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“Things are changing. I used to think we were waiting for something … and now I think we’re just waiting to die.”
Deep space was a necro’s nightmare, because nothing had ever been alive out there, so there were no big puddles of death lying around for Harrow and her ilk to suck up with a straw.
“Anyone can learn to fight. Hardly anyone learns to think.”
The whole place had the look of a picked-at body. But hot damn! What a beautiful corpse.
Gideon the Ninth, who would have paid cash to be called absolutely anything else, rose as her mistress rose.
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.
“I’m merely saying you’re an incredible swordswoman,” said the necromancer briskly. “You’re still a dreadful human being.”
“A light, Nav.” “What?” “You did bring a torch.” “This is a service I was unaware I was meant to provide,” said Gideon.
“Death first to vultures and scavengers.”
She thought: It is stupid for a cavalier to watch their necromancer die.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this … you who have been alive for less than a heartbeat, when I have lived past the time when life loses meaning.
She stopped thinking about the pain in her knee and went back to being the Gideon Nav who never left Drearburh, who fought like it was her only ticket off-world.
