“Well, that”—Lament looks perplexed—“was a thing that happened.” He stops another person. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s time,” the man replies.
“Time for what?”
“He speaks,” says the man, “we hear.”
Lament and I cross stares. In the background, the magmor is still on his loudspeaker, gnashing and clattering.
One hundred and sixty-seven, Jester translates.One hundred and sixty-six.
“Should we be worried?” Vera asks.
“We’re Legionnaires,” Beckly scoffs, managing to sound at once pompous and offended. “We don’tworry.”
“I do,” I say coolly in Vera’s defense. “I worry all the time.”
Beckly laughs like I’ve just told the funniest joke. “Well, of courseyoudo.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve accepted a haunted position.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Beckly,” Mira interrupts, tossing her bangs, “let’s cool it, okay?”
“It’s an old superstition,” Beckly continues like he can’t help himself. “Probably meaningless. But if I were taking up a dead man’s post, I’d be nervous flying with the pilot who let—”
I’m on Beckly before I can think, fisting his collar with both of my hands. “Donot,” I snarl, “fucking finish that sentence.”
There’s a sudden bubble of silence. I release Beckly with a disgusted shove. All the blood has drained from Lament’s face, and I can hear his shaky exhale, even as he says, “Keller. It’s fine.”
“No, it’snot.”
“Keller’s right.” Mira looks alarmed. “Beckly, that was out of line.”
“What?” Beckly spreads his hands like he’s genuinely confused. “I was only saying—”
“Nothing,” I snap. “You were sayingnothing.” I put my hand on Lament’s shoulder and gently nudge him away, even though what I really want to do is punch Beckly in his stupid face. Lament and I walk out of hearing range. I scrub my hands through my hair. “What an asshole.”
Lament looks a bit winded. “Yeah.”
“He’s like a storybook troll in real life. Like a blobfish if you sucked out all its brains. I’ve never known such a miserable excuse for a human being.”
Another half-hearted, “Yeah.”
“We’ll report him,” I declare. “He can’t be allowed to say things like that.”
Lament shakes his head. “He’s not worth the effort.”
“But—”
“Really.” Lament tips his head back to look up at me, which is how I realize we must be standing fairly close. “I promise, he’s not worth it. And I don’t want… I don’t want to open all this back up. Can we just let it go?”
Idon’t want to let it go. But Lament’s eyes are still slightly red from our earlier incident with the reporters, his color drained, mouth tight. I wonder how much of this he’s had to deal with since Bast’s death. It’s one thing to grieve someone surrounded by those who support you, but he’s at odds with the Legion, at odds with the press, and now apparently even his own comrades are dealing blows.
“All right,” I say, because he’s had enough opposition today, and I asked him what he needs, and he’s telling me. “All right, Lament. Yes. If that’s what you want.”
