"It's true," Mallory said. "Rien will soon be too sick to trayel. And Perceval, you could relapse—"
Rien turned her head so she could face Perceval, who said, "I could go without her. I could leave her in your care."
"And when the fever comes back, and you rot in a ventilation duct? Your resources are exhausted. Your symbionts barely managed to keep you alive, even under my care."
Perceval frowned magnificently.
Mallory sighed and looked at Rien. "Rest here. I'll treat your illness. In a day or two, Gavin will guide you to your father."
"A day or two might make a difference," Perceval said.
"Yes," Mallory answered. "And it also might let you survive to get your message there."
Mallory was right. Within the hour, Rien was curled under blankets moaning, only barely responsive when Perceval unearthed her to drip water on cracked lips from the corner of a soaked rag. She would have bathed Rien's face, but Rien batted at her hands, and so instead she made a pad and sat against a tree with her sister's head cradled in her lap. That, Rien permitted, and it made it easier to keep her hydrated.
Mallory brought the water, steeped with herbs in it, and—for Perceval—porridge and soy milk. The basilisk rested on a branch overhead, perhaps dozing and perhaps keeping watch. While Perceval was waiting for honey to drip off the spiral honey dripper—as it was wont to do— she tilted her head back to watch his feathers fluff and settle. Exactly as if he breathed, which of course he did not.
Cool fingers touched the back of her hand. She looked down, let Mallory relieve her of the dripper. Perceval licked the honey from her nail and then, with only residually sticky fingers, smoothed the hair from Rien's brow. The curls were dank with sweat, but Perceval heeded them not. She shook the salty moisture from her fingers and picked up her spoon.
"You're very devoted to your sister," Mallory said.
Perceval chewed carefully, her mouth abruptly full of saliva. She swallowed; the second spoonful was already on its way when she spoke. "I barely know her," she said, leaving out for now the fact that Rien had tended her, rescued her, cast in her lot with her, and now somehow brought her here. "You're very helpful for a necromancer."
"So you don't trust me? Or you don't believe I'm a ; necromancer?" Mallory had a bowl of porridge, too, and was doctoring it with margarine and almond milk and salt. Among the almond blossoms, Perceval heard the drowsy drone of bees.
Rien, thrashing, arched her shoulder blade into Perceval's knee.
"Ow," Perceval said. "Sweetie—" She stuffed another spoonful into her mouth and set the bowl aside. Hands on Rien's shoulder and forehead seemed to calm her a little. "Should I trust you?"
"Trust no one," Mallory said, stirring idly. The necromancer's eyebrows were very expressive, especially when the rest of the face was pretending blandness. It was a lovely face, oval and far more angelic than Perceval's own. "Unless you have to. And today you had to." "You knew who I was before I told you." "I did. I am after all a necromancer. And they shall know you by your trail of dead, Perceval Conn."
Perceval set her bowl aside, no longer hungry. "My, aren't we prophetic."
"Don't be silly. No one can see the future." Whatever backflips Perceval's stomach was doing, Mallory ate with unperturbed determination. "I am a very good guesser, though." "And?"
"And somebody in Engine has already tried to use you to kill your sister, and your aunt Ariane Conn at Rule, and everyone else therein. And might have in part succeeded."
Mallory reached across Perceval's lap and stroked Rien's sweat cold cheek. This touch, Rien did not flinch away from. Perceval swallowed an acrid pang of jealousy. "Will she be well?"
"I saved you, and you were sicker. It's fortunate you came upon me."
Perceval liked Mallory better when the necromancer wasn't winking. "Or you came upon us. I ask you again, necromancer. Why are you helping us?"
"Because I have no love for Engine," the necromancer said. "Nor Rule either. And less love for their wars."
And then, while Perceval still stared, nibbling her lip in consideration, Mallory leaned forward and pressed pillowy lips to Perceval's own.
Perceval had never been kissed before. Oh, yes, she'd kissed Rien, but that was not such a kiss as this. This was soft, and melting, Mallory's bony and elegant hand pressed to her cheek and a slick tongue lightly flicking her closed mouth. And Perceval had no idea how to react.
She laid a palm against Mallory's chest, to hold her distance, and waited until the necromancer gently, so slowly, leaned back. Mallory's lashes flicked off pearl-white cheeks; Perceval had never lowered hers.
"I'm sorry," Perceval said. "I am fallow, and sworn celibate. I cannot be what you desire."
"Figures," Mallory answered, and leaned back with a sigh so honey-scented breath caressed Perceval's face. "I've been here alone a long time."
In the branches of the tree above, the slumbering basilisk raised its head, crest ruffling. "What am I?" it asked, in injured tones. "Chopped tempeh?"
10 all that heaven and none for thee
And deep into her crystal body poured
The hot and sorrowful sweetness of the dust.
—EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY,
"Oh, Sleep Forever in the Latmian Cave"
Pinion told Dust everything, including his name.
It was a good name, Dust judged, as Dust judged such things. He had never been able to name things himself—he was, after all, in chief a sort of archivist—but as with many archivists, a good irony and good pun delighted him.
Take the name of the world, for example, half of which was half of Dust's own name. Jacob's Ladder. One thing that was many things, and a name most carefully chosen. Because Jacob's ladder was the ladder angels ascended to reach Heaven; and it was also the breaking of sun rays through cloud, planetside (not that Dust had ever seen such, but there were images in his memory); and it was a rope ladder, such as used to ascend into the rigging of a sailing ship; it was a fumbling primitive body modification that humans had performed upon themselves—and that , was significant, because humans were the only animals to mutilate themselves on purpose, or to direct their own evolution, although in those days the Exalt had been but a dream; it was a toy, an amusement; and in the name of the world, it was a promise and a benediction and an allegory.
Because the Jacob's ladder in the name of the world was all of these things, and none. The ladder these angels must climb was the double helix. And then they would be God. They, who were splinters of God.
God, who was dead. And what should be done about it, none of his splinters could agree.
Dust thanked Pinion—it was childish and simple yet, but learning, and it could relate what it had seen—and then he began to discorporate.
He knew where Samael's holde lay, and more than that he was certain he would not have to seek even so far. There would be outliers and sentries, and Dust's own self-stuff would meet up with his brother's before he sought too far.
But if Samael could barge into Dust's house, Dust could barge into Samael's.
He was strong, as strong as ever his counterpart. He would believe it. And he would believe as well that Samael needed him.
Dust came apart and filtered through the world. And when he came to the house of Samael, he did not pause, not even to gather his courage. He rolled forward on a manufactured wave of high pressure, and he swept Samael's servants and fragments before.