The window to Taelin’s chamber dehisces without sound. Miriam is one of the black figures that billow in. They encircle Taelin’s bed and drape her in inky cloth. The witches slit their palms and whisper in the Unknown Tongue. Taelin does not wake.
In the south, machines are made of flesh. The Sisterhood has collected specimens and recipes. Their iatromathematique is capable of this.
Miriam opens up the jar.
The smell of apples pervades the room.
From the nutrient-rich solution the iatromathematique draws out a slick fat blob. It is ugly and nuanced as a rotting wall and does not struggle in the forceps. Rugose folds of gelatin ripple through the puslet’s slippery white-blue mass. But there are other colors: obscure and myriad. Sometimes burgundy, sometimes gray and dun.
It fits in the iatromathematique’s palm, a tablespoon of horrible pudding. She lets it slip from her fingertips to pool over Taelin’s sleeping eye.
Taelin convulses. Her eyes open wide. But the witch is already inside it, moving its soulless flesh.
She lurches the blob without bone or muscle, a pure rearrangement of fluid and cells; then forces it to burrow gob-like into Taelin’s face.
The iatromathematique is from the Fifth House. And this is not a true qloin. But Miriam knows she is skilled. She helps support the woman’s weight while she is gone, guiding her new body over slippery conchae, up into the sinus, toward the ethmoid. From there, the puslet travels deep, insinuating itself through the sphenoid, up beneath Taelin’s brain.
The witch positions herself carefully. The puslet’s lab-grown neurons vulture up against Taelin’s meninges but her memories will not be stolen. They will be duplicated. The puslet is a useful tumor and its connections begin instantly to siphon off copies of Taelin’s dreams.
The iatromathematique withdraws, coming back to herself. The senseless yet ever-sensing puslet stays behind, less reactive than plant-life, gathering memory, doing only what its cells have been designed to do.
Miriam snaps her wrist and pulls the drapery away. For Taelin, the puslet, her night at Newlym: all become paramnesias.
It is almost exactly a month later when Taelin Rae gets her audience with Sena Iilool.
Miriam listens to a symphysis in one of Parliament’s inner sanctums. The symphysis’ hideous amorphous bones have not been osteotomically extracted from any “thing.” They fit together in grotesque irregular ways: malleus, incus, hooded by a yellow tissue-thin shroud of membrane. The collective formation looks like a shattered mollusk, part chitinous ruin, part sun-stiffened mantle: a creature broken open by sea birds perhaps and left to bake in the sun.
The entire grotesquery quivers in the dim light, bones vibrating, membrane singing like scraped catgut. The symphysis speaks.
Or rather, it seems to speak, as its vibrations resonate with Miriam’s eardrum, conveying from across the miles the second-old memories recorded in the puslet’s spongiose cells.
Miriam eavesdrops on Taelin’s audience with Sena.
She is shocked when Sena mentions the smell of apples and then, to Taelin’s great confusion, lays out the itinerary for her trip:
“… Passing over Mirayhr, over Skellum, near midnight on the twelfth of Tes. You will be unable to stop me there and I will proceed to Sandren. Send whomever you want. The Stairs will kill them.”
Sena’s voice echoes in the ears of all the sisters in the sanctum. Their puslet has not gone unnoticed. She is speaking through Taelin, directly to the coven. And she is mocking them.
Miriam is afraid.
She is still afraid on the twelfth, when the three zeppelins pass directly over Parliament, headed for the south. She kneels on the roof, looking up, waiting for Giganalee to give the sign.
What is about to happen has not happened in many years. But Miriam tries not to think about it. She has given herself over to the power of the Eighth House.
Her eyes watch the old crone intently, fearing the signal.
You can cast what you can cut.
This rule is the origin of hemofurtum, of spell-slaves and the legends of vast colligations harvested at Twyrloch by Aglogoth11, countersunk three thousand years into the past. Attempts to exceed the power bottled in a human body.
But Miriam’s mind has wandered. Giganalee is raising her arms now.
Pulse thrumming, Miriam draws her kyru. She sets the crescent-shaped blade against her throat. It requires both hands, one in front, one in back: reaching around behind her head. Already she has cut herself—unintentionally—on the blade’s fabulous edge.
Giganalee’s arms fall.
It is time. Miriam almost waits to see if the others are brave enough to follow through before embarking on this plunge into madness. Instead, she pulls the blade’s handle through a complete three-hundred-sixty-degree orbit, slicing through the skin. As blood rolls down her back and chest and shoulders, Miriam speaks in the Unknown Tongue.
She feels her stomach loosen.
* * *
EACH qloin contained a cephal’matris and two ancillas. Sena saw them, some of them newly cursed. The kneeling bodies slumped over, one at a time, arms limp, kyrus clattering from senseless fingers. They did not fall instantly. Some even seemed to levitate for a moment, knees coming off the roof. The only parts of them that scraped against the slate were the toes of their boots. Torsos lifted as the guts in their midsections slid up and bottlenecked; jammed in their throats. Not until the heads finally pulled loose did the knees drop and the decapitated, disemboweled carcasses land like sandbags before rolling to the side.
The Eighth House released the flock of heads from the roof of Parliament like a flight of black balloons into the stinging sky. Space stared down, a mapach with a thousand eyes. There was no wind to speak of. Three times three—a knot of qloins—nine witches pulled free from Parliament’s roof: and flew.
Sena watched them come, dragging kidneys, stomachs, lungs and yards of intestine below them: slick and tangled. Strange dark jellyfish. Luminaries bled from livers and arteries, leaving trails in the blue-black sky: organs twinkling like fireflies.
The witches’ eyes glittered with carvings. Their heaving lungs steamed in the icy air.
This was not minor. This was not a halfhearted attempt. A knot of qloins ascended and Sena felt the hairs on her arms bristle with a facsimile of fear.
“Caliph,” she whispered. “It’s time to wake up.”
* * *
FAINT operatic sounds trailed through Taelin’s dreams, pessimal and loathsome. Dream-paint limned a soprano warbling through the upper reaches of terror while the repeated plunge of a knife deflated the sound; the residue was a ragged rhythm of gooey whispers, soft and sick-making.
Heavy boots grumbled in the hall beyond her door. Finally, a guttural yelp propelled her up, through her incubus, and into a forward lurch, eyes wide, hands clenched in her sheets. Her ears were ringing. Had there been another sound? Some kind of thud? She stared at her lap in the dark, listened acutely. Through near-total silence she heard ticking.
Where am I?
But the smell of wood polish and the faint vibration of the propellers reminded her. Her sheets were dewy.