1
IRRESISTIBLE BASTARD MEETS IMMOVABLE BITCH
Osric
t wasn’t until Aurienne Fairhrim that Osric learned eye contact could hitI like a knife. She stood, upright and austere, in the confines of a daguerreotype, pinning him with black-bright eyes.
“Her?” asked Osric.
“Yes, sir,” said Physicker Fordyce.
“Must it be her?”
“You really haven’t a choice, sir.”
Osric dropped the daguerreotype. It landed on his desk, from which vantage the woman’s penetrating gaze found a new victim and perforated the ceiling. Also ornamenting Osric’s desk unpleasantly were Aurienne Fairhrim’s curriculum vitae and a list of publications verging on the infinite.
“She’s one of the Haelan,” said Osric. “Her Order won’t work with mine.
She’ll refuse as a matter of principle.”
“She may, sir,” said Physicker Fordyce. “You asked us who could heal
you—not who would.”
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“No disrespect meant, sir,” said Fordyce. “The Haelan Order’s members are matchless healers, and Aurienne Fairhrim is herself unsurpassed among
them. She’s a phenomenon when it comes to the seith system. If she declines —”
“Of course she’ll decline; she’s a Haelan.”
“—then Physicker Shuttleworth and I will do our utmost to slow the degeneration.”
“How long have I got left?” asked Osric.
Fordyce glanced at his colleague. Osric waited for the latter to say something of use, but Physicker Shuttleworth merely looked frightened, had a panicky spasm, and choked on his own saliva.
Fordyce found his courage among his colleague’s sputters. “It’s difficult
to predict with any sort of accuracy.”
“Answer me,” said Osric.
“At our best guess, three or four months before your abilities begin to dwindle significantly, sir,” said Fordyce.
“Dwindle significantly,” repeated Osric.
“Yes, sir,” said Fordyce.
“I’m going to lose my seith.”
“That is, unfortunately, one of the likely outcomes, sir.”
“I can’t lose my seith,” said Osric. “You know what I am.”
Yes, the physickers knew; it was why they were on the verge of pissing themselves. They both nevertheless confirmed it with vigorous nods towards Osric’s boots.
“You’re a member of the Fyren Order, sir,” said Shuttleworth. “P-perhaps you could envisage an early retirement?”
A brutally stupid question to which Osric replied, “Do you know how
Fyren are retired?”
“Er—no, sir.”
“Death.”
“Ah.”
“Bit of a problem, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I must say, this outcome is a disappointment, given what I paid the two of you,” said Osric.
“Your illness is—really, it’s quite unfortunate—not treatable, per se,” said Fordyce. “It’s a degenerative condition with no known cure.”
“The Haelan are the greatest healers alive,” said Shuttleworth, who had recovered from his suffocation to blind Osric with this luminous insight.
“Aurienne Fairhrim really is your best option, sir,” said Fordyce. “If anyone can help you, it’s her.”
“She’s my only option, if you and your colleague are to be believed.”
“Erm—yes.”
Having concluded that the physickers would be of no further use, Osric dismissed them. “I’m sure I can count on your discretion with respect to my condition.”
The physickers stammered out a few yeses.
“My steward will see you out,” said Osric. “Give us a moment.”
Fordyce and Shuttleworth bowed low before exiting Osric’s study. They placed their hats upon their useless heads and scuttled out towards the reception room.
Osric called for his steward. “Mrs. Parson?”
Mrs. Parson and her white-streaked bun popped round the doorpost.
“Yes, sir?”
“See to it that neither of those physickers remembers this visit.”
“Of course.”
Osric held the daguerreotype of Aurienne Fairhrim up for Mrs. Parson’s inspection. “Here’s my apparent saviour. What do you think?”
Mrs. Parson grasped about at her bosom until she found her spectacles.
She perched them on her nose and peered at the image. “She looks lovely.”
“She looks like a means to an end,” said Osric.
Mrs. Parson tapped Fairhrim’s high-necked white dress. “One of the Haelan?”
“Yes. Sanctimonious to the core, no doubt. Aurienne Fairhrim is her name.”
Mrs. Parson eyed Osric over her spectacles. “If she’s a Haelan, she won’t help you.”
“Obviously,” said Osric. “However, she is, apparently, a Phenomenon.
And I’m in need of a Phenomenon, Parson. How shall I convince her to assist?” He turned to a looking glass, inspected the finest cheekbones in the Tīendoms, and said, “Seduction?”
“I don’t think you’d manage it,” said Parson.
“You offend me, madam.”
Mrs. Parson, who was annoyingly sensible, said, “She’s a Haelan. She’d sooner walk into the Thames than help you. Perhaps we can equip you with a
plan B. And a plan C.”
“B for Blackmail, C for Coercion?”
“Amusing, sir,” said Mrs. Parson, though she did not look amused.
“Very well,” said Osric. “Equip me. Do a spot of investigating on Aurienne Fairhrim. Find me a bit of leverage. Bribing, extortion, threats to
life and limb—you know. The usual.”
“Very good, sir,” said Mrs. Parson.
“That’s sorted, then. After you’ve seen our guests out, could you fetch my daggers for tonight’s sparring session? The Moulineaux pair, if you
would.”
“Of course, sir.”
Mrs. Parson left. Osric flexed his hands. The numbness was spreading; it had started at the nape of his neck and now followed his seith system down, past his shoulders, and, in prickling tingles, into his fingers. Osric had thought little of it until he’d begun to notice corresponding fluxes in the flow of his seith, at which point he had summoned the physickers. Their diagnosis lay heavy upon him: seith degeneration. In common parlance, seith rot.
Would it be wiser to make up some excuse to avoid this evening’s spar with his fellow Fyren? He never missed a spar. It might raise questions, and Osric couldn’t afford to raise questions at this rather delicate juncture.
Mrs. Parson brought him his daggers. Osric strapped them on, plastered a roguish grin across his face, and went to the waystone.
He supposed it couldn’t hurt to go. With the numbness spreading as it was, it literally couldn’t hurt.
IT TOOK MRS. PARSON A few days to return to Osric with the results of her investigation on Aurienne Fairhrim. Osric considered himself an expert when it came to intelligence gathering, but Mrs. Parson, with her network of serving girls and charwomen, was a force in her own right.
She knocked on the door to Osric’s study with a conspiratorial air. Osric waved her in.
“Findings on Aurienne Fairhrim.” Mrs. Parson pulled a wodge of paper out of her apron. “My half grand-aunt’s daughter’s third cousin works in the Haelan kitchens.”
Osric did not attempt to work out Mrs. Parson’s genealogical Möbius strip. He fanned the papers out on his desk. “And? What have we discovered?
Has Fairhrim got any family we can use? Any debts we can acquire? Kidnap?
The situation is growing desperate.”
“There is some family,” said Mrs. Parson. “Father from the Danelaw, mother from Tamazgha. Both presently in London. No debts to speak of; she’s rather well-off. Kidnap would, of course, always be an option.”
“A classic,” said Osric.
“May I tell you what I think?” asked Mrs. Parson.
“Say on.”
“Given the nature of the task, you might prefer her to be cooperative,” said Mrs. Parson. “I’ve discovered that the Haelan Order is in pursuit of funding. They’re seeking a substantial amount for one of their research endeavours. You’ve heard of the Platt’s Pox outbreak?”
“Vaguely,” said Osric. “I don’t keep up with street urchins and their diseases.”
“This particular disease may offer scope for you to strong-arm a Haelan into healing you,” said Mrs. Parson.
“Bless the pestilent children, then,” said Osric. “What’s the required
amount?”
“Twenty million thrymsas.”
“Bugger me sideways.”
“As I said, sir—substantial. The Haelan are in discussion with funding councils and the kings and queens of all of the Tīendoms in pursuit of the capital, but they’ve met little success. It seems everyone shares your apathy towards the street urchins, the poor things. But if you were to offer the amount, perhaps Haelan Fairhrim could be persuaded to set aside her natural antagonism to one of your Order.”
“Bribery it is,” said Osric. “Good shout.”
Mrs. Parson looked doubtful. “Do your coffers hold twenty million?”
“I didn’t say we were actually paying her.”
“Ah.”
“Proceed with the offer. Let me know how you get on.”
Instead of trotting off to accomplish her task, however, Mrs. Parson remained in front of Osric’s desk. “If I may make another suggestion, sir?”
“What is it?”
“Aurienne Fairhrim is well protected.” Mrs. Parson shuffled through the documents until she came to a series of floor plans. “She lives in the Haelan fortress at Swanstone. She has rooms in the compound itself. To further complicate matters, Swanstone is patrolled by Wardens.”
“Wardens? I hate Wardens. Colossal bell-ends, every one. Why have they got Wardens at Swanstone?”
“I’m told the Haelan and Warden Orders have some sort of agreement,” said Mrs. Parson. “Healing for protection, and vice versa.”
“How many Wardens have they got at Swanstone?” asked Osric.
“Three or four at any given time.”
“That’s a bloody inconvenience.” Osric observed the map of Swanstone’s grounds. “I see now that approaching Fairhrim with this bribe might require someone with a particular skill set.”
Mrs. Parson nodded. “A bit of skulduggery wouldn’t go amiss.”
“One of my specialties, as it happens.”
“Quite.”
“Right,” said Osric. “Where’s my cloak? I’m off to bribe. And if Fairhrim refuses, I shall proceed with kidnap.”
“A classic, sir.”
“What’s the nearest waystone to this Haelan fortress?”
“Closest pub is the Publish or Perish.”
“Excellent.”
Cloaked up, gloves on, and hair attractively tousled, Osric set off to the waystone.
AT SWANSTONE, DUGGERY WAS SKULLED.
The Haelan Order was headquartered on an island at the frigid arse-end of the Danelaw. The white fortress of Swanstone, with its snow-tipped battlements, seemed to scowl defiance at Osric as he approached.
Mrs. Parson was correct: Aurienne Fairhrim was well protected. She and her Order were literally ensconced in ivory towers.
Osric waited until dusk began to lengthen shadows before making his approach. The fortress itself worried him less than the Wardens. Infiltration was one thing; infiltration with Wardens present was another. Their Order specialised in defence and the violent dismemberment of intruders. They were an exceptional foe for a naughty Fyren here to bribe a Haelan.
However: Osric was exceptional, too.
He took the shadow-way up the ramparts and tucked himself between the wings of an enormous stone swan to observe. He spotted the hulking figures of Wardens—two of them below, two upon the ramparts with him—gleaming in armour. There were also a dozen Swanstone guards on patrol. One of the Wardens on the ramparts had her lightshield on, bright between the chinks in her armour. A shadow-walker like Osric wouldn’t be able to get within stabbing distance of her.
But today—rare thing—Osric had no intentions of stabbing anyone. He was here to play nice.
A few white-clad Haelan crossed the courtyard below. To Osric’s eye, the entire place suffered from an extreme of the aseptic: dry, functional, pure.
Even the snow, arranged in fine lines by the wind, seemed intentional in its placement, and sanitised.
Below the snow, the courtyard gleamed with protective wards. Thick, glowing lines of the Wardens’ seith crisscrossed the flagstones as they patrolled.
Osric watched the Wardens pace out their rounds for an hour before venturing forth. Then, taking exquisite care to avoid the shifting wards, he melted into the darkness at the foot of a battlement, and glided from shadow to shadow until he had made it into the fortress proper.
It took him two hours, but he triggered no wards, and didn’t kill anyone.
Champion.
Mrs. Parson’s pilfered floor plans informed Osric that Fairhrim’s office was in the lofty north tower. He traversed the fortress to find it, passing a nursery crammed with crusty, crying infants, and a large room whose sole purpose seemed to be the collection of children’s corpses.
Couldn’t they bury them? Morbid sorts, these Haelan.
No—there was audible groaning—the children weren’t quite dead. A group of Haelan bustled past Osric into the room. None of them was the unsmiling woman from the daguerreotype. He carried on down the corridor from shadow to shadow, evading the occasional guard as he went, pleased every time that it was a mere man, and not another Warden.
At length, a placard informed Osric that he had reached the Centre for Seith Research. A promising place to be, given his condition. There was a sick ward here, as well as examination rooms full of ominous-looking apparatus. While most of Swanstone seemed still dependent on gas, these rooms were fitted with electricity and diverse seith-powered contraptions.
There were less corpsey patients in this sector, which was encouraging.
A waiting room gave onto examination rooms. Along the wall was a painted mural of bubbles entitled Did you know? Each bubble contained a factoid for the edification of those waiting. Osric read the bubbles as he passed:
Early in our history, seith was a collective term for powers ranging from protective warding to battle magicks.
Everyone has a seith system. It is composed of specialised structures (seith channels and nodes) that run alongside your nervous system.
Seith has many uses. In day-to-day life, you probably use it to send deofols or use waystones. Specialised study allows us to manipulate seith for more complex applications, such as healing.
Those who wish to achieve these levels of manipulation must earn a tācn. A tācn is a brand seared into your palm that opens your seith system to the world. Tācn are earned by members of an Order after many years of study.
Overusing seith comes with a Cost. How one’s Cost is determined is still under study. Current research suggests that it is an amplification of certain physiological or genetic predispositions.
Outside Fairhrim’s office door was a desk at which sat an owlish little man clattering upon a brass writing ball. He was in Osric’s way, but Osric did not kill him. He wished to make a decent first impression on Fairhrim, after all, and so he merely concussed the man and tucked him neatly under his own desk.
Fairhrim’s office was locked. Osric removed his glove and pressed his left palm to the lock. His tācn glowed red as he pushed his seith into it, reading the shadows within as he picked it. Child’s play, obviously. After a few soft clicks, the door opened.
Aurienne Fairhrim was not within. Osric therefore made himself at home.
Fairhrim’s furnishings were as austere as the rest of Swanstone, an unpleasant mix of functional and sparse. Osric chose a chair. The chair forced him into a straight-backed pose instead of his usual sprawl; he found himself sitting like some sort of spod eagerly awaiting Teacher’s arrival.
On his right stood a bookcase bursting with tomes with such encouraging titles as Crushing It: Rehabilitation of Seith Channel Compression Injuries and Seith Fibre Ruptures and Avulsions: Protocols for Clinical Treatment
and Reversible Interruption of Seith Flow: An In Vitro Study and Seith Channel Transection Injuries.
An auspicious collection, given what he was here for. Good to see that Fairhrim was studious.
Then, with a whispered “Ah,” Osric noticed that the works had all been authored by Fairhrim herself.
On Osric’s left, a series of slender windows swept upwards, following the curve of the tower. Fairhrim might’ve had a view of the sea, but the windows were thickened by ice, and let in light rather than scenery.
Posters of individuals with various layers of skin and muscle peeled off decorated the walls. Osric had flayed a few people in the course of his career —his clients had to pay an additional fee for the service; it was messy work —but Fairhrim appeared to have her own sort of expertise in the field.
Adding to this jolly decor was a skeleton that grinned at Osric from a back corner. Thin copper wires, representing, he supposed, the seith system, wound through and around the skeleton’s dusty bones. A pair of pink heart- shaped sunglasses rested upon its skull.
The sharp clack-clack of footsteps echoed in the corridor. Osric positioned his hood so that his face was in shadow (if he had to sit like a spod, he would, at least, look sinister while he did it) and settled into his chair to wait.
He did not wait long. The door opened and a woman entered the office, if an irritated tornado could be said to enter an office.
It was Aurienne Fairhrim. The daguerreotype had captured her features— the light brown complexion and black eyes; the dark hair pulled into a bun— but not her height, or the haughtiness in her bearing.
She radiated restrained aggravation as she strode in. Gleaming wing- shaped epaulettes at her shoulders confirmed her rank as a fully fledged Haelan. She was clad in her Order’s whites—a dress rustling with heavy skirts, fastened with a double row of buttons all the way up to the throat. In her arms she juggled a tumbling vortex of items: a satchel, documents, multipacks of lancets, and, most incongruously of all, an enormous sack of onions.
Fairhrim spotted Osric. Instead of looking surprised at his intrusion, she grew even more irritated. There was no stammered enquiry about who Osric was, or how he had got in, or what he wanted.
Rather, Fairhrim said, “A bit early, aren’t we?”
She marched up to Osric and dropped the sack of onions into his lap.
“Erm,” said Osric.
Fairhrim dusted onion peels from her palms. They fell on Osric’s newly shined boots. She snatched his gloved hand in her bare one and gave it a brisk shake.
“Haelan Fairhrim,” she said. “But you must call me Aurienne. Pleasure.
Welcome to our hallowed halls, et cetera. I hope we won’t be sending too much business your way, but, well…the occasional loss is unavoidable. I know you’re inundated with the Pox cases. I’ll strive to keep my unit’s contributions to a minimum. And yes—I told the family that you lot hardly use onions anymore, but they were insistent. They hadn’t any other form of payment. Hopefully you can find some use for them. If nothing else, soup, I suppose.”
This speech was delivered with a voice curt and precise. Having decided that the conversation was over, Fairhrim gestured towards the door with the snap of a wrist. “I won’t keep you longer. It was nice to meet you. Wes hāl— be well.”
She seated herself at her desk, arranged her skirts round her feet, and, with a mutter of “Bloody admin,” began to sort through paperwork.
Osric was annoyed; the onions had spoiled his aura of menace.
“I’m not here for onions,” said Osric.
Fairhrim looked up, surprised, apparently, that he was still there. “No?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you the new undertaker?” asked Fairhrim.
“Actually, I’m—” began Osric.
Fairhrim was—there was no other word for it—attacked by a piece of paper.
She stabbed it into submission with an ink pen. “Sorry. We’ve an Ingenaut in residence at Swanstone—a brilliant member of a brilliant Order,
of course, but some of her inventions work too well. She made the charts sentient. They get aggressive when you’re behind. You were saying…?”
“I’m not the new undertaker.”
Fairhrim was only half listening; she was wrestling the squirming paper.
“Oh? Are you sure? You rather look like an undertaker. Or is it embalmer?
Mortician? You must tell me the preferred term.”
“I’m here for healing,” said Osric.
“Healing?”
“Yes. Specifically from you.”
This felt, to Osric, like the right moment to begin to intrigue her. He pushed his hood back a little, so that she could see a bit of the Face. He tilted his head so that his cheekbone caught the light. His cleft chin clefted
majestically.
Who wouldn’t want to heal this?
Fairhrim, as it transpired. Unaffected by this opening display, she said, with a dismissive wave, “If you’re participating in one of my Centre’s studies, go back down to reception. They’ll sort you out.”
Reception? Reception?
Osric had been too subtle, obviously.
In the midst of her wave, Fairhrim paused. “Hang on—how did you get in here? I thought you’d been let in because you were the undertaker.”
“I let myself in,” said Osric.
“Did you, indeed?” Fairhrim was unimpressed by this feat. “Well, you can’t just barge in and expect a healing. We’re selective about who we take on at Swanstone. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a research institute. You’ve got to go through the proper channels.”
“I won’t go through the proper channels,” said Osric, “because no one else must know of this. It’s got to be our little secret.”
He hit her with a grin (devilish) and a wink (suggestive).
For the first time since she’d arrived, Fairhrim looked at Osric—really looked at him, you know, undistracted by onions and violent bits of paper.
But it wasn’t the smile or the wink that captivated her. Her eyes travelled up
his cloak, carefully devoid of emblems or marks. They moved to the heavy signet ring on his right hand and lingered on his black gloves.
Now she grew suspicious. Now she realised something was amiss.
“Can I count on you?” asked Osric, accompanied by a raised eyebrow (sportive).
Fairhrim’s expression turned inhospitable. Osric decided not to further fatigue his eyebrows; there would be no more seductive sallies here. Her type was, evidently, not dark and dangerous. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and Aurienne Fairhrim was a lost cause.
“Right,” said Osric, slapping his knees. “On to plan B.”
“Plan B?” asked Fairhrim.
“I’ve heard that your Order is seeking funding,” said Osric. “I may have a contribution to offer.”
“Oh? You’ll have to speak with Lambert, two floors down. He heads Charity and Donations.”
“I’m specifically interested in supporting your Order’s work on Platt’s Pox.”
Again Fairhrim’s eyes sought Osric’s gloves. “Your interest delights me, of course, but, as I said, Charity and Donations would be your starting point.
Paediatric diseases aren’t my area anyway.” Her gaze flicked towards the door. “How did you get in here? Where is Quincey?”
“Who?”
“My assistant.”
“Assistant? A tripping hazard, rather,” said Osric. “He’s napping.”
Fairhrim edged one hand to the left of her desk, which informed Osric that there was an alarm mechanism there.
“Don’t press the panic button, Haelan Fairhrim,” said Osric. “I’d rather things didn’t get messy.”
Fairhrim stilled. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.”
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“We could’ve got to this point much sooner if you hadn’t mucked about with the onions,” said Osric. Also if he hadn’t mucked about with attempting
to flirt with her, but he preferred not to take responsibility for things. “As I said, I want healing.”
“What you’ll get is a broken coccyx, when the Wardens throw you out,” said Fairhrim.
Now that she had confirmed that something was amiss, Fairhrim did not appear frightened. She appeared, on the contrary, freshly annoyed. Did all of the Haelan have such poor self-preservation instincts, or was she particularly dim?
“Do you think I heal every impostor undertaker who wanders into my office?” asked Fairhrim.
“You will with this one,” said Osric. “I’m going to help you cure your precious Pox.”
The aggressive chart on Fairhrim’s desk twitched back to life. She slapped it. “We’re not curing it. We’re looking to immunise against it.”
“Right. Whatever. I wish to buy your services—and your discretion— with a donation. I know your Order’s negotiations with the usual funding agencies haven’t been successful.”
Fairhrim pressed her lips into a narrow line. “They haven’t been successful to date. We’ve only just begun to make submissions to the various bodies. These things take time.”
Osric waved away her technicalities. “Wouldn’t you rather have the money now? Get started? Cure the guttersnipes?”
“Immunise, not cure,” said Fairhrim. “And I’m not a physicker-for-hire.
There are hundreds of those in London alone. Why don’t you go to one of them with your gold?”
“I’ve been told I need your particular expertise.”
“By who?”
“Physickers-for-hire.”
“Which ones?”
“Fordyce and Shuttleworth.”
Fairhrim gave a snobbish little tut. “That’s the best money can buy, is it?”
“They came highly recommended.”
“And what have they diagnosed you with?” asked Fairhrim. Her eyes swept over Osric in a once-over, as though she might work out his affliction by sight alone.
“That’s for you to discover,” said Osric. “Do you want the funding or not? It’s a simple proposal. You heal me. You tell nobody. I’m offering twenty million.”
Fairhrim’s gaze settled on Osric’s gloves. “Show me your palms.”
“No,” said Osric, given that she would find the Fyren tācn on his left
palm objectionable.
“Then my answer is also no.”
Osric sighed. “I’d rather not have to kidnap you. That would be a bother.”
“Oh?” Fairhrim sat up, if it was possible, even straighter. “You’re going
to kidnap me, are you?”
“Yes. And not give you the money.”
Fairhrim’s right hand twitched. On her palm, the tācn of the Haelan Order glowed: a white swan. “You’re rather bold if you think you can kidnap me.”
“You’re rather stupid if you think I can’t.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone in desperate need of your help.”
There was scepticism in the set of Fairhrim’s mouth. “That would’ve been more moving if you hadn’t just threatened to kidnap me. Show me your
palms.”
“No.”
“You want me to heal you, but you won’t show me your palms?”
“Correct.”
“If you’re hiding them, it’s because you know I’ll refuse to heal you.”
“Precisely,” said Osric.
Fairhrim’s hand inched towards the panic button again.
“Don’t,” said Osric. “You’ll be sentencing whoever comes to a violent death.”
“You think you can take on the Wardens?” asked Fairhrim.
Osric did not—not one-on-one, anyway—but he said, “Do you really want to gamble with their lives?”
“Leave,” said Fairhrim.
“I’m leaving with either an agreement between the two of us…or you, stuffed into the bag of onions. You decide.”
“I don’t even know what’s wrong with you,” said Fairhrim. “Even if I were to agree—which I won’t—I don’t know if I could heal you.”
“I’m asking you to try.”
“Can I run some diagnostics?” asked Fairhrim.
“No. Agreement first.”
“It must be bad.”
“It is.”
“Fatal?”
“For all intents and purposes.”
“What if I can’t heal you?” asked Fairhrim.
“I’ll die. And perhaps I’ll take you with me,” said Osric.
“Wonderful.”
“Am I persuading you?”
“Persuasion would require an iota of something like charm.”
This vexed Osric. “I’m not charming?”
“No,” said Fairhrim. “You follow one of the Dusken Paths. I won’t help you. And you stink of onions.”
“The onions are your fault. Don’t do it to help me; do it to help the Poxies. Think of all the suffering you could alleviate.”
“Prevent, rather.”
“Whatever.”
Fairhrim studied him. Osric had to admire her composure. There were no tears or trembles. Her only real emotion was contempt when her gaze drifted to his gloves, now that she knew he wasn’t a follower of the Bright Paths.
The question at present was whether the temptation of the gold—or the weight of his threats—would outweigh her aversion.
He hoped it would. She seemed a logical sort of creature.
“You’re calm about all this,” said Osric.
“I’m trained to keep a cool head in times of crisis,” said Fairhrim.
“Though my subjects are usually haemorrhaging blood rather than
absurdities.”
Osric had already suspected that he didn’t like Fairhrim. That was now confirmed.
His patience with the negotiations ran out.
“Kidnap it is,” said Osric. He rose, poured the onions onto the floor, and flapped the empty sack at Fairhrim. “Get in.”
Fairhrim’s scoff was interrupted by the door bursting open.
A second meteorological phenomenon entered the room. This one was a small storm.
“I am sick of tickling Research and Innovation’s balls,” said the storm.
It was an old Haelan, Black, white haired, crackling with anger.
Fairhrim leapt to her feet. Her haughtiness gave way to nervous servility.
Osric was piqued; she looked more fearful now than she had at any point during their conversation.
Fairhrim folded into a low bow, a hand on her heart. “Haelan Xanthe.”
Haelan Xanthe surged into the room upon a cloud of white Haelan robes.
In her fist was a crumpled letter, which she shook in Fairhrim’s direction. “A rejection from those muppets at the Research and Innovation Council.”
“Oh no,” said Fairhrim.
“Oh yes,” said Xanthe. From her broad tones, Osric surmised that she was from Strathclyde. “On the most spurious of grounds. Our proposal doesn’t line up with their funding programme’s priorities, apparently. Have you ever heard such bollocks? We are literally in the throes of an outbreak.
We’ve been asked to resubmit next cycle. I’ve half a mind to infect Woolwich with the Pox. Perhaps then he’ll understand what we’re about.
Cultivate a bit of empathy among the scabs. Pity it only affects children—”
Xanthe cut herself off, sniffed the air, and asked, “Why do I smell onions?”
Looking about to find the source of the pong, she noticed Osric. Her eyes travelled down his cloak to the mess of bulbs at his feet.
“Who’s this, then?” she asked. “The new undertaker?”
“No,” answered Osric. “I am not the bloody undertaker. You’re interrupting a negotiation session, Gran-gran, so if you wouldn’t mind—”
“A negotiation? For what?” Xanthe turned to Fairhrim. “Did this man just call me Gran-gran?”
Fairhrim looked, if you please, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. No idea who he is. He’s got in somehow. He tried to bribe me for a healing. And now he’s threatening kidnap with, honestly, grotesque ineptitude. The Wardens will make short work of him.”
“Ask them not to damage him too much,” said Xanthe, eyeing Osric as though he were a slab of meat. “We could use another corpse in the anatomy lab. We’re running low on adult males.”
“I will,” said Fairhrim. “At least he’ll be of some use to the world.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Osric.
Fairhrim ignored him. She turned back to Xanthe. “Have you told Élodie the news yet?”
“Not yet. She’s going to be gutted. I won’t be able to convince the other Heads to dig further into our reserves to support her. I simply don’t understand—back-to-back rejections from five agencies in the midst of a crisis such as this one, and the Heads of the Tīendoms all sitting idle.”
The two Haelan continued their little chat, and Osric—well, Osric had never felt so unimportant in his life. Mrs. Parson might have warned him that the Haelan were lunatics who prioritised administrative matters over their imminent deaths.
“Hello? Hi? I’m still here,” said Osric, waving at Fairhrim over Xanthe’s shoulder. “Still going to kidnap you, too. And now I’ll have to kill this old dear for what she’s witnessed. I hope you’re happy.”
“Kill me?” said Xanthe.
Xanthe threw her head back and cackled. Fairhrim stared at Osric with
her eyebrows at her hairline.
“Bit of an idiot, is he?” asked Xanthe.
“So I’ve gathered from our brief acquaintance,” said Fairhrim.
Osric, miffed, wondered whether he ought to kill them both for this show of disrespect.
The Haelan continued their discussion as though he weren’t there.
“What was the bribe, out of curiosity?” asked Xanthe.
“Twenty million,” said Fairhrim. “In support of Élodie’s proposal,
actually.”
“Twenty million? Woden’s balls.”
“No idea of its provenance, of course.” One of Fairhrim’s silver epaulettes rose as she shrugged. “Or whether it even exists.”
“Tempting, in light of this,” said Xanthe, holding up the rejection letter.
Her wrinkles rearranged themselves into an exceptionally shrewd expression.
“He won’t show me his hands,” said Fairhrim.
“Ah,” said Xanthe. “He’s too sane to be a Dreor, but too stupid to be a Fyren, surely. Perhaps one of the Agannor? No. He would’ve already possessed one of us.”
“Regardless, I would never,” said Fairhrim.
Xanthe rolled the rejection letter into a tube, which she tapped against her mouth. “If he really did have the money, though…”
“He’s a walker of the Dusken Paths,” said Fairhrim.
Xanthe waved her hand towards Fairhrim in a dismissive gesture almost identical to the one Fairhrim had used with Osric.
Fairhrim blinked an incredulous blink. “Haelan Xanthe, surely you aren’t considering—”
Xanthe turned to Osric, who was delighted to finally exist again.
“Have you got all twenty million in gold?” asked Xanthe, enunciating with particular care, as though speaking with an imbecile.
Osric set aside his vexation in the face of this lifeline. “Yes.”
“Really?” said Xanthe. “Fuck me. I should switch Orders.”
She cackled. Fairhrim, who apparently found nothing funny, stared.
“You can have it in our vaults by Friday?” asked Xanthe.
“Yes,” said Osric again.
“Why did you come to Haelan Fairhrim specifically?” asked Xanthe.
“I was told she specialises in the seith system.”
“That she does.”
“I’m told she’s a Phenomenon.”
“No one better.” Xanthe came to stand in front of Osric. The old Haelan was small, bowed about the shoulders, absurdly wrinkled in the face. She
studied him with a kind of pity. “So it’s your seith that troubles you. Poor thing.”
The adjective startled Osric. It had never been applied to him before: he was not poor.
“I understand your desperation,” continued Xanthe. “Aurienne would be the specialist you need.”
“I don’t specialise in healing walkers of the Dusken Paths, however,” interjected Fairhrim.
“Is he one?” asked Xanthe. “We can’t say. We haven’t seen his hands.”
“Because he’s refused to show them to us,” said Fairhrim.
“Excellent.” Xanthe nodded. “Plausible deniability.”
Fairhrim sputtered. “With all respect—”
“We won’t have to keep fondling the pendulous balls of the granting
agencies this way,” said Xanthe.
“But—”
Xanthe tapped Fairhrim on the forehead with the rolled-up letter. “I had to wade hip deep through dying children to get here, Aurienne. Don’t let’s be precious about twenty million in gold.”
“Healing one of his kind is against everything we stand for,” said Fairhrim.
“Oh, I agree. It’ll be difficult for you.”
“Difficult for her?” cut in Osric. “What about me? I’m the one who’s sick.”
Xanthe turned to Osric with something of her previous storminess. “Yes, her. She’ll be the one sullying herself. Now, if you’re serious, let’s discuss terms. You’ll deposit twenty million thrymsas in the Haelan vault by close of play Friday, in the form of an anonymous donation to the Pox fund. Once our bookkeepers have examined the gold for any jiggery-pokery, Aurienne will heal you to the best of her ability.”
“Haelan Xanthe, this is most irregular—” began Fairhrim, but Xanthe looked at her, and Fairhrim closed her mouth with a snap.
“My only stipulation is that no one must know,” said Osric.
Xanthe made an impatient gesture. “Obviously. We also have a vested interest in keeping this sort of unsavoury arrangement discreet.”
“Then we have a deal,” said Osric.
Fairhrim looked on in tight-lipped silence.
“Aurienne is more than capable of taking care of herself,” said Xanthe.
“But I should tell you, if she comes to harm in the course of treating you, I will kill you myself.”
Osric wanted to laugh at this preposterous old lady. However, as Xanthe held his gaze, he felt something of her seith. It was as though a small dry hand had given his gravestone a friendly pat.
He did not, to the best of his knowledge, have a gravestone.
“Understood,” said Osric.
“Only half as stupid as you look.” Xanthe tore up the rejection letter and scattered it on the floor, among the onions. “Right. I await news of a substantial donation of unknown origins on Friday. In the meantime, I’ve got lives to save. I’ll leave you two to work out the details. Mind you be good.”
Osric wasn’t certain who that last instruction was directed towards—it couldn’t have been aimed at him, surely. He was never good.
Xanthe swept towards the door. Fairhrim sank into another of those hand- on-heart bows as she left.
Silence fell. Osric rearranged his cloak. Fairhrim regarded him with absolute disdain.
“Pleased to have this sorted,” said Osric.
“Get out,” said Fairhrim.
“Don’t be so angry. You’re doing it for the Poxies.”
“I’m doing it because Haelan Xanthe told me to,” said Fairhrim.
“I’ll send you my deofol with further instructions for our first session.”
“I’m the Haelan. I’m the one who will be sending instructions.”
“Have you got suggestions for a neutral meeting place?” asked Osric. “I don’t want to come back here. Wardens are a pain in the arse to avoid.”
“I haven’t at the minute,” said Fairhrim. “You’ve just sprung the request upon me.”
“Well, I do. Watch for my deofol. Oh—speaking of—link with me.”
“Excuse me?” said Fairhrim.
It was a bit forward to ask to link tācn. It was something reserved for friends and family, so that their deofol—seith familiars—could travel from one tācn to another to deliver messages. Fairhrim, however, was looking at Osric as though he had suggested the most foul of depravities.
“We can sever the link as soon as you’ve healed me,” said Osric.
Fairhrim’s cold stare grew calculating. At length, she said, “Fine.”
Linking required tācn-to-tācn contact. Osric therefore removed his glove.
Fairhrim’s jaw tightened as he confirmed her suspicions; it was his left glove that was coming off. Only those who walked the Dusken Paths had their tācn on their left palms.
Osric held up his hand, revealing the hellhound’s skull that adorned it— the tācn of the Fyren Order. Normally, the sight of this tācn struck terror. It was a harbinger of a very immediate, violent death.
Fairhrim offended Osric by being disgusted instead of afraid—as though, in lieu of his open palm, he had presented her with an open nappy, used, and asked her to touch it.
“You’re a shadow-walking coward-for-hire,” said Fairhrim.
“Yes.”
“Vile,” said Fairhrim.
She nevertheless reached her right hand towards Osric. They brushed their tācn together. The wing of the Haelan Order’s swan touched the fang of the Fyren Order’s hellhound. They pushed out their seith and learned each other’s signature. Fairhrim’s seith was cool, restrained, and felt like glass.
Osric’s deofol would now be able to find her directly to bear his messages; her deofol would likewise be able to find him. (He wondered what form her deofol would take. Something prickly, he wagered. A scorpion, probably.) They pulled their palms apart. Fairhrim held her hand away from herself, as one would after having touched something filthy.
There was a knock at the door. “Haelan Fairhrim?”
Osric slipped behind the door and gestured at Fairhrim to open it, with a whispered injunction to not do anything stupid.
Fairhrim opened the door. Through the crack at the hinges, Osric saw a black-clad cadaver of a man. There was a powerful whiff of formalin.
The man shook Fairhrim’s hand and said, “Hello. I’m the new undertaker. I’m here about the onions?”
UPON HIS RETURN TO THE family seat at Rosefell Hall, Osric was accosted by
Mrs. Parson.
“Well, sir?” she asked. “What news?”
“Good news, I think,” said Osric. “Some pettifogging, but I suppose that
was to be expected. She’ll do it.”
“Bless her.”
“No. Don’t bless her. She is singularly disagreeable; I don’t like her at
all. Also, there is a hiccough.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve got to deposit that twenty million in gold by the end of the week.”
“That won’t be a problem,” said Mrs. Parson. “We’ve just received a heap of beautifully forged thrymsas from Beckenham.”
“They can’t be forged,” said Osric. “We’ll have to cough up real coin.
The Haelan are already suspicious. I can’t risk delaying this—or having them withdraw from the agreement.”
Mrs. Parson was wide-eyed. “But…you haven’t got twenty million in gold.”
“I know. You’ll have to sell the triptych, and The Milkmaid. The de Beauveau, too. It hurts me to part with them, but it can’t be helped. Talk to Sacramore. I suppose we can’t sell The Eaters yet?”
“Far too hot. You just acquired it two months ago.”
“Right. Can’t exactly flog it down the pub, then. Sell whatever other bits and bobs we need to to reach the twenty-million mark. It’s to be offered as an
anonymous donation to the Haelan Order, directed to the Pox fund. Can I leave the arrangements to you?”
Mrs. Parson nodded, but her eyes remained wide. “Twenty million. This is…this is a sizable portion of your fortune.”
“We will, obviously, be stealing it back.”
Mrs. Parson looked relieved. “Oh! Very good, sir.”
