He looks up, suddenly bright. “Misery. I told you it will work out and I truly believe that. Abiel may be a small, petty-minded thing, but he has always been first and foremost a romantic, driven by emotion and not logic. I believe he can be swayed. I believe he can be convinced of the extraordinary moment he finds himself in. That he has been chosen to receive a gift so precious from the Larex Forge: that of salvation, and the end to the strife and corruption brought upon us by the Heretics.”

Misery smiles with her face, which feels very separate from the rest of her. This is the contradiction of Lord Argan: for all his flash and overindulgence, the man is as devout as her brother is. His belief runs solid all the way through, as much as she can tell, and somehow that is worse than Crem’s worship, which seemed driven in part by necessity and a political savvy. She should be pleased that she’s sucked in and suckered these paragons of faith who now think she’s some sort of holy beacon.

The Duke’s final choice is a suit of golden armor. Something something sourceworld revival, it’s fashionable to go about weighed down by a bold shell of hammered metal. Assembling the coalition of clanking bits requires robotic assistance, figuring out what goes where like a tangram. The algorithms will shape the outfit to make music as Misery walks.

“There,” he says. “We’ll send it to your room nearer the hour. Now it is time to rest.”

Thus is Misery sent back to the anchorex’s cell, where another fragrant meal waits, with little blocked in but prayer and contemplation until the final hour.

Tomorrow, she goes to see the Emperor. Tomorrow, she finds out how this all ends.

CHAPTER 6

At the appointed time Lord Argan comes to Misery’s quarters to take her to the Emperor. She rings like a meditation bell, and he looks like a fool. The Duke of Apis wears a vest of holographic vinyl, encased in the bright puffs of a glassine coat whose surface swarms with moving fish and birds. White leather pants accompany holo boots on six-inch platforms shot through with light and whole lotus flower heads. His richly styled curls glitter with oil-black pearls and magpie feathers and squares of genuine sourceworld microelectronics. He says, “I am August Faust, Apisian Muse of Life. What do you think?” Misery thinks he looks unsalvageably ridiculous, and she would expect nothing less of him. He’s all fistfuls of nervous energy, and his Brownian jittering encompasses a wide field of interpretations that Misery cannot narrow down. She’s not going to think about it. Her mother’s amulet is tucked under her shining golden breastplate; she’ll be taken if she goes anywhere without it now.