Tamsyn Muir: Gideon the Ninth

All this washed over Harrow’s shoulders. She realised immediately that she was a fool: that she was asking the wrong questions, and listening to the wrong thing.

“Who else beside me is alive, Lord?”

“Ianthe Tridentarius,” said the Emperor, “minus one arm.”

“The Sixth House cavalier was only injured when I left her,” said Harrowhark. “Where is she?”

“We haven’t recovered any trace of her, or her body,” said the Emperor. “Nor that of Captain Deuteros of Trentham, nor of the Crown Princess of Ida.”

“What?”

“All the Houses will have questions tonight,” he said. “I can hardly blame them. I’m sorry, Harrow, we couldn’t recover your cavalier either.”

Her brain listed sharply.

“Gideon’s gone?”

“Everyone else is accounted for,” he said. “We have had to settle for partial remains of the Seventh House and the Warden of the Sixth. Only you two were confirmed alive. It doesn’t help matters that I can’t even go down there and search.”

Harrow found herself saying, distantly, “Why can’t you go back? It seemed to be the whole of Cytherea’s plan.”

The Emperor said, “I saved the world once—but not for me.”

Harrow pressed her legs down into the cool metal rib of the gurney. She expected to feel something, but she didn’t. She felt nothing at all. There was a great and gnawing emptiness, which was mildly better than feeling something, at least. A tiny voice in the back of her head was saying, Someone will burn for this, but it was only ever her own.

The Emperor leaned back in his chair and they looked at each other. He had a ridiculously ordinary face: long jaw, high forehead, hair a dull and leaden brown. But those eyes.

He said, “I know you became a Lyctor under duress.”

“Some may call it duress, ” said Harrow.

“You aren’t the first,” said the Emperor. “But—listen to me. I will do what I haven’t done in ten thousand years and renew your House.” (How did he know about that?) “I’ll safeguard the Ninth. I will make sure what happened at Canaan House never happens again. But I want you to come with me. You can learn to be my Hand. The Empire can gain another saint, and the Empire needs another saint, more than ever. I have three teachers for you, and a whole universe for you to hold on to—for just a little while longer.”

The King Undying had asked her to follow him. All she wanted was to be alone and weep.

“Or—you can go back home again,” he said. “I have not assumed you’ll agree with me. I will not force you or buy you. I will keep covenant with your House whether you come with me or stay at home.”

Harrow said, “We can’t go home again.”

There was a vague reflection of her in the window, interrupted by distant space fields pocketed thick with stars. She turned away. If she saw herself in a mirror, she might fight herself: if she saw herself in a mirror, she might find a trace of Gideon Nav, or worse—she might not find anything, she might find nothing at all.

So the universe was ending. Good. At least if she failed here, she would no longer have to be beholden to anybody. Harrow touched her cheek and was surprised to find her fingertips came away wet, and that the Necrolord Prime had chivalrously lowered his gaze.

She said, “I will have to go back eventually.”

“I know,” said the Emperor.

“I need to find out what happened to my cavalier’s body. I need to know what happened to the others.”

“Of course.”

“But for now,” said Harrow, “I will be your Lyctor, Lord, if you will have me.”

The Emperor said, “Then rise, Harrowhark the First.”

I would like to express my very great appreciation for my agent, Jennifer Jackson, both for her enthusiasm and her tireless work on behalf of Gideon the Ninth. My thanks are also extended to my incredible editor, Carl Engle-Laird; I can’t begin to outline everything he has done for me and this novel, except to say that if it was a labour of love on my part it was a hundred labours of love on his. Thanks for being a Sixth House stalwart to the end, Carl.

Particular thanks are due to the staff at Tor.com—Irene Gallo, Mordicai Knode, Katharine Duckett, Ruoxi Chen, and everyone else on the team—whose hard work and support I have deeply appreciated over the editing and publishing process.

I would like to acknowledge the work of Lissa Harris, who advised me on use of the rapier, off-hands, and the Zweihänder throughout this novel. Anything good, true, or beautiful about swordplay here is due to her; any mistake or rank stupidity is mine, probably because I ignored her advice in the first place. I’m thankful for her patience, wit, and insight, but would like to remind her here that hard-boiled eggs shouldn’t be added to potato salad. Fight me.

Special thanks also to Clemency Pleming and Megan Smith, my friends and first readers, whose support means I now possess a kitchen apron embroidered with the worst deleted meme from the manuscript. Their good humour and sympathy kept me sane—and also, now I have an apron.

I am grateful to my excellent Clarion instructors of 2010, and wish to particularly thank Jeff and Ann VanderMeer, knowing Jeff won’t mind if I especially highlight years of support, goodwill, and enthusiasm from Ann. Assistance provided by my classmates, whose work I enjoyed, whose advice I solicited, and whose boundless sympathy I took advantage of constantly over the years, proved invaluable. (Thanks, suckers.) For special services to this novel I’d like to thank Kali Wallace, the living embodiment of nolite te bastardes carborundorum ; John Chu, for wholehearted kindness; and Kai Ashante Wilson, who gave me the gentle kick up the rear I needed to send out the manuscript.

Various people have supported me and this novel in general. I’m grateful for the love and support of my friends and family, in particular my brother, Andrew Muir, the guy who believed in my writing even when I was eleven and publishing turgid Animorphs fanfiction. His support for me in every avenue of my life has made me who I am today. Also, thanks for leaving critical anonymous reviews on my fanfiction.net masterpieces, jagoff.

Finally but most importantly, I acknowledge the ongoing contributions of Matt Hosty, who mopped blood, brewed tea, and corrected drafts with the patience of Griselda. Two more books and then I’ll never mention bones again, I swear to God.

Tamsyn Muir is a horror, fantasy and sci-fi author whose short fiction has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the Eugie Foster Memorial Award. A Kiwi, she has spent most of her life in Howick, New Zealand, with time living in Waiuku and central Wellington. She currently lives and works in Oxford, in the United Kingdom.