“Four glasses of wine,” amended God, which was probably still inadequate. “This is a good lesson for you, girls, not to underestimate anyone. A quarter century ago these fanatics found out about the Resurrection Beasts. Which are classified to the upper echelons of the Cohort, mind, so that was an intelligence effort and a half…”

“They knew about them,” said Ortus. “They just didn’t know what they were.”

“Finding out what they were didn’t stop them. They searched one Beast out … threw away half their ships separating a Herald from the pack … killed that Herald, let’s drink to that—” (“To killing Heralds,” said his two elder Lyctors, and they drank, and so did Ianthe, and you put your lips on the glass.) “Even a dead Herald can drive a necromancer insane. They took that thing apart. They made it into knives. They made it into axes. They made it into armour. I mean, extremely frugal, but honestly—that commander had Herald bullets.”

“Bullets,” said Augustine, “Darts. Throwing knives. Dead shot. Got me right between the eyes once. Mad as a cut snake, and three times as vicious. We nearly lost you to her a few times, didn’t we, Ortus? Should we drink to Commander Wake?”

The glasses rattled as the Saint of Duty stood, and said the most words you had ever heard him say. “Probably not. Excuse me. I’m tired.”

They watched him go in pursed-up silence. Teacher rose from the table, silently, as though thinking of going after him. When the door shut behind the escaping Lyctor, Mercymorn hissed, “Augustine, you ass,” and he protested calmly: “He’s fine.”

“You call that fine—”

“—sudden access of sympathy a little uncharacteristic when—”

“—not difficult to imagine that maybe—”

“Don’t,” said God, sitting back down with some difficulty. “Don’t. Not when you’re finally talking again. This is more amicable conversation than I have seen you two exchange in … it must be decades. Don’t. I’ve had a very nice evening. Harrow, you haven’t drunk too much, have you?”

You had drunk exceptionally too much, and were dying to purge your kidneys manually. “No,” you said, at the same time that your seatmate said, “Very obviously, yes.”

“Nobody asked you,” you said, but Ianthe was moving her chair over, and she was slinging her living arm around your bare shoulders—which made them feel less bare and less cold, which you resented—and she was saying, “There, there, Harry.” (God repressed a smile at this vile nickname, for which you once again assured Ianthe slow death.) “Let me introduce you to the special world of sisterhood—I will reveal everything you do, contradict you at every turn, and hold back your hair in the morning.”