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Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  5. Prologue
  6. PARODOS
  7. ACT ONE
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. ACT TWO
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. ACT THREE
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. ACT FOUR
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. EPIPARODOS
  51. ACT FIVE
  52. 40
  53. 41
  54. 42
  55. 43
  56. 44
  57. 45
  58. 46
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. EPILOGUE
  67. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  68. The Locked Tomb Trilogy
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

The coffee adept was a girl that Harrowhark had never seen before, though she must have been part of their training platoon. With the plain shirtsleeves and apron, and a cloth slung over the shoulder obscuring her insignia, it was impossible to tell her affiliation: the arms beneath the rolled-up sleeves betrayed lean, taut muscle, a little dewy with sweat and steam from the mess. But it was the face that sent her neurons in a thalergetic spin. When Harrowhark looked at that face, she found a curious heat travelling all the way up from the pit of her pylorus to the high collar of her Cohort shirt. It then traversed her cheeks, her nose, her brow, her temples. The other officer smiled a firm-jawed, long, crooked smile at her; Harrow was electrified by the fact that beneath the hastily brushed crop of red hair those eyes were—

“Absolutely not,” said Abigail, from beside her.

43

ONE NIGHT BEFORE THE EMPEROR’S MURDER

HARROW THRASHED ON THE mattress and breathed in lungfuls of splintering air. She writhed like a shot animal; arms pinned her down—“Stay with us, Ninth, come on,” someone was saying—and a sudden spasm seized her, shaking her from the inside until she was certain she would vibrate out of her skin. There was a susurrus of hushed mutters coming from above her, urgent voices, none of which made sense to her:

“Are we stable—?”

“I hope so; another pull like that and she’ll bring the children back wholesale, and I don’t think I can bear sending them out again—”

“Why now?”

“Wasn’t that—?”

“I honestly preferred some of those to—”

“No. Better the rules we have,” interrupted the second voice. “We have no idea of the limitations in those other scenarios.”

Another breath—and her throat refused, closing up in protest; she turned her head and coughed, affronted, affrighted—she opened her eyes, and the world rushed up to meet her.

She awoke convinced that she was staring up at Dominicus framed within a blue sky, a lambent and unreal blue, a nonsensical backdrop. A familiar voice—Magnus’s—said kindly, “You’re fine. You’re fine.” The sky was the ceiling, and the ceiling was a decrepit room in Canaan House, veiled with the hot white breath from her own throat. When the world finally landed its long wound-up sucker punch, a tangled howl came out of her throat, and she was shocked that she was able to make such a noise. Memory hit Harrowhark Nonagesimus with the inexorable gravity of a satellite sucked from orbit, flinging itself to die on the surface of its bounden planet; the world hit her like a fall.