You were not to be so lightly disregarded. You stood with your sweat cooling inside your shirt and your flesh adhering to the exoskeleton, and said: “The depredations of a bad man do not cause Cytherea to walk.”

Ianthe closed her notepad and rested her pale head briefly against the headboard. “Bad man,” she murmured to herself, and then: “I’d walk out on a date with the Saint of Duty. Nonagesimus, this is no time to interrupt grown Lyctors committing acts that probably seem perfectly normal after ten thousand years with such limited romantic options—though you should hear some of the things Augustine has told me, my God!—nor is it a good time to advertise that you are not merely a failure, but a mad failure.”

“You should not advertise your utter lack of imagination,” you said. “Tridentarius, my position is not so precarious that I am going to ignore things that happen in front of my face.”

“Yes, but are they actually?”

“Don’t presume you know what you’re talking about.”

“Your position is that precarious, my dear,” said Ianthe, and reached over with a long left arm to place her journal on the rightmost table. “Did you know that Teacher asked Mercymorn if they could store you in his chamber when we go after the Beast? Mercymorn said no, they decompress that chamber for a reason, unless he thought it would be nice to asphyxiate you personally?”

You said, “And did you know that Teacher himself thinks you far from a perfect sword hand?” At her expression, you added, “I personally loathe tattletales for the purpose of insult, but it seems to be your main weapon in our conversations.”

Ianthe’s mouth had thinned to a purple slit where, you noticed, the skin was torn. “Those were his exact words?”

“It’s no secret that I’m going to die,” you said. In no way were you resigned to that. You had never died before. “I am most likely lashing out. Nevertheless, those were his exact words.”

She stared off into the distance, her eyes fixed on the huge painting of the long-dead, clothing-optional Lyctor. “God is a dickhead,” she murmured.

You were astonished by the force of your immediate anger. You were amazed by its intensity. You drew your two-handed sword from your back: your wrists weren’t quite in the right position, but it was a good attempt. The sword’s matte, calcified surface sucked in the lamplight, casting strange shadows on her eiderdown. You said, “Do not blaspheme in front of me.”

“Don’t draw on me with that ridiculous thing. You don’t even know where you got it.”

“God gave it to me.”

“And you’ve never asked yourself why?”