Gideon the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #1)

by Tamsyn Muir

It was over in three moves. A mental haptic jolt bunted Gideon awake, and there she was: rapier held still to Magnus’s chest; Magnus with the good-natured but poleaxed expression of a man caught mid–practical joke; four sets of staring, equally blank expressions. Their very good-looking arbiter’s mouth was even hanging very slightly open, lips parting over white teeth, gaping dumbly until she caught up— “Match to the Ninth!” “Goodness me,” said Magnus.

A bit plaintively: “I’m not quite that out of form, am I?—” (“Magnus! Maaaaagnus. Three moves, Magnus.”) “—Am I getting old? Should Abigail and I divorce?—” “I didn’t even see her move.” Corona was breathing hard. “God, she’s fast.”

Some sixth sense made her look upward, beyond the skeleton still swabbing industriously at the glass door, out past the pit where centuries of old chemicals were being wiped away. In the aperture before the tiled room, a cloaked figure stood: skull-painted, a veil pushed down to the neck, a hood obscuring the face. Gideon stood in the centre of the training room, and for a second that emasculated minutes, she and Harrowhark looked at each other. Then the Reverend Daughter turned in a dramatic swish of black and disappeared into the flickering vestibule.

WHATS WITH THE SKULLS? and received only a terse— Ambiance.

1. Harrow had been prevented from coming home for reasons, e.g., that (i) She was dead; (ii) She was too impaired; (iii) She was busy. 2. Harrow had chosen to live elsewhere, leaving Gideon free to put her shoes on Harrow’s bed and indiscriminately rifle through all her things. 3. Harrow had run away.

“Well, you’re cutting it fine,” he said abruptly. He pulled his thick, nerdy spectacles off his long nose and shook them as though wicking them free of something. “She was down there last night too and, if I’m correct, never surfaced. Her blood’s on the floor down there.” Because necromancers lived bad lives, he added: “To clarify. Her intravenous blood. Her intravenous blood.”

“I owe you one,” she said. It was Camilla who said, in her quiet, curiously deep voice, “He did it for free.” It was the first time she had looked at Gideon without the flat, stony aggression of a retaining wall, which was nice. Palamedes said, “What Cam said. Just—look, take a word of advice, here.” As she waited, he pressed the pads of his fingertips together. His cavalier was looking at him dead on, tense, waiting. In the end, he said: “It’s unbelievably dangerous down there, Ninth. Stop splitting your forces.” “Dangerous how?” “If I knew,” said Palamedes, “it’d be a hell of a lot less dangerous.”

He said coolly: “Because I’m the greatest necromancer of my generation.” The unconscious figure sacked across Gideon’s shoulder muttered, “Like hell you are.” “Thought that would wake her up,” said Palamedes, with no small amount of satisfaction. “Well—I’m off. Like I said, liquids and rest. Good luck.”

She went to the bathroom and filled up a glass of water from the tap, and she left it next to Harrow, then hesitated hard. How to rehydrate? Was she meant to—wash her mouth, or something? Did she need to clean off the tusks of dried blood at each nostril? Gideon popped each shoulder twice in indecision, grabbed the water glass, and reached toward Harrow. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” said Harrow, scratch-throated, without opening her eyes. “I really will.”

The adept’s lips curled back, showing little slashes of swollen pink through the grey. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I was dicking around in the basement. You didn’t need to get involved. You did just what I was afraid you would do, which was to remove me from a situation that I didn’t need to be removed from.” “Didn’t need—? What, you were having a nap of your own free will?” “I was recuperating—” “Balls you were.”

“Dulcinea Septimus is dying,” said Gideon. “Give me a break.” Harrow said, “She picked an interesting place to die.”

“More specifically, we weren’t to go through a locked door without permission. The old man’s a pain in the neck, but he was giving us a clue—take a look at this.”

“A head start,” said her necromancer, “is the only advantage one can claim by choice. My other advantage is in workforce. In this case I’m fairly sure that Sextus started a mere two hours after me, and that Eighth House zealot not long after.” All of this said a lot about the psyche of Harrowhark Nonagesimus, something about Palamedes Sextus, and a little about the mayonnaise uncle, but Gideon was given no time to interrupt. Harrow was continuing, “And I’m not at all sure about the Third. Never mind. Anyway, I’ve spent the majority of my time down the access hatch in the facility. Here.”

“Stop being opaque, Nonagesimus. What do you mean by challenges?” “I mean,” said Harrowhark, “that I have lost one hundred and sixty-three skeletons to a single laboratory construct.” “What.”

Exhausted by all the effort, Harrow closed the journal and tucked it back inside her robe. She sank back down into the dusty embrace of the bones, wrist joints clacking as they lowered her onto the dark slippery material of the duvet. She groped blindly for the water and spilled half of the remnants down her front as she took gulping, greedy sips. She dropped the empty glass onto the bed next to her, and then she closed her eyes. Gideon found herself gripping the slender rapier at her hip and feeling the heft of its basket hilt. “You could’ve died today,” she said conversationally.

Don’t go down there solo. Don’t die in a bone. I am your creature, gloom mistress. I serve you with fidelity as big as a mountain, penumbral lady.” Harrow’s eyes flickered open. “Stop.” “I am your sworn sword, night boss.” “Fine,” said Harrow heavily.

“And you had better stop it with all this twilit princess garbage,” said Harrow, “because I may start to enjoy it. Helping me will be achingly dull, Nav. I need patience. I need obedience. I need to know that you are going to act as though giving me devotion is your new favourite pastime, even though it galls us both senseless.”

“Surprise, my tenebrous overlord!” said Gideon. “Ghosts and you might die is my middle name.”

“My mother and my father and my grandmother together could not do what I do,” she said softly, not speaking to Gideon. “My mother and my father and my grandmother together … and I’ve advanced so far beyond them. One construct or fifty—and it simply slows it down … for all of half an hour.”

“Harrow,” she said, “if you wanted a cavalier you could replace with skeletons, you should’ve kept Ortus.” From whining speakers set in each corner, Harrow cried out. It wasn’t a noise of annoyance, or even really a noise of surprise—it was more like pain; Gideon found her legs buckling a little bit and she had to stagger, shift herself upright, shake her head to clear the brief bout of dizziness away. She held her rapier in a perfect line and waited.

“It’s the test.” Harrow’s lips were pink where she had bitten off the paint. She seemed to be having trouble swallowing, and she was staring right through her cavalier. She said unsteadily, “You’re the test.” “Um—” “Frontal, parietal, temporal, occipital, hippocampus—I fought with them all inside you,” she said. “I’m not equipped to deal with a living spirit still attached to a nervous system. You’re so noisy. It took me five minutes to peel away the volume just to see. And the pain is so much worse than skeleton feedback—your spirit rendered me deaf! Your whole body makes noise when you fight! Your temporal lobe—God—I have such a headache!”

“I now know how to complete this trial,” she said meditatively. “And we’ll do it—if I work out the connection and rethink what I know about possession theory, I can do it. Knowing what to work on was the battle, and now I know. But first, Griddle, I’m afraid I have to pass out.” And she crumpled neatly back onto the floor. Pure sentiment found Gideon kicking out one leg to catch her. She ended up lightly punting her necromancer on the shoulder but assumed that it was the thought that counted.

“Insinuation denied,” said Harrowhark. “You don’t have one”—sweet, that meant Harrow hadn’t successfully been through all her stuff—“and more importantly, you should do without. I never liked that cursed thing anyway; I always felt like it was judging me. If you require a two-handed sword every time the chips are down you’re worth nothing as my cavalier.”

LADY ABIGAIL PENT AND SIR MAGNUS QUINN IN CELEBRATION OF THEIR ELEVENTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY PRESENT THEIR COMPLIMENTS TO THE HEIR AND CAVALIER PRIMARY OF THE NINTH HOUSE AND REQUEST THE HONOUR OF THEIR COMPANY THIS EVENING. DINNER TO BE SERVED AT SEVEN O’CLOCK. Underneath in hasty but still beautifully-formed handwriting was another note: Don’t be affrighted by the wording, Abigail can’t resist a formal invitation, at home am practically issued one for breakfast. Not at all a serious function & would be deeply pleased if you could both see fit to come. I will make dessert, can reassure you I cook better than I duel.—M. Harrow said, “No.”

Why on earth was she scared? She had headed up function after dreary, overembroidered Ninth function, ornate in its rules and strict in its regulations, since she was a kid. Now she was all jitters. Maybe it was about being denied her dark necromantic needs down past the access hatch. In any case, both she and Harrowhark turned up, gorgeously gowned in their Locked Tomb vestments, painted like living skulls, looking like douchebags. Harrow clinked when she walked with the sheer multiplicity of bonely accoutrement.

What do you think of Lady Abigail?” he said. “They do say she’s an extraordinarily clever necromancer—not so much in your line, Reverend Daughter, but a gifted summoner and spirit-talker. I have fielded many questions from her about Canaan House. I hope she and Magnus the Fifth are good cooks! We First have all hyped the occasion, I’m afraid, but priests who live plainly must get excited over food. Of course, the sombre Ninth must be similar.”

“What do Marta the Second, Naberius the Third, Jeannemary the Fourth, Magnus the Fifth, Camilla the Sixth, Protesilaus the Seventh, Colum the Eighth, and Gideon the Ninth all have in common?” You could have heard a hair flutter to the floor. Everyone stared, poker-faced, in the thick ensuing silence. Magnus looked pleased with himself. “The same middle name,” he said.

“This is going to be a weird question,” said Jeannemary. Gideon dropped her arm and tilted her head quizzically. A little bit of blood drained from the teen’s face, and Gideon almost felt sorry for her: hood and paint and robes on the priesthood around her had put her off dinners at the same age. But the teen stuck her awful courage to its sticking place, breathed out hard through her teeth, and blurted very quietly: “Ninth … how big are your biceps?”

Then he gave a small trim bow like a waiter, adjusted his spectacles, and abruptly turned tail. Well! thought Gideon, watching him slide back into the crowd. Hell! Then she remembered that the Sixth had a weirdo fascination with medical science and probably found chronic illness as appealing as a pair of tight shorts, and then she thought: Well, hell!

GIDEON NAV HELD HER sword parallel to her body, the grease-black glass of her knuckle-knives close to her chest, and bit her tongue bloody. As most bitten tongues did, it hurt like an absolute bitch. Over the speakers, Harrow heaved. In front of her, still wet with the hot reek of powdered bone, the construct opened its mouth in a soundless shriek. They were back in Response, and they’d failed once already.

The only thing left of the monster was a big chunk of pelvis, atomizing slowly into sand. There was a pleasing overhead beep and the door to Response whooshed open—and remained open, letting through a Harrow so wet with sweat that her hood was stuck to her forehead. Gideon was distracted by the pelvis as the sand crumbled and parted to reveal a gleaming black box. Its lead-coloured screen ticked up—15 percent; 26 percent; 80 percent—until it swung open with a soft click to reveal nothing more interesting than—a key.

“But for the love of the Emperor, Griddle,” she said gruffly, “you are something else with that sword.” The blood all drained away from Gideon’s cheeks for some reason. The world spun off its axis. Bright spots sparked in her vision. She found herself saying, intelligently, “Mmf.”

“Harrow,” said Gideon, finding her tongue, “don’t say these things to me. I still have a million reasons to be mad at you. It’s hard to do that and worry that you got brain injured.” “I’m merely saying you’re an incredible swordswoman,” said the necromancer briskly. “You’re still a dreadful human being.” “Okay, cool, thanks,” said Gideon. “Damage done though. What now?”

Harrowhark smiled. This smile was unusual too: it betokened conspiracy, which was normal, except that this one invited Gideon to be part of it. Her eyes glowed like coals with sheer collusion. Gideon didn’t know if she could handle all these new expressions on Harrow: she needed a lie down. “We have a key, Griddle,” she said exultantly. “Now for the door.”

She’d known before Harrow had rolled him over that before them lay the sad, crumpled corpse of Magnus Quinn, jumbled up with the sad, crumpled corpse of Abigail Pent.

oh shit

IN THE EARLY MORNING, after hours and hours of trying, even Palamedes admitted defeat. He didn’t say so in as many words, but eventually his hand stilled on the fat marker pen that he had used to draw twenty different overlapping diagrams around the bodies of the Fifth, and he didn’t try to call them back anymore.

For a moment nothing seemed to happen. Then Gideon saw the colour begin draining from Colum the Eighth as though he were covered with cheap dye: leaching as shadow leached hue in the nighttime, more horrible and more obvious in the unforgiving light of the electric torches and underfloor lamps. As he faded, the pale Silas incandesced. He glowed with an irradiated shimmer, iridescent white, and the air began to taste of lightning.

Someone close by said softly, “So it’s real,” just as someone else said, “What is he doing?” It was Harrow who said, without rancour but also without joy: “Silas Octakiseron is a soul siphoner.” By this point Colum the Eighth looked greyscale. He was still standing, but he was breathing more shallowly. By contrast the adept of the Eighth was putting on a light show, but not much else happened. The furrow deepened in the ghostly boy’s brow; he wrung his hands together, and his lips soundlessly began to move.

Maybe they were all still slothful from what had just gone on; maybe it was just the fact that it was the very small hours of the morning, and they were all very tired. The numb hesitation was palpable. It was a surprise when Camilla raised her voice to say: “Teacher. This is an active investigation. We’re safe down here.” “You are absolutely wrong,” said Teacher. “Poor Abigail and Magnus are dead already. I cannot guarantee the safety of any of you who remain down there another minute.”

Currently everyone not stretched out on the floor of the dining room, lying in state in the freezer room, or huffing herbs was sitting around miserably clutching cups of tea. It was weirdly like their first day in Canaan House, in both suspicion and dullness, just with a bigger body count.

Teacher said, “I cannot and will not call them. Lines of communication off-planet are forbidden here. For pity’s sake, Captain Deuteros, where is the motive? Who would harm the Fifth House? A good man and a good woman.” The necromancer steepled her gloved fingers together and leaned forward. “I cannot speculate about motive or intent,” she said. “I hardly want it to be murder. But if you don’t comply with me, I have reasonable grounds to stop this trial. I will take command if you cannot.

“Where no other authority exists to ensure the safety of a House, the Cohort is authorized to take command—” “In a combat zone—” “The Fifth are dead. I take authority for the Fifth. I say we need military intervention, and we need it right now. As the highest-ranked Cohort officer present, that decision falls to me.” “A Cohort captain,” said Naberius, “don’t rank higher than a Third official.” “I’m very much afraid that it does, Tern.” “Prince Tern, if you please,” said Ianthe.

Gideon, who had been the one to turn the key, was oddly grateful that Harrowhark did not even bother looking in her direction: she simply said, “I am certain.” “How many people had these hatch keys other than the Ninth?” said Corona. “We had no idea the basement was even there.” “The Sixth,” said Camilla and Palamedes as one. Dulcinea said, small and tired: “Pro and I have one,” which made Gideon’s eyebrows raise right to her hairline.

The laughing golden butterfly was gone. She stood now, hands on her hips, chilly amber. Her voice rang out like a trumpet. “We must make a pact,” she said. “We can’t leave this room suspecting one another. We’re meant to be working for a higher power. We knew it was dangerous—we agreed—and I can’t believe that any of us here would have meant harm to Magnus and Abigail. We need to trust one another, or this’ll devolve into madness.”

Gideon felt very sad. She put her hand on the bad teen’s shoulder, and Jeannemary flinched away. She shook her head no, and when Jeannemary’s big eyes—lashes clumped with last night’s makeup, irises an inky brown—filled with tears she tried to furiously blink away, Gideon stopped being able to even slightly deal. She put her hand on top of the other cavalier’s head, which was damp and curly like a sad puppy’s, and said: “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” “I believe you,” said Jeannemary thickly, not seeming to register the fact that the Ninth had spoken. “Magnus likes you … liked … He wouldn’t have let anything happen to Abigail,” she added all in a rush. “She hated heights. She never would’ve risked falling. And she was a spirit magician. If it was ghosts, why couldn’t she—”

“Look,” said Harrowhark. No murder, sorrow, or fear could ever touch Harrow Nonagesimus. Her tired eyes were alight. A lot of her paint had peeled away or been sweated off down in the facility, and the whole left side of her jaw was just grey-tinted skin. A hint of her humanity peeked through. She had such a peculiarly pointed little face, high browed and tippy everywhere, and a slanted and vicious mouth. She said irascibly, “At the key, moron, not at me.”

“It’s your key ring,” said Harrow unexpectedly, and: “We will do this by the book. If Teacher’s correct, there is something around here that is fairly hot on etiquette, and etiquette is cheap. The key ring is yours … I have to admit it. So you must admit us.” She held out the key to Gideon. “Put it in the hole, Griddle.”

“It’s the theorem from the trial room,” she called out. “It’s the completed methodology for transference—for the utilisation of a living soul. It’s the whole experiment.” “Is this an exciting necromancer thing?” “Yes, Nav, it is an exciting necromancer thing. I need to copy this down, I can’t lift the stone. Whoever did this was a genius—”

Harrow’s cramped handwriting was just as bad as the etching on the tablet. At the very end of a long list of exquisitely boring notes was a line on its own: In the hope of attaining Lyctoral understanding. All glory and love to the Necrolord Prime. The Ninth necromancer said, “Now there’s a helpful postscript if ever I saw one.”

They both took the time to roam around the room. Harrow flicked through notebooks and narrowed her eyes over the contents. Gideon picked up another book and squinted at the faded message on the flyleaf, written in black ink forever ago and frozen in time: ONE FLESH, ONE END. G. & P.