Dust

of her emotions in the face of those mutually exclusive possibilities. She did not fear, as she would have expected, nor worry for his power over her. Rather, she was caught on both hope of his approval and scorn of it.

Maybe rebellion had gotten its teeth into her soul. But not enough, apparently. Because what was Benedick to her? This person, her father, existed. That was novel. But what was he to her? He'd abandoned her.

Why should she care what he thought?

She should care, of course, because logic had no more bearing on emotion than it ever had. But she was Exalt now and had other means at her command. She could choose not to care, and her symbiont would take care of the rest, editing neurotransmitters and shepherding serotonin.

Benedick led them down a snow trail where the surface was packed in two parallel lines, and for now, she left it be. She scuffed the hard snow sideways with her boot. 'Skis,' Gavin said in her ear, by way of explanation, and looked unutterably smug when she almost jumped out of her boots in the partial gravity. She hadn't heard him complete his next great circle and sail up behind her.

And as he dropped neatly onto her shoulder, she had the distinct sensation that he was laughing himself silently sick. She collected herself with what dignity remained, shook herself smooth like a ruffled hen, and ignored the snickers she was sure she heard, from her father's men and women all around.

Before she could think of a comment, they broke out of the trees, and not even Hero Ng's phlegmatic presence could keep Rien from gasping a great mouthful of air so cold it burned her lungs. Benedick's house—it must be his house—-hunkered at the top of a long snow-covered bank, away from the trees of the wood. But her awe was reserved for what lay at the bottom of the hill: a night-black tarn.

'Why doesn't it freeze?' Rien contemplated the logistics of a lake, even a small lake, on a spaceship without much hope of grasping it. And then Ng did the math for her, and she gaped even more.

'It is frozen,' Benedick said. 'The wind keeps it clear, or my people do. You're looking at ice. On top, at least; the underside has to stay liquid for the fish. We can'— Rien could not be imagining the diffidence in his voice, surely, as if he brought her a gift he feared would be unwelcome— 'go skating in the morning if you like.'

Rien swallowed so she would not gape like one of those fish. 'I've never skated,' she said, glancing at Perceval for support. Gavin's talons squeezed her shoulder; she leaned her cheek gratefully on his wing.

From amid the razory throne of her parasite wings, Perceval winked, frozen water glinting on her eyelashes. And to Rien alone, Perceval mouthed the word Trivial.

So Rien loved her.

16 tasting of bitter sleep

It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;

The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.

— CONRAD AlKEN, The House of Dust

Perceval hadn't lied. Exactly. She had been confident that Benedick would receive them. Hear them out. Help avert catastrophe.

She had not told Rien that this confidence was not due to recent acquaintance. She had not seen their father since she had six Solar, no more.

His domaine was not Engine. Benedick's house was not furnished to the standard of luxury to which Perceval was accustomed. The air held a bone-wearing rawness, and the great view screens on the walls hung dark, draped with wove-polymer tapestries that stirred in the draft. Benedick seemed impervious, as at home here as any medieval overlord in his keep of stone. Tristen relaxed in the dimness of the hall. The militia followed on, still silent, and as they entered the house, peeled away.

'Your men and women are the dead,' Perceval said to her father. 'Resurrectees.'

Benedick nodded.

The Exalt dead were hard to keep dead. Their symbionts bonded their bodies, healed what was to be healed, knit bone and sealed spurting arteries. But if another Exalt skimmed off the cream, consumed their will and personalities and memories along with their colonies, what remained was only the mute resurrected. They did not speak. The spark, the anima—whoever had inhabited the fleshy carapace—was gone.

An unblade could have ended them, of course. But they were useful, and unblades rare.

When Perceval looked up, she saw Gavin perched equitably on Rien's fist, his swanlike head turning from side to side, crest fluffed and burning eyes sealed. She thought of the necromancer, Rien's lover whether Rien thought Perceval knew it or not, and shuddered. It would be foolish to think they were not observed.

'First we must find you accommodation,' Benedick said, and it was done. The last of their honor guard broke apart. Benedick summoned his majordomo. For a few moments Perceval and Rien (with her attendant basilisk, head now tucked under his wing as if he had any need of sleep) and Tristen stood, flotsam adrift in the center of a great empty room at the front of Benedick's house, balanced over the yawning depths of holographic tiles of indigo blue. And Perceval noted Rien's inward smile.

'Sister?'

Rien shook her head as if shaking off a trance. 'Just thinking.'

Perceval nodded, waiting companionably. Tristen, she thought, was pretending not to listen. And Gavin lifted his head, stretched, and began to preen the hair behind Rien's ear.

Eventually, in the face of all their silences, Rien sighed and said, 'In Rule, it would have been me making up the sleeping chambers.'

'You miss your place,' Perceval said.

'No.' Rien glanced at her, at Tristen. Gavin tugged her hair; she reached up and placed a hand on his wing. 'Yes. It wasn't much of a place.'

'It was safe,' Tristen said brusquely, 'and you knew it.'

Rien stared from him to Perceval, and Perceval thought she was expecting disapproval. She kept her own face neutral; she nodded slightly.

The corners of Rien's mouth ticked up. She stepped around Perceval, Gavin meanwhile executing a maneuver half-hop and half-slide down her arm to come to rest upon her hand like any bird at peace upon a swaying limb, except the three alabaster coils of tail looping her wrist.

'Father?' Rien stammered, before she had approached Benedick very closely at all. She said it so softly, as if she had never heard the word before, that she was obliged to say it again to turn his head. Perceval flinched for her, but Rien persisted. 'Father.'

'Yes, Rien?' He turned, raising one hand to stay his majordomo, without any show of impatience at the interrupted conversation.

'Perceval and I would like to stay together. And close by Tristen, please.'

'Of course,' Benedick said. 'That simplifies things. Thank you, Rien.'

As for Perceval, she watched, hoping she presented an air of impassivity. No doubt at all, she was in for it, and she deserved whatever she was going to get.

Pinion wrapped her protectively, whether in response to the chill or the quick hug she gave herself, she did not know. The translucent wings were warm; their touch made her shiver.

Who was this Dust, who spoke to her through the mechanical parasite that had grafted itself to the severed scars of her wings? Who was he to demand her hand in marriage?

She did not want to ask Benedick, and she did not see why Rien might know.

And as for Rien—as she requested, so it was done. Within the quarter-hour, Perceval and her sister were ensconced in a small chamber with twin couches. It was warmer here, the walls heavily draped except alongside the wide, glazed window. There was a big desk and a fainting bench, and a dresser and a wardrobe for all the things they did not own. The furnishings were russet and brown accented here and there with white and yellow, pleasant and durable. A small heater glowed in the corner, making the room cozy.