"Depends on the House. Sometimes they're related to the necromancer, or a member of a rich family who wasn't born with necromantic ability. Sometimes the title is passed down. Usually they're like, trained up into it—or at least the possibility of it. On the Ninth, where I'm from, it was passed down." She swallows what's left in her glass, even though it's mainly just melted ice. "Guy who was supposed to serve as Harrow—as our Reverend Daughter's cavalier, Ortus, he was related to the Ninth cavalier from, like, a thousand years ago, and absolutely never shut the fuck up about him. Wrote this whole fuckin' poem." She straightens on her barstool, drops her voice, and intones, sepulchrally, "Nonius, wounded full sore, spat blood and gave him a grim smile; nor did the sword in his hand shake—Boldly he answered the saint, because he had the biggest dick of all time, no, really, guys, look it up—right there in the anatomical record—"