Palamedes said, very quietly: “Where is she?”
There was no answer.
He said, “I repeat. Where is she?”
“I thought she and I had come to an understanding,” Dulcinea admitted easily. “If she had only told me about you … I could have taken some additional precautions.”
“Tell me what you have done,” said Palamedes, “with Dulcinea Septimus.”
“Oh, she’s still here,” said the person who wasn’t Dulcinea Septimus, dismissively. “She came at the Emperor’s call, cavalier in tow. What happened to him was an accident—when I boarded her ship he refused to hear a word of reason, and I had to kill him. Which didn’t have to happen … not like that, anyway. Then she and I talked … We are very much alike. I don’t mean just in appearance, though that was the case, except in the eyes, as the Seventh House is awfully predictable for looks—but our illness … she was very ill, as ill as I was, when I first came here. She might have lived out the first few weeks she was here, Sextus, or she mightn’t have.”
He said, “Then that story about Protesilaus and the Seventh House was a lie.”
“You’re not listening. I never lied,” said the voice. “I said that it was a hypothetical, and you all agreed.”
“Semantics.”
“You should have listened more closely. But I never ever lied. I am from the Seventh House … and it was an accident. Anyway, she and I talked. She was a sweet little thing. I really had wanted to do something for her—and afterward, I kept her for the longest time … until someone took out my cavalier. Then I had to get rid of her, quickly … the furnace was the only option. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a monster. Septimus was dead before the shuttle landed at Canaan … she hardly suffered.”
There was a very long pause. Palamedes’s voice betrayed nothing when he said: “Well, that’s something, at least. I suppose we’re all to follow now?”
“Yes, but this wasn’t really about any of you,” said the woman in the room with him. “Not personally. I knew that if I ruined his Lyctor plans—killed the heirs and cavaliers to all the other eight Houses—I’d draw him back to the system, but I had to do it in a subtle enough way that he wouldn’t bring the remaining Hands with him. If I had arrived in full force, he’d have turned up on a war footing, and sent the Lyctors to do all the dirty work like always. This way he’s lulled into a false sense of … semisecurity, I suppose. And he won’t even bother coming within Dominicus’s demesne. He’ll sit out there beyond the system—trying to find out what’s happening—right where I need him to be. I’ll give the King Undying, the Necrolord Prime, the Resurrector, my lord and master front-row seats as I shatter his Houses, one by one, and find out how many of them it takes before he breaks and crosses over, before he sees what will come when I call … and then I won’t have to do anything. It will be too late.”
A pause.
“Why would one of the Emperor’s Lyctors hate him?”
“Hate him?” The voice of the girl whom Gideon had known as Dulcinea rose, high and intent. “Hate him? I have loved that man for ten thousand years. We all loved him, every one of us. We worshipped him like a king. Like a god! Like a brother.”
Her voice dropped, and she sounded very normal and very old: “I don’t know why I’m telling you this … you who have been alive for less than a heartbeat, when I have lived past the time when life loses meaning. Thank your lucky stars that none of you became Lyctor, Palamedes Sextus. It is neither life nor death—it’s something in between, and nobody should ever ask you to embrace it. Not even him. Especially not him.”
“I wouldn’t have done that to Camilla.”
“So you know how it happens. Clever boy! I knew you’d all work it out … eventually. I didn’t want to do it either … I didn’t want to do it at all … but I was dying. Loveday—she was my cavalier—she and I thought it could make me live. Instead I’ve just kept dying, all this time. No, you wouldn’t have done it, and you’re smart not to. You can’t do that to somebody’s soul. Teacher was nearly demented. Did you know what we did to him? I say we, but he wasn’t my project … he was a holy terror. Blame your own House for that! I can’t be grateful enough to those Second ninnies for killing him and calling for help. He was the only one here who scared me. He couldn’t have stopped me, but he might have made things stupid.”
“Why did Teacher not recognise you?”
“Perhaps he did,” said the woman. It sounded like she was smiling. “Who knows what that soul melange was ever thinking?”
There was another pause. She said, “You’ve taken this much more sensibly than I thought you would. When you’re young, you do everything the moment you think about it. For example, I’ve been thinking about doing this for the last three hundred years … but I assumed you would try something silly when you realized she was dead.”
“I wouldn’t ever try to do something silly,” Palamedes said lightly. “I made the decision to kill you the moment I knew there was no more chance to save her. That’s all.”
She laughed, as clear and as bright as ice. It was arrested midway through by a cough—a deep, sick-sounding cough—but she laughed through it anyway, as though she didn’t care.
“Oh, don’t … don’t.”
“I just had to buy enough time,” he said, “to do it slowly enough that you wouldn’t notice—to keep you talking.”
There was another laugh, but this one was punctuated by a big wet cough too. No laughter followed. She said, “Young Warden of the Sixth House, what have you done?”
“Tied the noose,” said Palamedes Sextus. “You gave me the rope. You have severe blood cancer … just as Dulcinea did. Advanced, as hers was when she died. Static, because the Lyctor process begins radical cell renewal at the point of absorption. All this time we’ve been talking, I’ve been taking stock of everything that’s wrong with you—your bacterial lung infection, the neoplasms in your skeletal structure—and I’ve pushed them along. You’ve been in a terrific amount of pain for the last myriad. I hope that pain is nothing to what your own body’s about to do to you, Lyctor. You’re going to die spewing your own lungs out of your nostrils, having failed at the finish line because you couldn’t help but prattle about why you killed innocent people, as though your reasons were interesting … This is for the Fifth and the Fourth—for everyone who’s died, directly or indirectly, due to you—and most personally, this is for Dulcinea Septimus.”
The coughing didn’t stop. Not-Dulcinea sounded impressed, but not particularly worried. “Oh, it’s going to take a great deal more than that. You know what I am … and you know what I can do.”
“Yes,” said Palamedes. “I also know you must have studied radical thanergetic fission, so you know what happens when a necromancer disperses their entire reserve of thanergy very, very quickly.”
“What?” said the woman.
He raised his voice:
“Gideon!” he called out. “Tell Camilla—”
He stopped.
“Oh, never mind. She knows what to do.”
The sickroom exploded into white fire, and the bonds pinning Gideon snapped. She fell hard against the wall and spun, drunkenly, lurching back down the corridor as Palamedes Sextus made everything burn. There was no heat, but Gideon sprinted away from that cold white death without bothering to spare a glance behind as though flames were licking at her heels. There was another enormous CRRR-RRR-RRRACK and a boom. The ceiling shook wide showers of plaster dust down on her head as she threw herself bodily through a doorway. She ran for her life down the long corridors, past ancient portraits and crumbling statues, the grave goods of the tomb of Canaan House, the mechanisms of this feeble shitty machine crumbling as Palamedes Sextus became a god-killing star.