Caitlin’s death to distract Perceval and once again blocking the attention of the ship’s Angel. They had taken with them the paper New Evolutionist Bible, still sealed in its protective case, and Caitlin’s unblade Charity—the last unblade in the world, as far as anyone knew—which had once been Tristen’s before it was shattered and then remade.
Tristen’s chamber lay high up along the curve of Rule’s architecture. He could have had one larger and lower, nearer the courtyard and generally considered more desirable, and in being honest with himself, Tristen admitted that he would have preferred the basement. Dark, tight spaces still felt safe to him. One might anticipate claustrophobia as a consequence in someone who had spent decades immured in a living crypt, but the result for Tristen had been the opposite. Expanses seemed too open now, space without walls something you could fall into forever and never escape.
Agoraphobia was a common ailment among those who grew up among the coiled passages and close anchores of the world. The Enemy lay always close enough to fall into—breath-suckingly close, and personally malevolent. Wide-open spaces could kill, and it was only sensible to fear them.
But Tristen had long ago learned that when confronted with fear, he dug in his heels and became stubborn. And so he had chosen quarters far up along the arch of Rule’s bulkhead, arm’s length from the great transparent panels of the sky. He had chosen quarters that floated a hundred meters above the olive trees and grass of the courtyard. A long panel opened out on that side, revealing the gardens and the other wall beyond. On the other side he had a bottomless vista of the skeleton of the world, flattened and distinct against the coffin velvet of the Enemy’s bosom.
Mallory stood now in the narrow point of the room, where interior and exterior panels came together. One hand was pressed palm-flat to each window, as if the necromancer established a current between positive and negative, between warm living atmosphere and the coldest dark of all. Tristen schooled a spontaneous smile, but his warmth at seeing Mallory’s slender silhouette would not be hidden.
It came out in his posture, he thought, the way his chin and shoulders lifted. Mallory brought energy into any room.
Mallory spoke softly. “So where do we go now?”
“They will expect us to invade the Decks in force. They have arranged that we would invade the Decks by force. Why else leave two fighters behind to be slaughtered—one weak, one just good enough to distract Perceval—and steal the things they must imagine we will come after though Hell bar the way?”
“The attack does seem machined to provoke just that response.” Mallory frowned, so Tristen allowed that smile out after all, and offered it in return. “The Bible. Why would they think we’d care for that?”
“I asked myself that question also,” Tristen said. “It is very old; it is historic. But we know the Builders’ creed. We have lived it.”
“We have ejected it.” Mallory made a dismissive gesture right-handed, fingers flipping back and forth like a swinging door. “And what if we refuse the manipulation into war? What if we go alone? Under a flag of truce, to parley?”
“We? You and I? As knights-errant, Necromancer?”
“A knight-errant and a magicker,” Mallory corrected. “It’s a traditional pairing, is it not? Of course, if you’d rather, you could take Cynric—”
“Two of us would be easy to kill, and then Perceval would be without Chief Engineer, First Mate, and Mallory.”
“And is Mallory so precious as to be named by name?” Mallory dropped hands to thighs and turned around. Fingertips half concealed in the pouf of flame-colored sleeves rubbed against snug black trousers, a gesture that might be nervousness or irritation—or even amusement, given the evidence of arched eyebrows.
“Mallory is certainly unique enough to be named by name,” he said. “Like Head, or Surgeon, or Gardener. Where there is only one of a thing, its function is a name.”
Mallory’s expression melted into a smile. “If Tristen Tiger scents a conspiracy meant to entice him to war, who am I to gainsay? War is your art, Conn.”
“You provoke me, Necromancer.”
Tristen dipped his head and brushed his mouth against the necromancer’s cool lips. Mallory kissed back, lightly, affectionate, until Tristen pulled away. If it was not the great passion of Tristen’s youth, well. Great passion led so easily to great tragedy.
He said, “Pack your things, then, if you’ll risk it. Though I lead you unto death.”
The necromancer smiled. “Death is my middle