of them practical. All except for the Sixth House, who did not seem to be represented among the dancers, but sat in a grey puddle by the wall in wallflower blessedness, as though they were a communal gawky child who could not find a partner. They all wore the same dead-dove greys and chattered among themselves. If the situation had been different, Harrowhark might have made an introductory approach to them, but she had other things to think about.
One tall, astonishingly built Third House princess had chosen to sit among their number like a butterfly in a grey bog: she wore a silk robe in gold and breeches that showed off a calf too fit to be called a necromancer’s, and she was holding a glass of champagne and laughing at something she was being told. The rest of the noble House of Ida made intermittent attempts to chivvy her back, in case being seen among the Sixth House proclaimed her too hopeless to win the attention of Her Divine Highness, but the Third princess kept waving them off.
Harrowhark’s anticipation was at a fever pitch by the time anyone approached her. She did not know why her heart was beating so hard; she did not know why she was afraid, other than that the crowd was unmanageable and that there was too much noise and light. She knew her eyes were too wide within her sacramental paint—the elegant skull called simply the Chain, which she had been practising for months—when a couple approached, without a retinue. A man and a woman, the lady with the hint of a necromancer’s build: she was arm in arm with the man, and he appeared to be eating a canape on a stick with his other hand, and so Harrowhark refused to look at him. The lady wore a deep cocoa satin gown with a train, and when she stood before Harrowhark she coughed, discreetly, into one buff glove. The simplicity of the gown revealed little about her, but the cut said more, and the cursory little gold tiara perched on the gleaming brown braids of hair said a lot and loudly.
“Lady Abigail Pent,” said Harrowhark, who had been practising that as well.
“To be honest,” said Abigail, “I’m quite sorry to crash this one, as I would love to see where this mixer goes.”
“I, also,” said Harrowhark’s cavalier primary, from behind her shoulder.
Magnus had finished his canape, and added enthusiastically: “Agreed. This is top. Have you ever eaten party food before, Lady Harrowhark? Because if you haven’t, this is a very good approximation. No taste, but incredibly salty.”
Harrow said frigidly, “Pardon?” before she remembered that she could not have known Lady Abigail Pent by sight.
“This still isn’t how it happens,” said the Fifth—
42
MONTH??? DEATH
“LIEUTENANT!” CRIED A VOICE. “Wait up—please.”
Coming out of the briefing room, still a little bit pinched with space exposure—she had learned belatedly that after the first week it was considered namby-pamby to wear one’s placket of grave dirt anywhere visible, and it made a bump within the uniform—Harrowhark stopped and pivoted to the two soldiers behind her. She came to the unpleasant realisation that she would be forced to salute, and duly did so: although the navy-rimmed pins in front of her denoted the same rank as her own, the burnished steel pins on the opposite lapel indicated that these two had seen action. This was not greatly surprising, in the context of the navy edging of the Fourth House. She had already heard a great many jibes to the effect that Fourth House arrivals ought to be issued with both a medal of honour and a coffin. But they were very young. They were younger even than her, which was grotesque. She recognised them before they had finished their responding salute, which was significantly worse.
She said stiffly, “Lieutenant Tettares. Lieutenant Chatur. Do you require the service of the Black Anchorite?”
“No, because who would, ever,” said Lieutenant Chatur, whose corkscrew hair had been bound up at the back of her head. She did not resemble Harrowhark’s idea of a cavalier primary, even with the rapier bound to her hip. She was looking Harrow over rather critically in return. Harrow had been allowed her paint—she had been granted her jewels of office—as a chaplain, she had even been allowed a bit of robe, though a cursory Cohort robe that pinned to one shoulder and was about as much use as a sugar-spun bone. The starched white shirt and trousers seemed to take