“I think you’re skipping ahead in the story,” said God. “I think you’re glossing over a part … because you think it doesn’t matter? Are you embarrassed? Gideon, were you aware that, when you let Commander Wake get as far as she did—to the House of the Ninth, to one of our own Houses, our own people—that she was pregnant?”

A pause. “I was aware,” said Gideon Classic.

“Why the hell did you not tell me?”

“Because I thought it was—mine.”

There was a rising call of dismay from that whole room—a sort of strangled yeeeuuurgh from Mercymorn, an exhausted—was it a laugh?—from Augustine. He was laughing—in this eerie, humourless way, this huge, tired, exhausted laugh, until he had to press his face into his hand. Even then, he didn’t quite stop.

And Gideon Senior said, “Forgive me, John. I didn’t know anything about it,” which I would have thought was a weird thing to say if I hadn’t been too busy staring at Cytherea.

The Emperor said, “I’ve made mistakes too, Gideon … but you could’ve told me.”

And Gideon Prime said, “I didn’t know to.”

“How long had that been going on?”

“Nearly two years.” After a moment, he added, “It was complicated.”

“I’ll bet. So the plan was to kill a Lyctor’s baby,” said God, marvelling quietly. “A Lyctor’s infant child, barely born, to start a thanergy cascade. It was a hell of a plan. But both of you knew it never could have worked … surely you knew it couldn’t have worked. Augustine, for fuck’s sake have a cigarette, you’re getting hysterical.”

The noise Augustine was making was nearly laughter; it was nearly not laughter at all. The Saint of Patience snapped in pure agitation: “Stop kidding yourself, John!”

“Everyone’s being very opaque today,” said God.

“You know we know how the blood ward works,” said Mercymorn. She did not sound hysterical herself; she had swapped roles with Augustine unexpectedly, and now sounded measured and calm, nearly dreamy. “You never kept it secret from us. I always thought it was a little over the top, Teacher … you were always so fussy about never bleeding … but Cassiopeia told me a very interesting thing about blood wards, once. She always said that they should really be called cell wards, because they work off thalergetic enzymes … which can be spoofed with a substantial thanergy burst and the blood of a close relative. A parent. A child.”

The Emperor said, as though speaking to a kid: “And how would you ever—” and stopped.

And he said, “Mercy.” And he said, “Augustine.” And he said, “Mercy—” and then, “Augustine—”

“I wouldn’t think about the practicalities, if I were you,” said Augustine, extracting a cigarette. He tucked it into the side of his mouth. He was pretty good. His hands weren’t even really shaking. “It’s not worth it.”