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Give me a break, Crux, I’m begging you here—I’ll trade you a skin mag. Frontline Titties of the Fifth.” This rendered the marshal momentarily too aghast to respond. “Okay, okay. I take it back. Frontline Titties isn’t a real publication.”
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“Easy, marshal,” she said, though she was the one floundering in the dirt. “Take this much further and you’re in danger of enjoying yourself.”
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.
“The moment you deny me leave to go,” said Gideon, hand unmoving on her scabbard, “the moment you call me back—the moment you give the Cohort cause, or, I don’t know, some list of trumped-up criminal charges…” “Some of your magazines are very nasty,” admitted the Lady.
“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?” “Nav!” “I gave her my whole life,” said Gideon, and unsheathed her blade.
Replacements rose even as she pulverized them into rains of bone. More and more cannonballed her down to the ground, no matter in what direction she lurched, from the fruits of the morbid garden Harrow had sowed.
Gideon had always known that this would be how she went: gangbanged to death by skeletons.
She hadn’t been sad. If she’d been stuck being Harrow’s parents she would have done the same years ago.
The letter could have been a drawing of a butt and they would have been lining up thrice to kiss the edge of the paper.
There was a wheezing squeal from one of the pews in the transept behind Gideon as one of the faithful decided to go the whole hog and have a heart attack, and this distracted everyone. The nuns tried their best, but a few minutes later it was confirmed that one of the hermits had died of shock, and everyone around him celebrated his sacred good fortune. Gideon failed to hide a snicker as Harrowhark sighed, obviously calculating inside her head what this did to the current Ninth census.
You couldn’t spell obligation if I shoved the letters up your ass.” “I gotta say, I don’t think that would help,” said Gideon.
“Don’t hypothetically shove stuff up my butt again,” said Gideon, “it never does any good.”
“She’ll have glory squirting out each orifice.
While we were developing common sense, she studied the blade. Am I right, Griddle?”
“I object to illiterate.” “Pinup rags aren’t literature, Nav.” “I read them for the articles.”
The man who’d put the sword to her neck was uncomfortably buff. He had upsetting biceps. He didn’t look healthy; he looked like a collection of lemons in a sack.
Gideon saw lights dull in every eye that had gleamed for Double Bones with Doctor Skelebone.
Anticipation for Double Bones with Doctor Skelebone not only died, but was buried deep down in some forgotten catacomb.
“We’re a bit short on black priests in the Fourth and the Fifth, and my valiant Fourth companions are, er, a bit overcome.” (“Nooooo, Magnus, don’t say we’re overcome,” moaned the nasty girl, sotto voce. “Don’t mention us, Magnus,” moaned the other.)
Before I met you I imagined that you might be some wizened thing with a yoke and panniers of cartilage … half skeleton already.” This was bigoted, assumptive, and completely true.
She resented the contempt with which his mouth rounded over Ninth; she resented suitcases; she resented his hair.
She had left Harrowhark a note on her vastly underused pillow— WHATS WITH THE SKULLS? and received only a terse— Ambiance. Well, ambiance meant that even Magnus the Fifth hesitated before saying Good morning, so fuck ambiance in the ear.
In the comic books none of these adepts had heart disease, and a lot of them had necromantically uncharacteristic cleavage.
Given twenty-four hours to break a bone ward, Gideon would have immediately made plans to get into Harrow’s wardrobe and do up all the buttons on her shirts, making sure that each button went into the hole above the one it was meant to go into. It was an inevitability that the Reverend Daughter never would have allowed for.
if it was murder, what if the murderer was, like, weird, which would make their subsequent marriage to Gideon pretty awkward? Maybe they could just swap friendship bracelets.
“Inexplicable, Warden.” “Certainly not. Like everything else in this ridiculous conglomeration of cooling gas, it’s perfectly explicable, I just need to explic-it.” “Indubitable, Warden.” “Stop that. I need you listening, not racking your brain for rare negatives.
“Maybe the building’s shy.” “That is just tough shit for the building.
He had the eyes of a very beautiful person, trapped in resting bitch face.
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.
“This calls for rigor, Nav.” “Maybe rigor … mortis,” said Gideon, who assumed that puns were funny automatically.
“And you had better stop it with all this twilit princess garbage,” said Harrow, “because I may start to enjoy it.
“Surprise, my tenebrous overlord!” said Gideon. “Ghosts and you might die is my middle name.”
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.
“I must no longer accept,” she said slowly, “being a stranger to you.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Gideon, sudden sweat prickling the back of her neck, “yes you can, you once told me to dig myself an ice grave. Stop before this gets weird.”
“Oh, whoops, my bad,” said Gideon. “For a moment I thought you weren’t a huge bitch.”
“I’d rather be your battery than feel you rummaging around in my head. You want my juice? I’ll give you juice.” “Under no circumstances will I ever desire your juice,”
The Second necromancer’s gift is to drain her dying foes to strengthen and augment her cavalier—” “Rad—” “It’s said they all die screaming,” said Harrow. “Nice to know that the other Houses are also creeps,” said Gideon.
“Why?” “Probably because you asked.” The heavy eyelids shuttered open, revealing baleful black irises. “That’s all it takes, Griddle? That’s all you demand? This is the complex mystery that lies in the pit of your psyche?” Gideon slid her glasses back onto her face, obscuring feelings with tint. She found herself saying, “That’s all I ever demanded,” and to maintain face suffixed it with, “you asswipe.”
“Language is fine. Where are we? What did we come here for? What’s your name?” “What’s your mum’s name,” said Gideon. “Why
“But I’m healthy.” “Didn’t say your brain was.”
“Oh, could’ve … should’ve,” she said. “You can could have and should have yourself back into last week … back into the womb.
Dulcinea struggled to raise herself up on her elbows before Gideon could stop her, and she demanded: “Do I look like I’m at the queenhood of my power?” This would’ve made anyone sweat. “Uh—” “If you lie I’ll mummify you.” “You look like a bucket of ass.”
“Ask me how I am and I’ll scream,” she said. “How are you,” said Camilla, who was a pill.
