
The construct crooned in its chains. The central rod that Harrow had somehow awled through its trunk was bowing dangerously. Gideon dove back into the affray of joint and gristle with her sword scything before her and, just as in the Response room, felt another presence slide into her mind like a knife into a pool of water. Her vision blurred out and something said in the back of her mind:
On your right. Eye level.
It wasn’t a voice, precisely, but it was Harrowhark. Gideon pivoted right, longsword held high. The first leg of the construct loomed before her, a weighty breadth of impenetrable bone, but the back of her mind told her: Wrong. Inch higher. Pierce.
Gideon rehefted the weight of her sword in her hands, steadied the pommel with the butt of one palm, and thrust it home. The bone was thinner here. Across her softened sight a light fizzed in and out of vision, the exact same corona of light that had happened a thousand years ago—a hundred thousand, a myriad of myriads—inside the first trial chamber. She pulled her sword free and the leg buckled.
Half a dozen tendrils came after her. They would have given her an interesting array of new airholes for speed, but a skeleton staggered out of the darkness and took most of the blows, jawbone crushed into powder as a tendril lashed open its skull. Another skeleton lurched in where its comrade had died—but this one dashed past Gideon, over to the glimmering wound she had carved into the leg, and it thrust its arm into the gash.
Then it melted. Gideon had a few seconds to watch as it sludged into shining silvery-white bone matter. With a little sizzle of evil-smelling steam, it shrouded the wound and the bottom of the leg in a lahar of hot bone gunge.
She tore her gaze away to skid beneath the heaving torso of the beast, narrowly dodging another few desperate tendrils, cutting her way through a damp nest of them as they unfurled and regrew themselves like the coils of a razor-sharp plant. The leg closest to her had found purchase on the floor with its dainty, sharp-capped foot, so much like the leg of an arachnid, and seemed to be in the process of levering the whole thing upright.