Dyas was back on her feet now and had drawn her rapier, but she was hesitating: it looked as though she was waiting to see whether the Seventh’s garotte would have any more effect than her bullets had. The Sleeper flicked out her arms as though trying to straighten the cuffs of an invisible robe, and a gun appeared in each of her gloved hands. She reached back, tucked the snub-nosed barrel of the left-hand gun against the outside of Protesilaus’s knee, and fired. There was a dull pop; he roared in pain and collapsed to one side as though someone had kicked out a stick he’d been using to lean on. As his chain went slack, Dyas lunged, in a beautifully clean strike at the Sleeper’s heart. Her rapier’s point drove into the haz suit and bounced, juddering to the side as though she’d stabbed a solid iron pillar. The Sleeper knocked the blade clear with her arm and smashed the butt of her other gun into the cavalier’s jaw, dropping her to the floor like a sack of snow leeks dumped from the arms of a tottering Drearburh drone. Then she placed her steel-toed boot on Dyas’s throat.

Harrow seized her moment, stood up, and made a long, underhand throw—

And the Sleeper shot the clump of bone she was forming out of midair. The Sleeper’s arm moved faster than an arm could move; the bullet more accurate, perhaps, than a bullet could be. As the bone burst into powder, no shapes sprang forth. Harrow felt it become inert at the moment of impact, as though the Saint of Duty had touched it and sucked it dry. A chill settled on her heart.

“Three,” said the Sleeper. “This is easy mode. Do you get it? No magic. No tricks. None of your foul bullshit. I’ve been doing this for years. The moment I want it to be over, it’s all over.”

Harrow could hear Dulcinea swearing weakly. At least she was alive. She pressed up against the icy side of the coffin and called out over it, “What happens? What happens if you take me?”

Ortus said urgently, “Lady, no.”

The Sleeper said, “You’ll die. It doesn’t have to hurt. I’m not here to torture anyone.”

“And?”

“I get your body.”

“And?”

“I finish it.”

“Finish what?”

“This isn’t a conversation. Two.”

Harrow peered over the coffin. Magnus and Protesilaus were both sprawled on the tiles in puddles of blood; both were moving, but neither showed any signs of getting up. Dyas was flat on her back, eyes closed as the pressure from the Sleeper’s booted foot increased—she made a tight, choking noise, and when one hand frantically patted around for her sword, the Sleeper stepped from her neck to her hand with a crunch.

“One,” said the Sleeper.

Next to Harrow, hidden behind the coffin, Ortus cleared his throat.

48