18

“BRING THEM UP” WAS EASIER SAID THAN DONE. It took nearly an hour to remove the bodies and to store them safely—there was a freezer room, and Palamedes reluctantly allowed them to be interred there—and to get the Houses up and crowded into the dining hall. Harrowhark’s skeletons could climb a ladder, even bearing wrapped corpses, but Colum the Eighth did not respond to pleas, threats, or physical stimulus. He was slightly less grey than previous, but he had to be hauled up bodily by Corona and Gideon. The moment he saw Colum, Teacher cried out in horror. Getting him up had been the hardest part. He now rested at the end of the table with a bowl of unidentifiable herbs burning under his chin, the smoke curling around his face and eyelashes. Currently everyone not stretched out on the floor of the dining room, lying in state in the freezer room, or huffing herbs was sitting around miserably clutching cups of tea. It was weirdly like their first day in Canaan House, in both suspicion and dullness, just with a bigger body count.

The only ones who seemed even vaguely compos mentis were the Second House. As it turned out, they had been the ones to call Teacher to the access hatch, and now they sat ramrod-straight and resplendent in their Second-styled Cohort uniforms, all scarlet and white. They both affected the same tightly braided hairstyle and abundance of gilt braid, and also the same serious-business expression. They were only distinct because one wore a rapier and the other quite a lot of pips at her collar. Teacher sat a little way away from them, his naked fear replaced by a deep and weary sadness. He sat close to the wheezy little heater taking off the morning chill, and the other two Canaan House priests shrouded themselves in their robes and refilled everybody’s cups.

The necromancer of the Second House cleared her throat.

“Teacher,” she said, in a cultured and resonant voice, “I would like to repeat that the best course of action is to inform the Cohort and bring military enforcers.”

“I will repeat, Captain Deuteros,” he said sadly, “that we cannot. It is the sacred rule.”

“You must understand that this is nonnegotiable. The Fifth House must be informed. They of all houses would want an investigation carried out immediately.”

“A murder investigation,” added Jeannemary, who had not touched her tea.

“Murder,” said Teacher, “oh, murder … we cannot assume that it was murder.”

Whispers began to cross the room. The Second cavalier said, rather more heatedly: “Are you suggesting that it was an accident?”

“I would be very surprised if it were, Lieutenant Dyas,” said Teacher. “Not Magnus and Lady Abigail. A seasoned necromancer and her cavalier, and sensible adults in their own right. I do not think it was an unhappy misadventure. I think they were killed.”

“Then—”

“Murder is done by the living,” said Teacher. “They were found entering the facility … I cannot begin to explain how grave a threat that is to anyone’s safety. I will not bother trying to keep it secret now. I told each of you who asked my permission to enter that place that it would mean your death. I did not say that figuratively. I told all of you that you were walking into the most dangerous place in the system of Dominicus, and I meant it. There are monsters here.”

Naberius said, “So why aren’t they coming for you? You’ve lived here years.”

Teacher said, “Years and years … and years. They are not coming for the guardians of Canaan House … yet. But I live in fear of the day they do. I believe Abigail and Magnus have run tragically afoul of them … I cannot countenance the idea that whatever grief they came to was orchestrated by someone in this room.”

Silence rippled outward to the four corners of the dining hall. Captain Deuteros broke it by saying repressively: “This is still a case for the proper authorities.”

Teacher said, “I cannot and will not call them. Lines of communication off-planet are forbidden here. For pity’s sake, Captain Deuteros, where is the motive? Who would harm the Fifth House? A good man and a good woman.”

The necromancer steepled her gloved fingers together and leaned forward. “I cannot speculate about motive or intent,” she said. “I hardly want it to be murder. But if you don’t comply with me, I have reasonable grounds to stop this trial. I will take command if you cannot.”

Someone thumped their tea mug down on the table, hard. It was Coronabeth, who even with her violet eyes full of sleep and her hair in burnished tangles around her face would still have caused tourist traffic to wherever she was standing. “Don’t be silly, Judith,” she said impatiently. “You don’t have that kind of authority.”

“Where no other authority exists to ensure the safety of a House, the Cohort is authorized to take command—”

“In a combat zone—”

“The Fifth are dead. I take authority for the Fifth. I say we need military intervention, and we need it right now. As the highest-ranked Cohort officer present, that decision falls to me.”

“A Cohort captain,” said Naberius, “don’t rank higher than a Third official.”

“I’m very much afraid that it does, Tern.”

“Prince Tern, if you please,” said Ianthe.

“Judith!” said Corona, more coaxingly, before an interhousal war kicked off. “This is us. You’ve come to all our birthday parties. Teacher’s right. Who would have killed Magnus and Abigail? Neither of them would have ever hurt a fly. Isn’t it possible that the hatch was left up, and something happened, and it’s such a long fall … Who was in there? Ninth, wasn’t it you?”

With marked frostiness, Harrow said: “We locked the hatch before continuing in.”

“You’re sure?”

Gideon, who had been the one to turn the key, was oddly grateful that Harrowhark did not even bother looking in her direction: she simply said, “I am certain.”

“How many people had these hatch keys other than the Ninth?” said Corona. “We had no idea the basement was even there.”

“The Sixth,” said Camilla and Palamedes as one.

Dulcinea said, small and tired: “Pro and I have one,” which made Gideon’s eyebrows raise right to her hairline.

“Colum has the copy given to the Eighth House,” said a voice from the floor.

It was Silas. He had sat up and was now mopping his face with a very white piece of cambric. His eye was red and shiny and swollen, and he dabbed carefully around it: Corona gallantly offered him her arm but he refused, pulling himself to stand heavily against a chair. “He has the key,” he said. “And I told Lady Pent of the existence of a facility beneath this floor, after the party.”

It was Harrow who said, “Why?”

“Because she asked,” he said, “and because I do not lie. And because I’m not interested in the Ninth House ascending to Lyctorhood alone … simply because they guessed a childish riddle.”

Harrowhark closed herself up like a folding chair, and her voice was like cinders: “Your hatred of us is superstition, Octakiseron.”

“Is it?” He folded the dirty handkerchief neatly and tucked it inside his chain mail. “Who was in the facility when Lady Pent and Sir Magnus died? Who was conveniently first on the scene to discover them—”

“You have one black eye already, courtesy of the Seventh House,” said Harrow, “and you seem to yearn for symmetry.”

“That was the Seventh, then?” The Eighth necromancer did not seem particularly displeased. “I see … it happened so swiftly I wasn’t sure.”

Gideon had thought Dulcinea asleep again, she was so limp and prone in Protesilaus’s arms, but she opened her big blue eyes and struggled to raise her head. “Master Silas,” she said thickly, “the Seventh House begs forgiveness of the merciful Eighth. Please grant it … this would be such an embarrassment to the House. Pro reacts quicker than I do. You wouldn’t duel me, would you?”

“Never,” said Silas gently. “That would be heartless. Colum will face the cavalier of the Seventh.”

Gideon felt her fingers clench into fists as Dulcinea took a deep, wobbly breath and said quietly, “Oh, but please—”

“Stop this now,” said Coronabeth. “This is madness.”

The laughing golden butterfly was gone. She stood now, hands on her hips, chilly amber. Her voice rang out like a trumpet. “We must make a pact,” she said. “We can’t leave this room suspecting one another. We’re meant to be working for a higher power. We knew it was dangerous—we agreed—and I can’t believe that any of us here would have meant harm to Magnus and Abigail. We need to trust one another, or this’ll devolve into madness.”

The Captain of the Second rose too. Her intensely dark eyes settled on each of them in turn before ending on Teacher.

“Then what must we logically assume?” she said. “That, as Teacher has said, there is a malevolent or obstructive force within the First House? Vengeful ghosts, or monsters born of some necromantic act?”

The awful necromantic teen rose to stand now. His eyes were raw and red, and his fists were dirty with blood. The numb agony on his face was like an animal in pain: when he spoke one expected only tortured baying.

But he said, “If there is a monster—it’s got to be hunted. If there’s a haunting—it’s got to be banished. Whatever was strong enough to kill Abigail and Magnus, it can’t be left alone.” Then, more wildly: “I can’t go home until whatever killed Abigail and Magnus is dead.”

Jeannemary said instantly, “I’m with Isaac. I say we hunt it.”

“No,” said Palamedes.

He had taken off his glasses to polish them, huffing once on one lens, then on the other. Everyone’s eyes were on him by the time he put his spectacles back on his beaky nose. Camilla perched on the table behind him like a grey-coated crow, haunting his shoulder. “No,” he repeated. “We’ll proceed scientifically. Nothing can be assumed until we have a better sense of how they both died. With everyone’s permission, I’ll examine the bodies; anyone who wants to join me can do so. Once we ascertain the facts we may plan a course of action, but until then, no conclusions. No monsters, no murder, no accidents.”

Coronabeth said warmly, “Hear, hear.”

“Obliged, Princess. We now all know about the existence of the facility,” he continued. “I imagine this will lead to it being explored freely. We should all keep an eye out for—unusual danger, and agree that information is the best gift we can give one another.”

Harrowhark said, “I have no intention of collaborating.”

“You won’t be forced to, Reverend Daughter. But it’s not orthogonal to the Lyctor experiment to warn your colleagues if you think there’s something out of place,” said Palamedes, leaning his chair back. “Exempli gratia, a horde of vengeful ghosts.”

“There is one final matter of keys,” said Teacher.

Everyone, now probably getting neck strain, looked back to him. They waited for a punchline, but there was none. Then they followed his line of sight: he was looking straight at Princess Ianthe in her clinging nightgown, pallid hair falling in two smooth braids down to bloodless shoulders, staring back with eyes like violets on dialysis.

“I am also in possession of one,” she said, unruffled.

“What?”

She did not lose composure. “Don’t act the jilted lover, Babs.”

“You never said a damned word!”

“You didn’t keep your eyes on your key ring.”

“Ianthe Tridentarius,” said her cavalier, “you are—you’re—Corona, why didn’t you tell me?”

Corona stopped him, one slender hand on his shoulder. She was looking at her twin, who calmly avoided her gaze. “Because I didn’t know,” she said lightly, chair scraping as she rose to stand. “I didn’t know either, Babs. I’m going to bed now—I think—I’m somewhat overwrought.”

Courteously, Palamedes stood too: “Cam and I want a look at the bodies,” he said. “If Captain Deuteros and Lieutenant Dyas would like to accompany us—as I assume you’re going to?”

“Yes,” said Judith. “I’d like a closer look.”

“Cam, you go on ahead,” Palamedes said. “I want a quick word.”

The scene broke up after that. The salt-and-pepper priest was talking to Isaac very quietly, and Isaac’s shoulders were shaking as he tucked himself into his seat. The Third left with dislocated proximity and the clenched jaws of three people on their way to have an enormous tiff. Dulcinea was whispering quietly to her cavalier, and they surprised Gideon by following the mob to the freezer. Maybe not that surprising. Dulcinea Septimus could out-morbid the Ninth.

The word Palamedes wanted turned out to be with Harrow; he plucked her sleeve and beckoned her off to the corner of the room, and she went without a cavil. Gideon was left alone, watching Teacher join the whey-faced Silas as he knelt before his cavalier. His lips moved in silent prayer. Colum was now greyish all over, and his eyes had the thousand-yard stare of a man in a stupor. Silas did not appear to be worried. He had clasped one of those big hard-bitten hands between his own and murmured to him, and Gideon caught some of the words: I bid you return.

Teacher was saying: “He’ll have a hard fight to come back, Master Octakiseron … harder than he may have anticipated. Is he used to the journey?”

“Brother Colum has fought harder and in colder climes,” said Silas calmly. “He has come back to me through stranger ghosts. He has never once let his body become corrupted, and he never shall.” Then he went back to the mantra: I bid … I bid …

For some reason that image stayed with her: the mayonnaise magician and his thickset nephew, older than him by far, staring out of empty eyes as Teacher watched with the air of a man with front-row seats to back-alley dental surgery. Gideon watched too, fascinated by an act she couldn’t understand, when a hand closed around her wrist.

It was Jeannemary Chatur, her eyes red-rimmed, sticky and stained, her hair in a frizz. There was no sign of pluck in her now, except maybe a wild hardness around the eyes as she looked at Gideon.

“Ninth,” she said hoarsely, “if you know anything, tell me now. If you—if you know anything, I’ve got to— They meant too much to us, so if you know—”

Gideon felt very sad. She put her hand on the bad teen’s shoulder, and Jeannemary flinched away. She shook her head no, and when Jeannemary’s big eyes—lashes clumped with last night’s makeup, irises an inky brown—filled with tears she tried to furiously blink away, Gideon stopped being able to even slightly deal. She put her hand on top of the other cavalier’s head, which was damp and curly like a sad puppy’s, and said: “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“I believe you,” said Jeannemary thickly, not seeming to register the fact that the Ninth had spoken. “Magnus likes you … liked … He wouldn’t have let anything happen to Abigail,” she added all in a rush. “She hated heights. She never would’ve risked falling. And she was a spirit magician. If it was ghosts, why couldn’t she—”

From before them, Colum gave such a racking and explosive cough that it made both Jeannemary and Gideon jump. His eyes rolled back in his head as he choked, staccato gasps, pulling in reeking smoke, while his adept said merely: “Fifteen minutes. You’re getting tardy,” and nothing more.

Gideon would have liked Jeannemary to finish her sentence, but Harrow was limping over with an expression like trouble. She had the distant, brow-puckered frown of a woman untying gruesomely knotted shoelaces. Gideon watched the cavalier of the Fourth walk away with hunched shoulders and a hand clasped around the grip of her rapier, and she fell into Harrow’s wake, a half step behind her.

“You okay?”

“I’m sick of these people,” said Harrowhark, ducking down a passageway and away from the central atrium. “I am sick of their slowness … sick to death. I can’t wait here for one of them to grasp the implications of everything they have been told”—Gideon couldn’t wait to grasp those implications either, but it didn’t seem likely anytime soon—“because we will be far ahead of them by then. We have a door to open.”

“Yes, tomorrow morning after at least eight hours’ sleep,” Gideon suggested without hope.

“An admirable attempt at comedy in these trying times,” said Harrowhark. “Let’s go.”