ADDRESSING THE LADY HARROWHARK NONAGESIMUS, KNOWN AS THE REVEREND DAUGHTER BY HER OWN DESIRE, NOW HARROWHARK THE FIRST, FROM THE SAME, NOW DEAD.

LETTER #12 OF 24.

If you meet Judith Deuteros, silence her. Kill her if necessary.

The bones of Deuteros’s jaw fused shut; you glued her bottom molars to her top molars immediately, and cleaved her tongue to her palate. She said, “Nnnngh?”

You took out a second letter to be sure, although this one was in plain script, and you had read it already:

ADDRESSING THE LADY HARROWHARK NONAGESIMUS, KNOWN AS THE REVEREND DAUGHTER BY HER OWN DESIRE, NOW HARROWHARK THE FIRST, FROM THE SAME, NOW DEAD.

LETTER #5 OF 24.

Protect Coronabeth Tridentarius at all costs, even if this endangers your life. The work is forfeit if you contribute to her death by direct or indirect action. In the interests of the work, you may silence her, so long as this causes her no significant pain.

In different handwriting:

P.S. Or any pain at all.

In yours:

P.P.S. I cannot guarantee a total absence of pain.

The first amender:

P.P.P.S. There must be a total absence of pain actually.

In yours again:

P.P.P.P.S. We have jointly agreed on “as little pain as may be achieved via the fullness of necromantic effort.”

And in the first:

P.P.P.P.P.S. xoxoxoxo

Coronabeth Tridentarius had already leapt to her feet and unsheathed a rapier you knew very well, and which froze you to the core to behold. It was a Ninth House rapier. The blade was black metal, with a plain guard and a hilt of the same colour. She stood before the mute shell that now constituted Deuteros, neatly at the ready with the rapier brandished and her left arm tucked behind her back. It was so like looking at Ianthe that you were differently bewildered; but you had already done the same to her—the tongue to the roof of the mouth, the teeth to the teeth—and so all she could say was, “Nnnngh!”

You drew your two-handed sword.

“Stop it.” The Sixth cavalier had joined this shitty tableau; she narrowed her eyes to slits in the sunshine. “I warned them already.”

“I do this on a greater authority than your own.”

“Balls,” said Hect succinctly. “Let them go.” Then: “Why is that sword gummed up, and who taught you to hold it like that?”

“I refuse to— What?”

“Your hands are too close together. Put your left hand at the bottom of the pommel, tuck in the arm close to the chest. Right hand high on the hilt, close to the cross guard, up a bit with your thumb—yeah—that’s more like it.” You did all this, and she said: “Good … not like you have the muscle for a rising strike. Okay. Now let Coronabeth and Judith go.”