Naberius said, “So why aren’t they coming for you? You’ve lived here years.”
Teacher said, “Years and years … and years. They are not coming for the guardians of Canaan House … yet. But I live in fear of the day they do. I believe Abigail and Magnus have run tragically afoul of them … I cannot countenance the idea that whatever grief they came to was orchestrated by someone in this room.”
Silence rippled outward to the four corners of the dining hall. Captain Deuteros broke it by saying repressively: “This is still a case for the proper authorities.”
Teacher said, “I cannot and will not call them. Lines of communication off-planet are forbidden here. For pity’s sake, Captain Deuteros, where is the motive? Who would harm the Fifth House? A good man and a good woman.”
The necromancer steepled her gloved fingers together and leaned forward. “I cannot speculate about motive or intent,” she said. “I hardly want it to be murder. But if you don’t comply with me, I have reasonable grounds to stop this trial. I will take command if you cannot.”
Someone thumped their tea mug down on the table, hard. It was Coronabeth, who even with her violet eyes full of sleep and her hair in burnished tangles around her face would still have caused tourist traffic to wherever she was standing. “Don’t be silly, Judith,” she said impatiently. “You don’t have that kind of authority.”
“Where no other authority exists to ensure the safety of a House, the Cohort is authorized to take command—”
“In a combat zone—”
“The Fifth are dead. I take authority for the Fifth. I say we need military intervention, and we need it right now. As the highest-ranked Cohort officer present, that decision falls to me.”
“A Cohort captain,” said Naberius, “don’t rank higher than a Third official.”
“I’m very much afraid that it does, Tern.”
“Prince Tern, if you please,” said Ianthe.
“Judith!” said Corona, more coaxingly, before an interhousal war kicked off. “This is us. You’ve come to all our birthday parties. Teacher’s right. Who would have killed Magnus and Abigail? Neither of them would have ever hurt a fly. Isn’t it possible that the hatch was left up, and something happened, and it’s such a long fall … Who was in there? Ninth, wasn’t it you?”
With marked frostiness, Harrow said: “We locked the hatch before continuing in.”
“You’re sure?”
Gideon, who had been the one to turn the key, was oddly grateful that Harrowhark did not even bother looking in her direction: she simply said, “I am certain.”
“How many people had these hatch keys other than the Ninth?” said Corona. “We had no idea the basement was even there.”
“The Sixth,” said Camilla and Palamedes as one.
Dulcinea said, small and tired: “Pro and I have one,” which made Gideon’s eyebrows raise right to her hairline.
“Colum has the copy given to the Eighth House,” said a voice from the floor.
It was Silas. He had sat up and was now mopping his face with a very white piece of cambric. His eye was red and shiny and swollen, and he dabbed carefully around it: Corona gallantly offered him her arm but he refused, pulling himself to stand heavily against a chair. “He has the key,” he said. “And I told Lady Pent of the existence of a facility beneath this floor, after the party.”
It was Harrow who said, “Why?”
“Because she asked,” he said, “and because I do not lie. And because I’m not interested in the Ninth House ascending to Lyctorhood alone … simply because they guessed a childish riddle.”
Harrowhark closed herself up like a folding chair, and her voice was like cinders: “Your hatred of us is superstition, Octakiseron.”
“Is it?” He folded the dirty handkerchief neatly and tucked it inside his chain mail. “Who was in the facility when Lady Pent and Sir Magnus died? Who was conveniently first on the scene to discover them—”
“You have one black eye already, courtesy of the Seventh House,” said Harrow, “and you seem to yearn for symmetry.”
“That was the Seventh, then?” The Eighth necromancer did not seem particularly displeased. “I see … it happened so swiftly I wasn’t sure.”
Gideon had thought Dulcinea asleep again, she was so limp and prone in Protesilaus’s arms, but she opened her big blue eyes and struggled to raise her head. “Master Silas,” she said thickly, “the Seventh House begs forgiveness of the merciful Eighth. Please grant it … this would be such an embarrassment to the House. Pro reacts quicker than I do. You wouldn’t duel me, would you?”