Gideon the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #1)

by Tamsyn Muir

Two is for discipline, heedless of trial; Three for the gleam of a jewel or a smile; Four for fidelity, facing ahead; Five for tradition and debts to the dead; Six for the truth over solace in lies; Seven for beauty that blossoms and dies; Eight for salvation no matter the cost; Nine for the Tomb, and for all that was lost.

“Such a quick study, and you still don’t understand. That’s on my head, I suppose. The more you struggle against the Ninth, Nav, the deeper it takes you; the louder you curse it, the louder they’ll have you scream.”

The Lady of the Ninth House stood before the drillshaft, wearing black and sneering. Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus had pretty much cornered the market on wearing black and sneering. It comprised 100 percent of her personality. Gideon marvelled that someone could live in the universe only seventeen years and yet wear black and sneer with such ancient self-assurance.

“I don’t care that you run away. I care that you do it badly. Take your hand from your sword, you’re humiliating yourself.”

“All because,” said Gideon, checking her clock again, “I completely fucking hate you, because you are a hideous witch from hell. No offence.” There was a pause. “Oh, Griddle!” said Harrow pityingly, in the silence. “But I don’t even remember about you most of the time.”

“Gideon Nav, take back your honour and give your lady a weapon.” Gideon couldn’t help herself: “Are you asking me to … throw her a bone?”

Gideon had always known that this would be how she went: gangbanged to death by skeletons.

“Because I completely fucking hate you,” said Harrowhark, “no offence.”

“Fuck you,” and switched to push-ups. “Stop sulking, Griddle.” “Go choke on a dick.”

“Nonagesimus,” she said slowly, “the only job I’d do for you would be if you wanted someone to hold the sword as you fell on it. The only job I’d do for you would be if you wanted your ass kicked so hard, the Locked Tomb opened and a parade came out to sing, ‘Lo! A destructed ass.’ The only job I’d do would be if you wanted me to spot you while you backflipped off the top tier into Drearburh.” “That’s three jobs,” said Harrowhark. “Die in a fire, Nonagesimus.”

“If you want to do something interesting, come with me,” she commanded. “If you want to wallow in your shockingly vast reserves of self-pity, cut your throat and save me the food bill.”

While we were developing common sense, she studied the blade. Am I right, Griddle?”

“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Things are changing. I used to think we were waiting for something … and now I think we’re just waiting to die.”

Gideon reread the letter, then again, twice, before checking her face in a little cracked mirror. Gorgeous. Hot.

“So nobody realises that we’re broke and nearly extinct, and that your parents topped themselves.”

“Anyone can learn to fight. Hardly anyone learns to think.”

Harrow was a desiccated mummy of hate.

“Do you want,” Gideon whispered huskily, “my hanky.” “I want to watch you die.” “Maybe, Nonagesimus,” she said with deep satisfaction, “maybe. But you sure as hell won’t do it here.”

Gideon the Ninth, who would have paid cash to be called absolutely anything else, rose as her mistress rose.

She filled up on the bread, which was really very good, and stuck a piece in her robe for later.

He had the eyes of a very beautiful person, trapped in resting bitch face.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, measuring in her mind’s eye the distance back down the corridor, to the terrace, down the zigzag flights of steps and back through to the Ninth House quarters. Plenty of corners to concuss Harrow with, on the way.

“This calls for rigor, Nav.” “Maybe rigor … mortis,” said Gideon, who assumed that puns were funny automatically.

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

“The arms kind of looked like swords. I want to fight it.” “You want to fight it.” “Yep.” “Because it looked … a little like swords.” “Yop.”

“You are banned from squatting in my lobes and my hippocampus. I don’t want you pushing all the furniture around in there.”

“But for the love of the Emperor, Griddle,” she said gruffly, “you are something else with that sword.”

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.

“I must no longer accept,” she said slowly, “being a stranger to you.”

“I need you to trust me.” “I need you to be trustworthy.”

“Ghosts and monsters,” the lady of the Seventh continued enthusiastically, “remnants and the dead … the disturbed dead. The idea that someone is still here and furious … or that something has been lurking here forever. Maybe it’s that I find the idea comforting … that thousands of years after you’re gone … is when you really live. That your echo is louder than your voice.”

“It’s all right,” someone was saying, over the noise. “You’re all right. Gideon, Gideon … you’re so young. Don’t give yourself away. Do you know, it’s not worth it … none of this is worth it, at all. It’s cruel. It’s so cruel. You are so young—and vital—and alive. Gideon, you’re all right … remember this, and don’t let anyone do it to you ever again. I’m sorry. We take so much. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t. It’s very easy to die, Gideon the Ninth … you just let it happen. It’s so much worse when it doesn’t. But come on, chicken. Not right now, and not yet.”

“Ha-ha,” said Gideon, “first time you didn’t call me Griddle,” and died.

“Alas. I have a bad personality and a stupefying deficit of attention.”

“Thanks for backing me up, my midnight hagette,” said Gideon, placing her back down. Harrow had not struggled, but gone limp, like a prey animal feigning death. She had the same glassy thousand-yard stare and stilled breathing. Gideon belatedly wished to be exploded, but reminded herself to act cool. “I appreciate it, my crepuscular queen. It was good. You were good.”

“Life is a tragedy,” said Dulcinea. “Left behind by those who pass away, not able to change anything at all.

I think death must be an absolute triumph.”

there’s a kind of beauty in dying beautifully … in wasting away … half-alive, half-dead, within the very queenhood of your power.”

“I have tried to dismantle you, Gideon Nav! The Ninth House poisoned you, we trod you underfoot—I took you to this killing field as my slave—you refuse to die, and you pity me! Strike me down. You’ve won. I’ve lived my whole wretched life at your mercy, yours alone, and God knows I deserve to die at your hand. You are my only friend. I am undone without you.”

She pressed her mouth to the place where Harrow’s nose met the bone of her frontal sinus, and the sound that Harrow made embarrassed them both.

“Too many words,” said Gideon confidentially. “How about these: One flesh, one end, bitch.” The Ninth House necromancer flushed nearly black. Gideon tilted her head up and caught her gaze: “Say it, loser.” “One flesh—one end,” Harrow repeated fumblingly, and then could say no more.

A small, astonished smile creased her mouth. The smile transformed her face into an affliction of beauty that Gideon had heretofore managed to ignore.

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.

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.

“I need to be inside you,” Harrow bellowed over the din. “Okay, you’re not even trying,” said Gideon.

Gideon stumbled, sick with terror, kneeling them both down to the ground as Harrow lay like a broken rag doll. She forgot her sword, forgot everything as she cradled her used-up adept. She forgot the wrecked ligaments in her sword arm, her messed-up knee, the cups of blood she’d lost, everything but that tiny, smouldering, victorious smile.

“I owe you your life,” said Harrowhark, “I owe you everything.”

“You know I don’t give a damn about the Locked Tomb, right? You know I only care about you,” she said in a brokenhearted rush.