Gideon the Ninth

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t make cryptic comments about my—my mother. You don’t know the first thing about her, or me, and it’s just going to piss me off. When I’m pissed off, I walk out. Are we clear?”

“As crystal,” said the necromancer of the Eighth. “But you misunderstand. This isn’t an interrogation. I was more interested in the story of your mother than I was in you, when we questioned Glaurica. You were an accidental inclusion. Glaurica confused the erroneous with the useful. But ghosts always do.”

“Ghosts?”

“Revenants, to be explicit,” said Silas. “Those rare and determined spirits who search out the living before they pass, unbidden, by clinging to scraps of their former lives. I was surprised that a woman like Glaurica made the transition. She did not last long.”

Her vertebrae did not turn to ice, but it would’ve been a lie to say they didn’t cool down considerably.

“Glaurica’s dead?”

Silas took an infuriatingly long drink of water. The pallid column of his throat moved. “They died on the way back to their home planet,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Their shuttle exploded. Curious, considering it was a perfectly good Cohort shuttle with an experienced pilot. This was the shuttle you had intended to commandeer, was it not?”

Ortus would never rhyme melancholy

with my mortal folly again. Gideon did not confirm or deny. “I don’t know the full story,” admitted Silas. “I don’t need to. I am not here to read out all the secrets of your life and startle you into saying anything. I’m here to talk about the children. How many in your generation, Gideon the Ninth? Not infants. But your peers, your age group.”

Not infants. Maybe Glaurica had kept some secrets after all. Or—more like—her spirit chose to shriek back into existence solely to complain about the two things that had been of utmost importance to her: her sad dead sack of a son, and the sacred bones of her sad dead husband. Gideon held her tongue. Silas pressed, “Yourself? The Reverend Daughter?”

“What do you want, a census?”

“I want you to think about why you and Harrowhark Nonagesimus now represent an entire generation,” he said, and he leant forward onto his elbows. His eyes were very intense. His nephew was still braiding his hair, which only somewhat lessened the effect. “I want you to think about the deaths of two hundred children, when you and she alone lived.”

“Okay, look, this is wacky,” said Gideon. “You’ve picked on exactly the wrong thing to slam Harrow with. If you want to talk about how she’s a corrupt tyrant, I’m all ears. But I know about the flu. She wasn’t even born yet. I was, what, one year old, so I didn’t do it. There was vent bacteria in the creche and the schoolroom hall, and it took out all the kids and one of the teachers before they found out what it was.”

This had made perfect sense to her, always: not only were the children of the Ninth unusually sickly and decrepit anyway—the Ninth House only seemed to truck with the pallid, defective, and upset—but among so much malign decay nobody would have noticed a ventilation problem until it was far too late. She had always privately suspected that she had lived due to the other children avoiding her. The youngest had gone first, and the eldest who were caring for the youngest, and then everyone was gone from the age of nineteen down. A whole generation of holy orders. Harrow had been the only birth amidst a sea of tiny tombs.

“Vent bacteria does not kill immunoefficient teenagers,” said Silas.

“You’ve never seen a Ninth House teenager.”

“Vent bacteria,” said Silas again, “does not kill immunoefficient teenagers.”

It made no sense. He didn’t know that Harrow was the last baby born. The Ninth House had been jealous of its dwindling population for generations. Bumping off any child, let alone its youngest crop of nuns and cenobites, would be a horrifying waste of resources. The creche flu had been an extinction event. “I don’t get it,” Gideon said. “Are you trying to make out like the Reverend Father and Mother killed hundreds of their own kids?”

He did not answer her. He took another long draw of his water. Colum had finished the braid and pinned it back, perfecting the usual severe silhouette of the Master’s pale head, after which he measured tiny spoonfuls of black tea into a jug to steep cold. He then lowered himself down onto a stool a little way away from the table, close to the door and face to the window like a true paranoid. The cavalier took a pile of what looked to be darning and began to run a nervous white seam up a pair of white trousers. The Eighth House must all be martyrs to stains, she thought.