“To be honest,” said Abigail, “I’m quite sorry to crash this one, as I would love to see where this mixer goes.”

“I, also,” said Harrowhark’s cavalier primary, from behind her shoulder.

Magnus had finished his canape, and added enthusiastically: “Agreed. This is top. Have you ever eaten party food before, Lady Harrowhark? Because if you haven’t, this is a very good approximation. No taste, but incredibly salty.”

Harrow said frigidly, “Pardon?” before she remembered that she could not have known Lady Abigail Pent by sight.

“This still isn’t how it happens,” said the Fifth—

42

MONTH??? DEATH

“LIEUTENANT!” CRIED A VOICE. “Wait up—please.”

Coming out of the briefing room, still a little bit pinched with space exposure—she had learned belatedly that after the first week it was considered namby-pamby to wear one’s placket of grave dirt anywhere visible, and it made a bump within the uniform—Harrowhark stopped and pivoted to the two soldiers behind her. She came to the unpleasant realisation that she would be forced to salute, and duly did so: although the navy-rimmed pins in front of her denoted the same rank as her own, the burnished steel pins on the opposite lapel indicated that these two had seen action. This was not greatly surprising, in the context of the navy edging of the Fourth House. She had already heard a great many jibes to the effect that Fourth House arrivals ought to be issued with both a medal of honour and a coffin. But they were very young. They were younger even than her, which was grotesque. She recognised them before they had finished their responding salute, which was significantly worse.

She said stiffly, “Lieutenant Tettares. Lieutenant Chatur. Do you require the service of the Black Anchorite?”

“No, because who would, ever,” said Lieutenant Chatur, whose corkscrew hair had been bound up at the back of her head. She did not resemble Harrowhark’s idea of a cavalier primary, even with the rapier bound to her hip. She was looking Harrow over rather critically in return. Harrow had been allowed her paint—she had been granted her jewels of office—as a chaplain, she had even been allowed a bit of robe, though a cursory Cohort robe that pinned to one shoulder and was about as much use as a sugar-spun bone. The starched white shirt and trousers seemed to take away all her substance. The more substantial child before her was saying in a piercing voice: “I heard they actually had to exhume a book as to how your lot work, because we haven’t had a black friar for fifty years.”

“Then I will take my leave—Lieutenant. Lieutenant—”

“Excuse her, please, she sucks,” said her necromancer briefly.

(“Thanks?”