Ruin, leaning into the wind, grins and licks hir lips with the red tip of hir tongue. “Do you imagine those little trinkets can truly hold back the nullvoid from the mind of one who welcomes it?” As Misery turns away from hir, heart racing, zie continues, “Or does it upset you, perhaps, that you cling to superstition more than you’d like?”

Instead of letting the delusion get to her—as if!—Misery turns to the Duke. Lord Argan has pulled out a small tin of mint salve to daub his neck with. A popular thing with his crew, these little discs of medicinal cream, spiced with herbs and wood-scent. Misery let an ensign rub some on her wrists back on his ship, and she appreciated the burst of coolness, followed by the gentle fog of salve-calm. But she’s never seen the Duke partake until now. “Nervous?”

He catches the edge in her voice and shifts on his feet, tucking the shiny tin into the gaudy folds of his plastic jacket. “If I were you, I’d be worried about me if I wasn’t nervous.”

A lot of shuffling between persons in one sentence. Misery says: “This station gets under my skin.”

He nods vacantly. “It hasn’t always been like this. I’m old enough to remember the times before this truce nonsense set in. Back in my childhood, there was still space for devotion.” The Duke shakes his head. “It’s almost sad to see.”

“These white saints,” Misery says, quietly tilting her head in the direction of one. “Are they a new thing?”

“Very much so.” A shiver runs through him. He speaks low enough not to be heard by anyone else. “Don’t quote me on this, but I can’t stand being around them. There’s something in their eyes that’s just not right. Like there’s void instead of a soul.”

Harsh, but Misery won’t argue. The Duke’s been around these creatures for longer than she has, he probably knows a thing or two. A void where a soul should be. Misery’s skin crawls, and she reaches to touch her mother’s amulet for reassurance. Her fingers ring against metal plate, and she remembers.

The arrowhead barge deposits them in the shadow of the Grand Amphitheater. Sound bubbles over holy jade walls so dark they look black. There must be thousands in the audience, and thousands more watching via wavelink. It is an event, and the breadth of the Empire is paying attention. Misery draws cold air into her lungs before the Throne’s bully squad marches her through a side door and into a warren of narrow walkways. It’s dark here under the amphitheater seats. The Throne has been stingy with the holy opal—or mundane lighting, for that matter—in these areas. Misery can barely make out the bas-relief carvings of mechs in battle that cover the pillars.

“Very atmospheric,” says the Duke wryly.