God hesitated. “Being separated from your soul won’t kill you,” he said. “Not immediately. But—”

“But we’ll kill you,” said his saint. “Immediately. A Lyctor’s body, empty, with its battery intact but nobody in the driver’s seat? Do you know what could take up residence? Anything could get inside you—any horrible or evil or lonely thing, any miserable revenant, or worse—and you, you Ninth House child, are not remotely qualified to fight an outside predator. You are like a little baby. Listen to this: if we get to the other side and find you’ve gone and left your soul behind—I will separate your brain from your skull without waiting for you to catch up.”

And God said nothing.

“When do we start?” Ianthe’s voice was clinical, like she was waiting for a tooth extraction.

“Start?” said Mercymorn. “He began submerging thirty seconds ago.”

God said, “Timer?”

“Set at five minutes.”

“We need a slower pace. Set it to six.”

“Five minutes thirty,” said Mercymorn, but God said: “I am not negotiating. Call out the increments once we hit waterline.”

The Saint of Joy said, with unexpected obedience: “Done. Be careful, Teacher.”

In the depths of space, now the depths of the River, the shuttle was a false gravity cocoon. You did not know which way was up, or down, or in what direction you were going. You were lying on the floor, trying to stop your lungs from expanding too quickly. Slowing your breath was blurring you out. You did not feel at peace, but rather numb and transfixed, heavy eyed, until God said, “Keep conscious,” and you stretched out the muscles of your calves until they strained, down to the tendons above the balls of your feet.

You lay on your mummified sword, which skulked sullenly beneath its caulk of bone. You stared at the ceiling. You tilted your head and found Ianthe looking through you. She was lying bracketed between her own rapier and her own offhand, and you were close enough for discomfort. Mercy said, “Hoods over your heads. They’re translucent for a reason,” and the Emperor added, “It’s easier when you can perceive light, but not get distracted.”

You were not sorry to do this. Your vision softened into a jumble of lights, like looking into a headache or white noise. There were no shapes or shadows. Ianthe faded into a mother-of-pearl lump beside you. It was impossible to tell which visual sparks of colour were due to the cloak, and which were your own shimmers of migraine fright.