“And then the key—what, lets you into a room where you can rub your face all over ye olde necro’s olde notebooks?”
Harrow still didn’t turn round, but Gideon knew innately that her eyes were rolling. “The Second House study contained a full and perfect explanation of the theorem which had been used to articulate the construct. Having studied that theorem, any halfway competent necromancer would be able to reproduce its effects. I now possess the competencies required to ride another living soul. I’m perhaps even more interested in what I’ve learned from the theorem behind the construct.”
“Making big shitty bone hunks.” Gideon preferred not to think about riding another living soul.
At that, Harrow had stopped—almost at the head of the staircase—and finally looked around. “Nav,” she’d said. “I could already make bone hunks. But now I can make them regenerate.”
The outcome literally nobody wanted.
Now here they both were at the bottom of the ladder, staring at the angular outlines on the floor. Someone had immortalised Abigail and Magnus’s descent with tape, carefully laid: it looked particularly weird given that none of the blood had been cleaned up. Accusatory splotches of it lay skeletonised on the floor.
“Sextus,” said Harrow, having dropped lightly down next to her. “The Sixth is always too enamoured of the body.”
Gideon said nothing. Harrow continued: “Investigating the scene of death is barely useful, compared to discovering the motives of the living. Compared to why, the question of who killed Pent and Quinn is almost an aside.”
“‘Who,’” said a voice, “or ‘what.’ I love the idea of what.”
Limned by the greenish light from the grille, Dulcinea Septimus limped into view. In the sulphide lamps she looked transparent, and she was leaning heavily on crutches; her heavy curls had been tied up on top of her head, revealing a neck that looked ready to snap in a strong wind. Behind her hulked Protesilaus, who in the darkness looked like a mannequin with abs.
Next to Gideon, Harrowhark stiffened, very slightly.
“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.”
Harrow said, “A spirit comes at invitation. It cannot sustain itself.”
“But what if one could?” cried Dulcinea. “That’s so much more interesting than plain murder.”
This time neither of the Ninth answered. Dulcinea moved forward, pressing her forearms into the clutches of her two metal poles, and blinked soft brown lashes at them. Gideon noticed that she looked tired, still: that the veins at her temples stood out, that her hands shook just a little bit on each crutch. She was wrapped up in a robe of some pale blue stuff, embroidered with flowers, but still shivered with the chill.
“Greetings, Ninth! You’re brave to come down here after what Teacher said.”
“One might,” said Harrow, “say the same of you.”
“Oh, by all rights I ought to have been the first one to die,” said Dulcinea, giggling a bit fretfully, “but once one accepts that, one stops worrying quite so much. It would be so predictable to bump me off. Hullo, Gideon! It’s nice to see you again. I mean, I saw you last night … but you know what I mean. Oh no, now I sound like a dope. Still vowing silence?”
Before that line of conversation could be pursued, the dark-hooded necromancer of the Ninth said in her most sepulchrous and forbidding tones: “We have business down here, Lady Septimus. Excuse us.”
“But that’s just what I came to talk to you about,” said the other necromancer earnestly. “I think we four should team up.”
Gideon could not hide an explosive snort of disbelief. There were maybe less likely targets for Harrow to team up with—Silas Octakiseron, maybe, or Teacher, or the dead body of Magnus Quinn. In fact, Teacher would be a far better candidate. But Dulcinea’s dreamy blue eyes were turned on Harrow, and she said:
“I’ve already completed one of the theorem labs. I think I’m on the path to cracking another. If we both worked together—why, then, there’s the key in half the time with just a few hours’ work.”
“This is not intended to be collaborative.”
Dulcinea said, smilingly: “Why does everybody think that?”
The women sized each other up. Dulcinea, leaning into her metal braces,