Gideon the Ninth

by Tamsyn Muir

  “Oh, Gideon,” someone was saying, “you poor baby.”

  The pain went down her right leg, and to her right toes, and then up her spine in zigzags. She dry-heaved. There was still that pressure—the pressure of Harrow—and the sense that if she pushed at it, if she just went and fucking knocked at it, it would go away. She was sorely tempted. Gideon was in the type of pain where consciousness disappeared and only the animal remained: bucking, yelping an idiot yelp, butting and bleating. Throw Harrowhark off, or slip into sleep, anything for release. If there had been any sense that she had to try to hold the connection, she would have lost it already; Gideon was just overwhelmed with how badly she wanted to shove against it, not huddle in a corner and scream. Was she screaming? Oh, shit, she was screaming.

  “It’s all right,” someone was saying, over the noise. “You’re all right. Gideon, Gideon … you’re so young. Don’t give yourself away. Do you know, it’s not worth it … none of this is worth it, at all. It’s cruel. It’s so cruel. You are so young—and vital—and alive. Gideon, you’re all right … remember this, and don’t let anyone do it to you ever again. I’m sorry. We take so much. I’m so sorry.”

  She would remember each word later, loud and clear.

  Her forehead and face were being mopped. Touch did not register. She had lost control of her limbs, and each was flailing independently of the others, a roiling mass of nerves and panic. Her hair was being stroked—softly—and she did not want to be touched, but she was terribly afraid that if it stopped she would roll away into the field and dissolve just to get away. She held on to the sound of talking, so that she didn’t go mad.

  “She’s all the way across,” said the voice. “She’s made it to the box … can you see the trick of it, Reverend Daughter? There is a trick, isn’t there? Gideon, I am going to put my hand over your mouth. She needs to think.” A hand went over her mouth, and Gideon bit it. “Ow, you feral. There she goes … perhaps they thought that if it was easy to obtain, someone could finish the demonstration some other way. It’s got to be foolproof, Gideon … I know that. I wish it were me. I wish I were up there. She’s got the box open … I wonder … yes, she’s worked it out! I was afraid she’d break the key…”

  Clutched in the thin lap, Gideon could make no response that was not retching, gurgling or clamouring, silenced only by one rather skinny hand. “Good girl,” the voice was saying. “Oh, good girl. She’s got it, Gideon! And I’ve got you … Gideon of the golden eyes. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault … I’m so sorry. Stay with me,” the voice said more urgently, “stay with me.”

  Gideon was suddenly aware that she was very cold. Something had changed. It was getting harder to suck in each breath. “She’s stumbled,” said the voice, detached, and Gideon heaved: not against the connection, but into it. The consequent pain was so intense that she was afraid she might wet herself, but the spike of cold faded. “She’s up … Gideon, Gideon, she’s up. Just a little bit more. Darling, you’re fine. Poor baby…”

  Now Gideon was scared. Her body had the soft, drunken feeling you got just before fainting away, and it was very hard to stay conscious. Three seconds before you die, Palamedes had calculated. Anything less than Harrow crossing the threshold would make the struggle meaningless. The hand touched her face, her mouth, her eyebrows, smoothed her temples. As if knowing her thoughts by her face, the voice whispered: “Don’t. It’s very easy to die, Gideon the Ninth … you just let it happen. It’s so much worse when it doesn’t. But come on, chicken. Not right now, and not yet.”

  It felt like all the pressure in her ears was popping loose. The voice said, musical and distant: “Gideon, you magnificent creature, keep going … feed it to her … she’s nearly made it. Gideon? Gideon, eyes open. Stay put. Stay with me.”

  It took an infinity amount of seconds for her to stay put: for her to crack her eyes open. When her eyes opened Gideon was distantly worried to discover that she was blind. Colours swam in front of her vision in a melange of muted hues. Something black moved—it took her a moment to realise that it was moving very quickly: it was sprinting. Mildly startled, Gideon realised that she was starting to die. The colours wobbled before her face. The world revolved, then revolved the other way, aimlessly spinning. The air stopped coming. It would have been peaceful, only it sucked.

  A new voice said: “Gideon?… Gideon!”

  When she opened her eyes again there was a dazzling moment of clarity and sharpness. Harrow Nonagesimus was kneeling by her side, naked as the day she was spawned. Her hair was shorn a full inch shorter, the tips of her eyelashes were gone, and—most horrifyingly—she was absolutely nude of face paint. It was as though someone had taken a hot washcloth to her. Without paint she was a point-chinned, narrow-jawed, ferrety person, with high hard cheekbones and a tall forehead. There was a little divot in her top lip at the philtrum, which gave a bowlike aspect to her otherwise hard and fearless mouth. The world rocked, but it was mainly because Harrow was shaking her shoulders.

  “Ha-ha,” said Gideon, “first time you didn’t call me Griddle,” and died.

  * * *

  Well, passed out. But it felt a hell of a lot like dying. Waking up had an air of resurrection, of having spent a winter as a dried-out shell and coming back to the world as a new green shoot. A new green shoot with problems. Her whole body felt like one traumatised nerve. She was lying within the cradle of thin and wasted arms; she looked up into the soft and weary face of Dulcinea, whose eyes were still the dusty blue of blueberries. When she saw that Gideon was awake, she sparkled to life.

  “You big baby,” she said, and shamelessly kissed her on the forehead.

  Harrowhark was sitting on the cold ground opposite. She was wrapped in chilly dignity and Gideon’s overcloak. Even the bone studs in her ears had disappeared, leaving little pockmarks where they ought to have been. “Lady Septimus,” she said, “unhand my cavalier. Nav, are you able to stand?”

  “Oh, Reverend Daughter, no … give her a minute,” Dulcinea begged. “Pro, help her … don’t let her stand alone.”

  “I do not want you or your cavalier to touch her,” said Harrow. Gideon wanted to say, Nonagesimus, quit the sacred-bat-black-vestal act, but found she couldn’t say anything. Her mouth felt like a dried-out sponge. Her adept rummaged around in her overcloak pockets and emerged with a few bone chips, which gave rise to the horrible idea that she had stashed them there. “Again … unhand her.”

  Dulcinea ignored Harrow totally. “You were incredible,” she told Gideon, “astonishing.”

  “Lady Septimus,” the other necromancer repeated, “I will not ask thrice.”

  Gideon could not manage anything better than a very feeble thumbs-up in Dulcinea’s direction. Dulcinea unwound herself, which was a shame; she was warm, and the room was colder than ten witches’ tits. She reached out one last time to skim a hand over Gideon’s forehead. She whispered archly: “Nice hair.”

  Harrow said, “Septimus.”

  Dulcinea scooted herself back to the stairs. Gideon watched with dim interest as Harrow cracked her knuckles and sucked in a breath: nothing loath, her necromancer leant down and heaved one of Gideon’s arms around her skinny shoulders. Before Gideon could even think Oh shit, she had been pulled to stand as Harrowhark’s knees buckled beneath her. There was a bad moment when she wanted to puke, a good moment when she didn’t, and a bad moment again when she realised that she only hadn’t because she couldn’t.

  The lady of the Seventh was saying, “Reverend Daughter … I’m terribly grateful for what you just did. I’m sorry for the cost.”

  “Don’t. It was a business decision. You’ll get your key when I’m done.”

  “But Gideon—”

  “Is not your business.”

  Dulcinea’s hands came to rest in her lap, and she tilted her head. “I see,” she said, smiling and somewhat crestfallen.

  A barefoot Harrow grunted under her breath as she continued to try to haul Gideon up the short flight of
stairs, panting for breath by the top step. Gideon could only watch, willing herself to come to full consciousness, astonished by the unreceptivity of her body. It was all she could do to not deliquesce out of Harrow’s grip. At the top of the stairs they stopped, and the Reverend Daughter looked back searchingly.

  She said abruptly, “Why did you want to be a Lyctor?”

  Gideon mumbled, “Harrow, you can’t just ask someone why they want to be a Lyctor,” but was roundly ignored.

  The older woman was leaning against Protesilaus’s arm. She looked extraordinarily sad, even regretful; when she caught Gideon’s eye, a tiny smile tugged on the corners of her mouth, then drooped again. Eventually, she said: “I didn’t want to die.”

  Walking back through the chilly foyer out to the corridor was bad: Gideon had to break away from Harrow and rest her cheek on the cold metal panelling next to the door. Her necromancer waited with uncharacteristic patience for her to regain some semblance of consciousness, and they stumbled onward—Gideon drunken, Harrow flinching her bare feet away from the grille.

  “You didn’t have to be a dick,” she found herself saying, thickly. “I like her.”

  “I don’t like her,” said Harrowhark. “I don’t like her cavalier.”

  “I still don’t get why you’re all up in arms against what is a very basic man hulk. Did you get the key?”

  The key appeared in Harrow’s other hand, shining silvery white, austerely plain with a single loop for a head and three simple teeth on the shaft. “Nice,” said Gideon. She rummaged in an inner pocket and removed the ring; the key slid next to the hatch key and red Response key with an untidy musical tinkle. Then she said: “Sorry your clothes melted.”

  “Nav,” said Harrow, with the slow deliberation of someone close to screaming, “stay quiet. You’re not—you’re not … entirely well. I underestimated how long it would take me. The field was vicious, much more so than Septimus communicated. It had started to strip the moisture from my eyeballs before I refined on the fly.”

  “By which point it had eaten your underwear,” said Gideon.

  “Nav.”

  “I just had a near-death experience,” she said, “let me have my little moment.”

  How they got all the way up the ladder, Gideon later had no idea; it was with strange, dreamlike precision that Harrowhark bullied and bolstered her down the long, winding halls of Canaan House and back to the quarters that the Ninth House occupied, without a flicker of magic, Harrow wearing nothing but a big black overcloak. Every so often she wondered if she had, in fact, kicked the bucket and this was her afterlife: wandering empty halls with a half-naked, chastened Harrowhark Nonagesimus who had no recourse but to be gentle with her, handling her as though at any moment she would explode into wet confetti giblets.

  She even let Harrow steer her toward the blankets that constituted her bed. Gideon was too exhausted to do anything but lie down and sneeze three times in quick succession, each sneeze a migraine gong through sinus and skull bone.

  “Quit looking at me like that,” she eventually commanded Harrow, wiping bloody muck onto her hanky. “I’m alive.”

  “You nearly weren’t,” said Harrow soberly, “and you’re not even aggrieved about it. Don’t price your life so cheaply, Griddle. I have absolutely no interest in you losing your sense of self-preservation. What are these theorems for?” she suddenly exploded. “What did we gain from that? What was the point? I should have walked away, like Sextus—but I don’t have the luxury! I need to become Lyctor now, before—”

  She bit off her words like meat from a bone. Gideon waited to know before what, but no more was forthcoming. She closed her eyes and waited, but opened them when she panicked and realised that she had forgotten how long it had been since she had shut them. Harrowhark was sitting there with that same curious expression on her paintless face, looking thoroughly unlike herself.

  “Get some rest,” she said imperiously.

  For the first time, Gideon obeyed her without compunction.

  21

  WHEN GIDEON WOKE UP later, Dominicus had made the room wet and orange with evening light. She was cramped from hunger. When she rolled over, she was assaulted with a series of increasingly aggressive notes.

  I have taken the keys and gone to examine the new laboratory. DO NOT come and find me.

  This was plainly unfair, even if the delights locked behind a Lyctoral door could only really be enjoyed by someone who gurgled over necromantic theorems, but anyway–

  DO NOT leave the quarters. I will ask Sextus to look at you.

  Willingly go to Palamedes? Harrow must have had a hell of a fright. Gideon reflexively checked her pulse in case she was still dead.

  DO NOT go anywhere. I have left some bread for you in a drawer.

  Yum.

  “Go anywhere” in this case is defined as leaving the quarters to go to any other location in Canaan House, which you are banned from doing.

  “I’m not eating your nasty drawer food,” said Gideon, and rolled out of bed.

  She felt terrible—like she hadn’t slept for days and days—then remembered that she hadn’t, really, excepting last night. She felt feeble as a kitten. It took all her strength just to get to the bathroom, wash her scabrously painted face, and lap at the tap like an animal. The mirror reflected a haggard girl whose blood probably resembled fruit juice, with anaemia all the way up to her ears. She combed through her hair with her fingers, and thought of Dulcinea, and for some reason blushed deeply.

  The water was fortifying. The bread in the drawer—which she ate, ravenously, like a wraith—was not. Gideon searched around in her pockets just in case she had left something there—an apple, or some nuts—and found herself startled when she found the note, and then wondered why she was startled. Her memory caught up a laggard step behind her comprehension: the piece of flimsy was still there, though the piece of flimsy had been there all the time, so there was a horrible possibility inherent.

  There was a knock on the door. Nonplussed, unpainted, and hungry, she opened it. Nonplussed, much-tried, and impatient, Camilla the Sixth stared back.

  She sighed, obviously tired of Gideon’s bullshit already, and raised a hand with three digits bent. “How many fingers?” she demanded.

  Gideon blinked. “How many bent, or how many you’re showing, and do I count the thumb?”

  “Vision’s fine,” said Camilla to herself, and retracted the hand. She elbowed into the room as though she had licence, and let a heavy bag drop to the floor with a thud, kneeling down to riffle through it. “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 are you here?”

  The compact, grey-clad cav of the Sixth did not even look up at this question. It was interesting to see her in the light: her fine sheets of slate-brown hair were cut sharply below her chin, giving a general air of scissor blades. She glanced up at Gideon without seeming very perturbed. “Your necromancer talked to my necromancer,” she said. “My necromancer said you should be a corpse. You breathing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Passing blood? In your piss?”

  “Look, this conversation is all I’ve ever dreamed about,” said Gideon, “but I’m fine. H— My necromancer overreacted.” (This, at least, seemed to strike a chord with Camilla, whose glance softened with the understanding of someone whose necromancer was also prone to gross overreaction.) “I’m just hungry. Do I or do I not seem totally fine to you?”

  “You do,” said Camilla, who had pulled a frankly upsetting bulbous glass object out of her bag. “That’s what I’m worried about. Warden said you’d be in a coma. Put this in.”

  The bulb, thankfully, went in the mouth. Another one tucked up into her armpit. Gideon submitted to this treatment because she had gone a round with Camilla the Sixth before and had a healthy fear of her. The other cavalier looked at her toes and fingertips, and inside her ears. Whatever she found—plus
her pulse, which the other cavalier took carefully—was noted down in a fat notebook with a stub of lead pencil. These numbers were scanned with due diligence, and then Camilla shook her head.

  “You’re fine,” she said. “Shouldn’t be. But you’re fine.”

  Gideon said bluntly, “Why didn’t Sextus want to do the spell?”

  The tools were wiped and put back in the bag. For a moment, the other cavalier didn’t answer. Then she pushed a strand of hair away from her grim, oval painting of a face, and said: “Warden did the calculations. He and I could have—completed it, but. With caveats.”

  “Caveats like?”

  “My permanent brain damage,” said Camilla shortly, “if he didn’t get it right immediately.”

  “But I’m healthy.”

  “Didn’t say your brain was.”

  “I’m taking that as a very witty joke and want it to be known that I laughed,” said Gideon. “Hey—Septimus said the Eighth could have done it easily.”

  “The Eighth doesn’t train cavaliers,” said Camilla, even more shortly than before. “The Eighth breeds batteries. Genetic match for the necromancer. He’s been accessing his cavalier since he was a child. The Eighth probably does have brain damage. It’s not his brain they need. And Lady Septimus … is too willing to believe in fairy stories. Same as always.”

  This was probably the longest speech she had ever heard Camilla give, and Gideon was deeply interested. “Are you two friends?”

  The look in response wasn’t quite withering, but it would suck all the moisture out of anyone it was aimed at. Camilla said, “Lady Septimus and I have never met. Look, you should eat.”