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Gideon was grey and sweating. Light shone through the shuttle’s plexiform window as they approached the First House. She groaned, clutching her head at the pain that coursed through her at the sight of that searing blue planet.
All of her senses were on fire. Thanergetic deprivation was making her dizzy and exhausted; she was barely choking down her bile; and she couldn’t think straight over the clacking of Harrow’s prayer knuckles, which had been incessant for the journey’s length. The light was the bone chip that broke the construct’s back; Gideon tucked her head between her knees and tried to breathe.
“Settle down,” Harrow told her, calm and placid. Her prayer bones stilled, but Gideon’s lips curled into a snarl. She lifted her chin, even though it made her stomach swirl.
“Easy for you to say,” Gideon bit out. “You could at least pretend to be affected.”
Harrow rustled her false packet of grave dirt demonstratively. It was useless, once they’d discovered the shuttle was piloted remotely.
“Appearances, Griddle. They’re everything. No one can see us in the shuttle; ergo, the charade is unnecessary for the time being.” Her voice dripped with condescension as she added: “I thought you would have grasped the concept by now.”
After twelve weeks of Aiglamene beating it into her, Harrow meant. Three months of training had gone by in an instant, and now Gideon was better with the rapier than Ortus Nigenad. It wasn’t a high bar to clear.
Gideon’s nausea took the back-burner, replaced by the swelter of indignation. Even her headache had dimmed. She balled her hands into fists and contemplated pulling on her knuckle-knives. She said, “Won’t be unnecessary when I stave your elbows in.”
Harrow’s eyebrow arched. “With what necromancy?”
“Won’t need necromancy, jackass. I’m armed now.” Gideon tapped the hilt of her rapier. Two could play at this demonstration game, but Harrow didn’t look cowed.
“It would be a better threat if I thought you could stand without dropping it.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
It was humbling to realize how accustomed to necromantic backup she was. In Gideon’s comics, aptitude dyspraxia was easily combatted with a grave dirt placebo. Adepts never stood up, swayed, then missed their chairs entirely; not unless there was a love interest around the corner ready to catch them.
Gideon had Harrow, who had kicked her in the ribs with her booted foot and demanded she get back up again. No thanks.
Harrow ignored her, rising from her chair. She slid up the privacy barrier, pressed the button to speak with the remote navigator, and asked: “How long must we wait?”
There was a short exchange as the navigator confirmed they were waiting on clearance to land. Gideon watched Harrow’s face, which was furrowed with concentration, and realized the other girl was sweating beneath her paint. She’d bitten her lower lip bloody, and she couldn’t blame thanergetic deprivation for the way she was softly swaying. Harrow might not have been born with the aptitude, but she could pass for an adept with the way she neglected herself.
Gideon weighed her options, glancing out the window at the seven other shuttles lined up in orbit. Fuck it. There was no better time, now that they were nearly within the planet’s halo. Now that they were alone and the Reverend Father couldn’t whip her bloody for insubordination. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“You need me,” Gideon said, once the button was no longer held down and Harrow had returned to her seat. “I think it’s time you started acting like it.”
Harrow was unamused. “Another threat, Griddle? How creative.”
Gideon shrugged. It wasn’t her first plan, but that had been thwarted by the Reverend Mother’s bone needle sliding through her jaw.
“Just saying. I have to be your cavalier. Be the woman behind the curtain so you can pull off your magic tricks. Nothing says I have to do a convincing job of it.”
“I’ll kill you,” Harrow said levelly, though she was gritting her teeth. Her hands had flown to her prayer bones, but they remained as inert in her palms as ever.
Gideon smiled, crooked and cruel. “With what necromancy?”
Harrow’s nostrils flared. She tied a length of black voile around her eyes, then tossed another length at Gideon. Gideon wondered if she knew her hands were trembling.
“My parents will make your life a living hell if you return to the Ninth unsuccessful,” Harrow said. She was putting on a brave face, but Gideon could see how the prospect twisted at her. She didn’t stand a chance at Lyctorhood without Gideon, and she knew it. What good was her birth, after that? “Reconsider this line of action, Nav.”
Gideon couldn’t help herself; she snorted. Was this really the best line she had? To think, she’d been afraid of Harrow for so many years.
But then again, her fear was a function of the Reverend Parents’s power, not Harrow’s own. At the end of the day, Harrow was just a seventeen-year-old girl: non-necromantic, untrained, and rather feeble at that.
“As if they haven’t already tried to grind me into the drillshaft dirt for eighteen years,” Gideon spat. “Nah. Fuck that, Nonagesimus. I’m not the dog at the end of your leash anymore. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“So what then?” Harrow demanded. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to admit that you’re dependent on me,” Gideon said easily. “I want free rein. I want an officer’s commission to the Cohort, and I want to never step foot on Ninth soil again.”
Right on cue, their shuttle started to descend. Gideon’s power flooded back to her in one great rush like the detonation of a bomb. Ignoring the black voile in her lap, she pulled out the shades she’d stowed in her pocket and slid them over the bridge of her nose.
Harrow made a choked noise at the sight, but it didn’t matter. Gideon had won.