16
MURDER AT WELLESLEY KEEP
Aurienne
hat did having one’s hand kissed by a Fyren feel like? Reckless.W Heady. Like life being lived. Like an impending disaster.
The moment was a convergence of several strange miracles—the numbers (a thrill), Mordaunt’s sudden and wild expression of devotion, and, the greatest miracle of all, sharing in his joy.
Blushes plagued Aurienne whenever she thought of the moment. The way he had swept towards her and seized her hand. The press of his signet ring.
The kisses too passionate to be platonic. She told herself it was the excitement of the results. The alternative was appalling.
Aurienne compartmentalised the blushes away (neatly labelled Inappropriate) and focused on her morning, which began with a shift in the Pox ward. The little girl from last time was far better—able to see and able to speak; indeed, she was feeling so much better that she had asked Aurienne for an ice lolly. Aurienne, delighted, was quick to dispatch an apprentice to fulfil this important request.
Then it was time for rounds. Aurienne’s patients in the Centre for Seith Research were competing hard for her attention. A fellow Haelan was suffering from a triggered Cost without even using her seith. A kindly old lady from Cardiff was suddenly summoning other people’s deofols. The
Ingenaut with the seith haemorrhages who had been discharged a few weeks ago was back. She had responded beautifully to Aurienne’s micro-occlusion treatment, but had got overexcited about, if Aurienne understood correctly, magnets, and her seith had surged out of control and set a leycraft on fire.
After lunch, Aurienne attended a Haelan robing ceremony. Four new Haelan were earning their wings, including Corinne and Nym. A crowd gathered in Swanstone’s largest courtyard, at the foot of a statue of Frīa flanked by two of the Aer in flight. Prendergast, one of the Haelan Order’s Heads, was presiding over the ceremony. The new graduates stood with their hands folded before them, listening to his address.
“I feel old,” whispered Cath to Aurienne and Élodie. “Look at their baby faces.”
“They’re no younger than we were when we received our tācn,” said Élodie.
“Please,” said Cath. “They’re legally infants.”
“The one on the left is one of yours, Cath, isn’t she?” asked Aurienne.
Cath nodded. “She’s good. Learned quickly that emergency medicine is the science of making it internal medicine’s problem. And the two on the far right are yours?”
“Corinne and Nym. They’ll outshine me in a few years.”
“Good,” said Cath. “You’ll need backup; you’ll be leading this place by
then.”
“Never,” said Aurienne.
“I can see it,” said Cath.
“I can’t.”
“I know. You’ve got the imagination of an aubergine.”
After Prendergast’s address, there were the usual speeches about living the values of Harm to none, and always putting the interests of patients before one’s own, and professionalism, and compassion—each of which Aurienne received as a lecture addressed specifically to her. When research ethics were discussed, she began to look for exits. Élodie nudged Aurienne. “Are you all right?”
“You’ve a hangdog look about you,” said Cath.
Aurienne wished very much to burst into an explanation of her flagrant disregard for everything her Order stood for, that she had done the opposite of everything these fine speakers advised, that it was almost worth it because she might have been nearing an incredible breakthrough, but it wasn’t worth it because she was working with a Fyren—and, worst of all, the Fyren had kissed her hand, and it gave her blushes instead of shudders of morbid disgust to think about it, and everything was Wrong.
Obviously, she said, “Indigestion.”
She was grateful for the ending of the speeches and the concurrent ending of the censure.
Next came the Marking: the Haelan-apparent knelt before the statue of Frīa and her benevolent open arms. They held out their right hands.
Prendergast pressed a brand, sizzling with seith, in the shape of the Haelan tācn, to their open palms.
Aurienne, watching the anxious faces of the silver-robed figures, remembered her own time in that position. In spite of Xanthe’s assurances to the contrary, she had feared what every apprentice fears—that her years of apprenticeship wouldn’t have sufficiently developed her seith system and that the tācn wouldn’t take. But it had taken, of course—she had worked too hard, and practised too much, for it not to—and so, too, did the tācn of the four young Haelan kneeling in the courtyard today.
The assembled crowd applauded. The new Haelan held their raw tācn to their hearts, and were robed, for the first time, in the Order’s whites. Now their seith would be open to the world, far beyond the small, quotidian uses of civilians. Now they were members of an Order. They took their oaths for Harm to none and swore to be worthy of the privilege of bearing the title of Haelan. Shining silver epaulettes were placed upon their shoulders.
Someone tugged at Aurienne’s skirts.
“Beg your pardon,” said the apprentice who had done the tugging, bowing low. “You’re wanted urgently in Ward Fourteen. Seith transfer. It’s Haelan Xanthe.”
“Not again,” said Aurienne. She waved a rueful goodbye to Cath and Élodie, and followed the apprentice into the fortress.
Haelan sometimes drained their seith empty in succour of particularly challenging patients. Xanthe was notorious for it. Aurienne found her collapsed upon a bed among the sick children in Ward 14, surrounded by a handful of concerned Haelan from Paeds. She lay unconscious and drenched in sweat. She had triggered her Cost—gastroparesis—before fainting; there was a kidney dish on her lap containing the sloshy remains of her lunch.
Lorelei looked up as Aurienne approached. “One of the new arrivals took a turn for the worse this afternoon. He was hanging on by a thread. Xanthe refused to lose him. He’s all right. She isn’t.”
Aurienne was one of the few in her Order who had mastered seith transfers; the procedure required unusual control of seith even among the Haelan. She pressed her tācn to Xanthe’s clammy chest and, with great gentleness, infused her own seith into Xanthe’s reserves—enough to bring her back to consciousness and bypass another round of her Cost.
Xanthe came to with a muttered “ ’M fine.”
“You mustn’t take your system to the brink like this,” said Aurienne. “It’s hard on you.”
“Yes, well, a child will see another day, so it was worth the push.”
Xanthe sat up with Aurienne’s help. She looked sadly at the remains of her lunch in the kidney dish. “Pity about the cheesecake. It was excellent.”
“We’ll get you another piece,” said Lorelei. She called to an apprentice.
“You—off to the kitchens. Get her the whole bloody cake.”
“More of us need to add seith transfers to our competencies,” said one of the other Haelan from Paeds.
“Corinne and Nym have been making progress,” said Aurienne. “I think Corinne’s got it. Nym’s technical competence is excellent; it’s her confidence that’s low. They both earned their tācn today.”
“Oh, bravo,” said Lorelei.
“Yes—improvements will follow thick and fast now.”
“Have they moved on to cadavers?” asked Xanthe.
“No. Still in the lab. But they will soon.”
Colour returned to Xanthe’s lips as Aurienne’s seith replenished her reserves. Aurienne pulled her tācn away. “Feeling better?”
“Much. Back to your duties, all of you,” said Xanthe to the Haelan assembled around her bed. “Those children need you more than I do.”
Lorelei and the Haelan from Paeds dispersed. Aurienne took advantage of her tête-à-tête with Xanthe to discuss the Fyren’s investigation of Wellesley.
She explained Mordaunt’s current, unpromising position.
“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” said Xanthe, in an exhausted whisper. “The break-in we want the Fyren to do, he can’t do, and the break-in we don’t want him to do, he can do.”
“Correct,” said Aurienne. “He can’t sneak into Wellesley Keep because of these anti-Fyren measures. But he is happy to break into the Færwundor for his next healing, which I strenuously object to.”
“Fantastic,” croaked Xanthe.
“But please, Haelan Xanthe, let’s talk later. You’ve got to rest.”
“Pish tosh—let’s talk now. I’m not actively vomiting.”
“I do hope that next time you’ll—”
“Spare me the lecture,” cut in Xanthe. “I know the risks. Go fish about in that heap over there; there’s something I want to show you.”
Aurienne swallowed her gentle, respectful nonlecture, and proceeded towards the indicated heap: Xanthe’s satchel and cloak, dropped beside the
bed.
“The yellow file,” said Xanthe.
Aurienne recognised the loose-leaf file as the register of requests received for Haelan services. She occasionally assisted Xanthe in prioritising the asks, which ranged from requests for Haelan aid in dysentery-infested villages to overwhelmed hospitals. A single Haelan and her seith could change the tide in any of these circumstances—though, given the Pox, all recent requests had been rejected.
Among the letters in the file were the usual suspects; Aurienne recognised the scrawl of the Northumbrian king, the angular script of the king of the Danelaw, the elegant hand of the Kentish queen (always envied by Aurienne, whose writing looked like the abstract blobs of stool culture in a petri dish).
Xanthe extracted a letter from the file. She studied it with her sparse brows knotted into a frown. “Throwing you to the dogs, possibly,” she muttered. “But you’d have a wolf with you, so perhaps…?”
Aurienne cast her a look of polite enquiry, but Xanthe didn’t see fit to explain herself to anyone at the best of times, and she was particularly deep in thought now.
“I think you’ve got the coconuts to do it,” said Xanthe. “The real question
is whether I want to risk you.”
“The—the coconuts?”
“The cobblers. The bollocks.”
“Ah.”
Xanthe carried on an inarticulate dissertation on the relative size of Aurienne’s bollocks, their propensity to drag on the pavement, their potential to serve as blimps in times of need.
Snapping out of her reverie, she tapped an age-bent finger upon the file.
“We may have the bugger.”
“Which bugger?” asked Aurienne, given that there were so many.
“Wellesley,” said Xanthe.
“How have we got him?”
“Wellesley requested Haelan assistance for a sick child a few months ago,” said Xanthe, passing Aurienne the letter. “Paeds was drowning in Pox cases, obviously, so we declined. I know your source on Wellesley’s involvement was questionable, but it’s an interesting coincidence.”
“Do you think the incursion on Swanstone might’ve been linked to his child?” asked Aurienne.
“A desperate father, wishing to find a healer for his ailing daughter?”
“Why do you sound cynical?” asked Aurienne, skimming through the letter. “Doesn’t he seem sincere?”
“He seems a touch melodramatic. And there were about a hundred courses of action he could’ve taken before leaping to ingress of Swanstone— if it was him—with incendiary devices, at that. But if we wanted a door into Wellesley Keep, and a neat way to bypass his anti-Fyren measures, that letter is it. I could make the arrangements.”
“Right,” said Aurienne. “But if Wellesley wants a Haelan for as-yet- unknown nefarious purposes, we’d be handing her over on a silver platter.”
“Right,” said Xanthe. “But the Haelan could explode his heart with the touch of her tācn, should the situation call for it. And if she was accompanied by a Swanstone guard, as is the usual protocol, who was actually a Fyren assassin, then the two of them could discover something of use, and keep her shielded in the meantime.”
“Right,” said Aurienne. “And Wellesley wouldn’t be stupid enough to harm a Haelan. He’d be incurring the wrath of almost every Order.”
“Right,” said Xanthe. “And the Wardens would only be a deofol away,
should Wellesley be stupid enough.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
Aurienne eyed Xanthe. Xanthe eyed Aurienne.
“Good thing about my blimp-sized bollocks,” said Aurienne.
“May they carry you swiftly, and may the winds be fair,” said Xanthe.
THUS IT WAS THAT AURIENNE presented herself at the gatehouse of Wellesley Keep with, clanging along behind her, Osric Mordaunt in a full suit of Swanstone armour.
He had reacted to the plan with the expected level of aplomb; that is, immediate hysteria.
His hysteria abated into fuming as they approached the Keep in pouring rain. It was night, but one wouldn’t know it looking at Wellesley Keep, which was illuminated by hundreds of humming floodlights.
“Absolute, unmitigated horseshit,” muttered Mordaunt between clangs.
“Oh, don’t have kittens,” said Aurienne.
“I’ll have as many kittens as I like. Have you seen all of these lights? Not a shadow to be found. If anything happens, I’m hamstrung.”
“It’ll be fine once we get inside,” said Aurienne.
“Fine? Fine? We’re putting you in danger—we’re walking you right into the Keep of the man we think attacked your Order. If anyone raises a hand against you, they’re dead, I want you to know. What arsehole designed this wanky armour? Why am I announcing my movements to every knob end within a mile? My tācn is itchy.”
“Stop twitching. Straighten up. You’ve got to be convincing.”
Aurienne and Mordaunt approached the gatehouse in a disgusting rain that came from seventeen directions.
Mordaunt, still seething, did not knock at the door; he smote it with his fist.
With much metallic creaking, he glanced about, squinting through his visor at the bright lights. The Keep glowed as though under the noontime sun.
A peephole slid open from the other side of the door. A suspicious eye protruded in Aurienne’s direction. “Who is it?” enquired the eye.
“Haelan Fairhrim and escort,” said Aurienne. “Lord Wellesley is expecting me.”
The eye grew respectful. “Give us a moment.”
The door was drawn open. Aurienne and her soi-disant guard advanced into a sort of vestibule, also bright with lights. Besides the doorman to whom the eye belonged, there was a small complement of guards, as well as an officious-looking round man who introduced himself as Pipplewaithe.
“I’m Lord Wellesley’s chamberlain,” said Pipplewaithe, doffing his feathered hat and sweeping the ground with it. “At your service, Haelan Fairhrim. And may I say what an honour it is to have one of your Order here.”
“Thank you for the kind welcome,” said Aurienne.
Pipplewaithe replaced his hat; the ostrich feather sprang to attention.
“Before we proceed into the Keep—please forgive me for asking; added security measures out of my control, unfortunately—might I see your tācn?”
Aurienne removed her glove and duly flashed the Haelan tācn at the chamberlain. There was a chorus of oohs from the assembled men, to whom the Haelan were, apparently, numinous creatures of legend.
Mordaunt creaked meaningfully beside Aurienne.
“That looks to be in order,” said Pipplewaithe. “Or should I say, in Order? Ha! So sorry for the procedural annoyance. One can never be too careful in these unsettled days.”
“Are things so unsettled?” asked Aurienne.
“I won’t trouble you with the details, but tensions are running high with a neighbour I shan’t name.” Pipplewaithe’s feather turned enquiringly to Mordaunt. “May I ask about your companion?”
Mordaunt clattered into a semblance of a guardish position beside Aurienne, who said, “This is my protector, Phlegmley. He’s one of our sergeants at Swanstone. I believe my Order has advised Lord Wellesley of our protocols; I must be accompanied at all times. I’m afraid that he’ll have to remain armed and at my side. But you understand—just another procedural annoyance.”
“Of course,” said Pipplewaithe with another bow. “Welcome, Sergeant.”
There was a metallic chink as Mordaunt made a nod in his direction.
“Carry out whatever inspections you feel are necessary,” said Aurienne with a wave in Mordaunt’s direction. “He hasn’t a tācn, but I suppose you’d like to check his hands and see for yourself.”
Mordaunt removed his right gauntlet.
“Oh, really, it hardly seems necessary,” said Pipplewaithe, nevertheless observing Mordaunt’s activity closely. “He’s here with a proven Haelan. But —procedurally speaking—it would indeed be better.”
Mordaunt showed the man his right palm, devoid, of course, of any tācn.
“Excellent,” said Pipplewaithe. Then, with rather more trepidation, because Bright Path walkers had their tācn on the right side but Dusken ones had theirs on the left, he waited for Mordaunt to show his left hand.
Mordaunt removed his left gauntlet and presented the man his hand.
Pipplewaithe waved for a light, inspected Mordaunt’s palm from several angles, and rubbed his fingers across it.
“All clear,” said Pipplewaithe. “Thank you, sir. Let us proceed within.”
Mordaunt pulled his gauntlet back on. It glided over an immaculate hydgraft, courtesy of Xanthe.
They proceeded through two floodlit courtyards, populated with, it seemed, most of Wellesley Keep’s five hundred men.
Pipplewaithe quivered in restrained excitement in Aurienne’s direction.
Aurienne gave him a smile. He bowed at her again—the feather swept towards her in adoration—and said, “It’s a privilege to be able to serve one of the Haelan, however briefly. I’ve only the highest respect for your Order.
Indeed, I am beholden to it, heart and soul.”
A snort escaped Mordaunt. Pipplewaithe’s feather rose in febrile offence.
Mordaunt turned the snort into a faux sneeze.
“Sorry. Allergies,” sniffed Mordaunt.
The feather calmed itself. “Ah, indeed? As I was saying, Haelan— beholden. My husband was selected for one of your trials many years ago.
Liposarcoma. Extremely poor prognosis. Well, I say poor—I mean we were expecting death. But your Order saved him.”
“Oh, I am so pleased to hear that,” said Aurienne. “Was it under Haelan Linden?”
“The very same. Brilliant healer. Is she still around?”
“Retired a few years ago.”
“Well deserved. Right—follow me just through here and we’ll have you settling in nicely.”
“Settling in?” repeated Aurienne. “Aren’t we going to see the patient?”
The feather faltered. “Ah yes, young Gwendolen. Erm—given the lateness of the hour, Lord Wellesley proposed that I show you to your rooms.
You can take refreshment, rest, and meet him tomorrow morning so he can discuss his daughter’s case with you.”
“Shouldn’t I see her right away?” asked Aurienne. “Is she so much better?”
“Oh yes, she’s much better,” said Pipplewaithe. The feather grew evasive. “In no immediate danger whatsoever, to my inexpert eye. One might almost ask why we have disturbed your Order for such a—but, of course, parental worry—nothing like it. Still, to have brought in a Haelan—rather extraordinary—but he does dote on her so.”
With these conclusive remarks, Pipplewaithe led Aurienne and Mordaunt into the Keep. The enormity of the task before them began to dawn on Aurienne: what exactly were they looking for, and how were they going to look?
Mordaunt seemed unfazed. In the shadow of his helmet, his eyes jumped from door to door, remembering or counting or doing infiltratey things, while Aurienne kept up the chitchat. The interior of the Keep was, at least, not floodlit.
They went up another flight of stairs. The furnishings grew more luxurious.
“Here we are,” said Pipplewaithe, ushering them towards silver-studded double doors. “I hope you’ll find everything to your satisfaction. The chambermaids are at your command”—two chambermaids flanking the door curtseyed—“and I’ll fetch you tomorrow morning, when Lord Wellesley is ready. He’s in the midst of some rather difficult discussions with his commanders. You know how it is.”
Aurienne did not know how it was. Pipplewaithe bowed; the feather made its obeisance; both left.
The chambermaids set upon Aurienne in a cloying flurry—could they assist with her hair? With her dress? With unpacking her things?—until she shooed them away, claiming fatigue. They brought in a tray laden with food and stoked the fire high, lest she catch a chill from the damp.
Mordaunt was of much less interest to them. On their way out, they pointed out a bed for him, which consisted of a straw mattress in the antechamber.
“That thing’s meant to be a bed?” asked Mordaunt, in the accents of someone with too much privilege and a corresponding absence of grey matter.
The chambermaids were shocked that a guard would query their hospitality. Aurienne elbowed Mordaunt, but hurt herself more than him, due to the armour.
“Er—thank you,” grunted Mordaunt. “This will do nicely.”
The chambermaids were appeased. They shut the door behind them.
Aurienne stepped into the bedchamber. Mordaunt clanged in too, tearing off his helmet.
As he strode behind her, his helmet under his arm, his breastplate gleaming with the platinum-white wings of a swan, his hair swept messily to one side, he looked, for a moment, noble. Knightly. Valorous. His scars might’ve been gained in deeds heroic rather than craven.
Then he opened his mouth—“Did you see that bed? I thought it was for the dog”—and the mirage faded, and he was the Fyren again.
“What are you looking at?” asked Mordaunt.
“A could-have-been,” said Aurienne.
Her gnomic response was of less interest to Mordaunt than the looking glass above the mantel, into which he peered while asking, “Why didn’t you let them fuss about your hair?” accusatorially, as though Aurienne had let an occasion slip.
“I’m not here to have my hair fussed over,” said Aurienne.
“I would’ve let them, though you’re the one in more immediate need.” (A knight in shining armour he wasn’t, but a knight in shining passive aggression—yes.) Mordaunt took a moment to regain that artfully wind-tousled sweep he usually had going.
“And this,” he said, pulling the standard-issue Swanstone sword from its sheath. “Rubbish. Horrid balance. No edge to speak of.”
“Can you stab someone with it?” asked Aurienne.
“Yes.”
“Then it’ll do.”
Mordaunt, who had been inspecting the length of the blade with one eye closed, cast an intrigued look in her direction. “I thought we were going for fewer cadavers.”
“We are,” said Aurienne. “However, I would like to not become one
myself. Our welcome was odd.”
“This entire situation is odd.”
“What’s your read on it?”
Mordaunt produced a whetstone and sat, with much rattling, upon an ottoman. He began to work on the sword. “Don’t think the kid is sick. Don’t think the good Lord Wellesley brought in a Haelan for her skills, either—at least, not for the kid.”
“Maybe he’s got someone else to heal? Himself?”
“Possible. Also, those men out there are ready to march. Don’t know if that coincides with your arrival.”
“If he thinks he’s going to hold me for use as a private field medic, he’s in for a nasty shock.”
Mordaunt ran the whetstone down the blade in thoughtful strokes. “You’d also be useful if he’s got a stubborn captive with some critical intel. Torture,
heal; torture, heal.”
“That’s dark,” said Aurienne.
“I’d do it,” said Mordaunt. “Doubt he has the brains. Is there a Lady Wellesley? The chamberlain didn’t say, did he? What’s-his-name— Pumpypipple, or whatever it was; couldn’t hear a thing through the helmet—
sounded like an angry fart.”
“Pipplewaithe.”
“Right.”
“Lord Wellesley’s wife died in childbirth,” said Aurienne. “Wellesley mentioned it in his letter to my Order, among other tearjerkers.”
“Perhaps his goal is to find a new wife with a useful skill set during a
war. Perhaps he’s going to seduce you.”
“Good luck,” said Aurienne.
“I know. Lost cause.”
“You’re speaking as though from experience.”
“I am,” said Mordaunt. “I made overtures to you during our first meeting and you were inexorable. Adamantine.”
“You? Tried to seduce me? During our first meeting?”
“Well, now you’re just offending me,” said Mordaunt.
He looked so put out that Aurienne felt the welling of laughter. She tamped it down. “Sorry—which part was meant to be seductive: the part
where you broke in, or the part where you wanted to kidnap me, or the part where you bribed my Order to heal you against my will?”
“As I said—lost cause,” said Mordaunt, decidedly piqued.
“I’ve vexed you,” said Aurienne.
“Don’t hurt yourself rushing to apologise.”
“If we haven’t aggravated each other to the verge of flying at one another’s throats, the day is wasted.”
Mordaunt contemplated his sword as well as her words and, at length, conceded: “True.”
“How are we going to search the Keep?” asked Aurienne. “The place is enormous.”
“That’s what you leave up to me,” said Mordaunt. “Looking forward to having a look tonight.”
“But—how do you know where to begin? We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“Human beings are gloriously predictable. Precious lordlings even more so. If there’s anything interesting hidden in this Keep, I’ll find it.”
“What if he’s so paranoid that he keeps it on him—whatever it is?”
“I’ll find it no matter what crevice he’s hiding it in. I’ve plunged deep into better men for lesser prizes. And I don’t mean that in a sexy way.
Although I’ve also done it in a sexy way. Did your deofol ever deliver my observation about anals?”
“Yes. Pleased you find yourself so amusing. Don’t plunge too deeply into Wellesley. If he dies, the repercussions could be outright war.”
“And?” asked Mordaunt.
“I’m not here to trigger a war.”
“They’ll blame Kent.”
“But I’ll blame me, for whatever hundreds or thousands die,” said Aurienne.
Mordaunt looked at her as though she were mildly alien.
“What?” asked Aurienne.
“A conscience must be such a burden,” said Mordaunt.
“Managing your lack thereof is the greater strain.”
“Might you strain yourself a little further, and pass me that tray?”
Aurienne turned to the elaborate sideboard to her left, upon which rested an equally elaborate tray. “You’re going to eat? You trust their food?”
“Absolutely not,” said Mordaunt. He picked his way through the tray and began to throw things, with annoying accuracy, into the fireplace. “Let’s make it look like you partook.”
The bedchamber grew smoky with burnt goose leg, charred leek and cheese pie, and marzipan cakes reduced to ash. The wine they poured into a potted plant.
Mordaunt examined the bottle’s label afterwards. “If this was untampered with, what we’ve just done is criminal.”
“Really?” said Aurienne. “That’s the criminal part of this endeavour?”
“I’ll have to have a look through the man’s cellar,” said Mordaunt, sniffing the bottle. “Mm—that’s champion. Have a nose.”
Aurienne had just ascertained that the Bordeaux did indeed smell gorgeous—plush, round, pleasantly spiced—when a shriek echoed through the Keep.
The shriek turned into a high-pitched giggle. There was the sound of footsteps scurrying through the corridor. Mordaunt put his helmet back on and opened the door.
A child streaked past, followed by two huffing nursemaids calling for her to behave herself and get back into bed. From their admonitions, Aurienne gathered that the child—rosy cheeked, bright eyed, glossy curled—was Gwendolen, Lord Wellesley’s daughter.
The girl paused long enough to blow a raspberry at Mordaunt, then dashed away again, still giggling. The nursemaids disappeared after her.
Aurienne and Mordaunt regarded each other in silence. He closed the door.
“I’ve never seen a more vivacious child in my life,” said Mordaunt.
“Normally I’d remind you that not all conditions are visible,” said Aurienne, “only her father described a litany of symptoms, each more worrisome than the next, and that child didn’t look to be bedridden, coughing blood, or continually vomiting.”
“There’s fuckery underway,” said Mordaunt. “Have you got the time? I hadn’t the room for a watch in this stupid armour; it hasn’t any pockets.”
“Should’ve put it in your codpiece,” said Aurienne, consulting her pocket
watch.
“My codpiece is already full.”
“Of what?”
“My cod.”
Aurienne cast a cynical eye towards the codpiece.
“Had to coil it up,” said Mordaunt.
“It’s half eleven,” said Aurienne, among the sound of knocking, as Mordaunt was presently testing the impact resistance of the codpiece.
“Right,” said Mordaunt. “Help me out of this armour.”
Neither Aurienne nor Mordaunt was versed in plate armour and its foibles; there was much pinching of fingers and muttered swearing as they worked out how to remove it.
The Fyren cloak lay at the bottom of Aurienne’s satchel like the unhallowed thing it was. She wished for a pair of tongs with which to extract it, but settled upon forefinger and thumb.
“That’s the finest Genoan velvet,” said Mordaunt. “You needn’t handle it like it’s a wet fucking nappy.”
Aurienne removed his leather gloves from her satchel in the same manner. Mordaunt snatched them from her. He shook his cloak out and swept it over his shoulders. In a rare flash of brilliance, he hid the Swanstone armour in the dog bed, with a blanket thrown over top, which made it vaguely look as though a man might be sleeping in it.
There was only one thing left to complete Mordaunt’s transformation from gallant knight to murderer: the removal of the hydgraft that camouflaged his tācn. He wedged a poker between the room’s doors to ensure that they wouldn’t be disturbed.
“Excellent,” he said as Aurienne took out her instruments. “The itching is
unbearable.”
“Pruritus. It’s normal.”
“This entire procedure was unexpectedly disturbing,” said Mordaunt. “I think the Haelan are closer to walking the Dusken Paths than they let on.”
Aurienne soaked her hands and his in hlutoform. “Xanthe specialises in regeneration. Don’t let it bother you.”
“She cut off her own palm,” said Mordaunt.
“And healed it back in a minute.”
“Why can’t she regenerate my seith channels, then?”
“I’ve already told you—the mechanisms involved in seith-fibre genesis are still under study. In mammals they occur during embryonic development; no one has found a way to replicate it in adults.”
“Ow.”
“Indeed,” said Aurienne, who had pushed experimentally at the edge of the hydgraft. “It seems a shame to remove it; the graft took beautifully.”
“Get it off me. It stifles my seith.”
“Lovely capillary ingrowth,” said Aurienne, tilting Mordaunt’s palm into the light. “It’s fully vascularised. You’re certain you want to remove it?
Professionally, it hurts me to undo it—but beyond that, you’ve a rare chance to start a new life as a man without the brand of a monster.”
“I like my brand. I like being a monster.”
“Pity. Sit, then. This won’t take a moment.”
Mordaunt joined Aurienne on the bed. Aurienne positioned his hand on a pillow. It was altogether less than ideal; she would have had serious words with any apprentice of hers operating in such conditions.
Bit by bit, with a silver curette she removed the graft, as though she were debriding a failed one and removing a flap of necrotic tissue. And bit by bit, the hellhound tācn came into view—the curling horns, the empty eye sockets, the grinning teeth.
She pressed her tācn to the edge of Mordaunt’s hand and healed him where the graft had adhered to his palm and the flesh was raw.
Now he was well and truly the Fyren again. Lingering on the inside of Aurienne’s eyes, like a sunspot, was that vision of what could have been—of this man in bright armour, proud featured and noble.
But it was a phantasm. She blinked it away.
Mordaunt pushed an experimental flare of seith to his tācn. The hellhound’s eyes and mouth glowed their unholy red. “That’s better.”
Aurienne disagreed, which she expressed by tidying with unnecessary briskness.
Mordaunt pulled his hood over his head and placed his cowl over his face. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’m leaving her with you.”
“Her?” asked Aurienne, but Mordaunt answered her question by summoning his deofol.
The smoky form of the great wolf materialised. Normally she had an unsettling tendency of floating her teeth at Aurienne’s eye level, but today she hung low. Her golden eyes glowed insolently at Aurienne, then fixed themselves upon the door.
“She’ll find me if you need me,” said Mordaunt.
“All right.”
Now he was a shadow in the darkness of the antechamber. “And Fairhrim
—”
“What?”
“Don’t look so grim. It’s the monster you need tonight, not the man.”
Aurienne rolled her eyes so hard, she saw her frontal cortex.
The monster, stiff with vexation, left.
AURIENNE MIGHTN’T HAVE MINDED AMATEUR philosophising about monsters and men if the monster had been successful. However, he returned at five in the morning, looking pouty and having found nothing of use. His deofol dissipated in a moody smudge of smoke.
“The entire Keep is clean,” said Mordaunt, pushing his hood back. “I found things, of course—military plans, billets-doux from mistresses, bits of intel—but nothing that connects Wellesley to Swanstone.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t involved after all,” said Aurienne.
Mordaunt looked as unconvinced as she felt. “Why have a Haelan in today, then? For a child bursting with health?”
From his cloak he produced letters, scrolls bearing royal seals, maps, and glittering handfuls of jewellery. He proceeded to stuff these into Aurienne’s satchel.
“What is all that, and what d’you think you’re doing with it?” asked Aurienne.
“Discoveries,” said Mordaunt. “Going to sell the military intel to Kent.
Hawking the jewels. As for the letters, Wellesley’s got seven lovers—one for every day of the week, I suppose—and some of them will be worth blackmailing.”
“I beg your pardon? You said you found things—you didn’t say you stole the things.”
“Obviously I stole the things. Didn’t kill anyone, by the way, not that you asked. Taking me a bit for granted, I think.”
“This isn’t what we came here for,” said Aurienne as Mordaunt continued to stuff his contraband into her bag. “You can’t take those things.”
“Of course I can. What are you going to do—call the guards on me?”
Aurienne snatched her satchel from him and inverted it onto the bed. “I’m not going to be involved. Do you know how this would look for my Order, if they were to find these things in my bag? Military plans? Really?”
“Well, where am I meant to put them?” asked Mordaunt.
“I don’t know. I don’t care. Stuff them into your codpiece.”
“I also found a kitten.”
“You found a kitten.”
“Yes.”
A hissing, dripping, black ball was placed in Aurienne’s hands.
“We can’t leave it here,” said Mordaunt. “The guards had it half-drowned in a bucket. I can’t take it home. Rigor Mortis will eat it. You take it.”
The kitten scrambled out of Aurienne’s hands and into her satchel, from whence it hissed hatefully at the two of them.
“I also need to do something about these,” said Mordaunt, producing two bottles of Scotch from the depths of his cloak. “Wellesley’s got a lovely
collection and he knows it. The cellar was well guarded. Took me a full quarter of an hour to get in.”
Aurienne stared at him. “We are not smuggling Wellesley’s prized Scotch out of the Keep.”
“You really know how to suck the joy out of anything.”
“I wouldn’t need to if you wouldn’t inject unnecessary stressors into already tense situations.”
Rustling and chatter began to ring through the corridors as servants made their way to bedchambers to stoke fires and serve breakfasts. Wellesley Keep was waking up.
Aurienne cut her lecture short. “Get back into your armour. We could be summoned to see Wellesley at any moment.”
They got Mordaunt back into costume just in time; the chambermaids arrived a few minutes later, bearing a full breakfast tray for Aurienne. For Mordaunt, they brought a single boiled egg.
Mordaunt hadn’t replaced his helmet. The chambermaids eyed him as they aired out the room, and Aurienne heard one whisper to the other that if she’d known that was under the helmet, she would’ve offered him the use of her own bed instead of the straw. Mordaunt, however, had eyes only for Aurienne—narrowed ones, accompanied by mutters that she was a Scourge.
As Aurienne finished her breakfast (smeared eggs about and poured tea into the poor potted plant) there was a knock at the door.
“Hello again, Pumpypip—er, Pipplewaithe,” said Aurienne.
“Good morning, Haelan Fairhrim, Sergeant.” Pipplewaithe swept off his hat. “Lord Wellesley is ready for you. Would you follow me?”
“Of course,” said Aurienne. “I caught a glimpse of the patient yesterday,
by the way.”
“Did you, indeed?”
“By chance—she had escaped her minders. A lively girl. Your inexpert eye was correct. She seems in no immediate danger.”
Pipplewaithe’s feather shrank in embarrassment. “Did you think so?
Well, I’m certain Lord Wellesley will be pleased to hear this assessment. I do offer my personal apologies for your—perhaps unnecessary?—voyage all the
way here from the Danelaw. Though I’m sure you will forgive a father’s worry. He does like to have the best of the best on hand, as you’ve no doubt ascertained, but to call in a Haelan for—well, who can truly understand the minds of great men? Ha, ha—shall we?”
Pipplewaithe’s feather trembled, Mordaunt’s armour clanged, and they were off.
They entered a reception room, overly full of plush seats, where Wellesley’s visitors were to mill about before their audiences with the Lord.
Aurienne and Mordaunt were the only callers this morning. Pipplewaithe bid them sit, knocked at a great oak door to signal their arrival to those inside, and left.
Aurienne and Mordaunt eyed each other in wary silence.
After some time, the door abutting the antechamber was opened, revealing a high-ceilinged hall. To Aurienne’s consternation—and Mordaunt’s, no doubt—the anti-Fyren measures were back in full swing within; there were spotlights aimed at every corner of the room, and even the floor was bathed with light. There were no shadows to be seen, much less walked.
Lord Wellesley and his men-at-arms sat around a table scattered with the remains of breakfast. Judging by the decor, Wellesley’s chief hobby was the murder of rare megafauna. The taxidermised heads of beasts jutted from the wall—a woolly rhinoceros, a cave hyena, a sabre-tooth, an auroch.
Below this cemetery sat Lord Wellesley himself—bald of crown, red of beard, shrewd of eye. His head, Aurienne noted generously, was shaped like a suppository.
Lord Wellesley exclaimed words of welcome, all while observing Aurienne and her Haelan garb with satisfaction, and turning a calculating eye towards Mordaunt. He seemed pleased with the results of his arithmetic. He gestured Aurienne forwards with a bow.
“Come in, come in, dear Haelan,” said Wellesley. “I had lost hope that one of your Order would come.”
“We are stretched thin,” said Aurienne. “But I’m pleased to be here now.
How is your daughter?”
“Much better. May I offer you something? Tea? Have you eaten?”
“I’ve eaten, thank you,” said Aurienne. “I’m pleased she’s doing better.
You’d listed some worrisome symptoms in your letter.”
“It appears to have mostly cleared up. I was too hasty, perhaps, in calling for you. But why don’t you sit down? Are you sure you won’t take anything?”
He was up to no good. Normally, Aurienne would have castigated him for wasting her time and left in a huff—but she, too, was up to no good.
She sat upon the very edge of a chair. “Shouldn’t I have a look at your daughter, since I came all the way here?”
“Of course. It would reassure me to have your expert opinion. But come, rest a moment.”
Brief small talk followed, led by Wellesley and responded to in curt, but polite, syllables by Aurienne. The men-at-arms were tense and still.
Mordaunt stood a few feet behind her—the rasp of metal on metal informed her of his shifts in stance—and Aurienne felt comforted. Yes: it was comforting that the Fyren was there.
Which was far and away the most bizarre thought that had ever entered her head.
Wellesley turned the conversation to the Haelan Order, leaned forwards, and seemed to, finally, come to the crux of the matter. “I heard, by the by, that your Order had received an anonymous gift of unusual proportions.”
“We did,” said Aurienne. She pressed her hands to her heart. “An act of astounding generosity; I can still hardly believe it.”
There was a loud sniff from Mordaunt.
“It was rather unconventional, wasn’t it?” said Wellesley.
“Most,” said Aurienne.
“Have we any idea who this generous donor was?”
This line of enquiry was hilarious, given that the generous donor was right behind Aurienne.
“Not a clue. It was an anonymous donation, as you heard.” Aurienne tilted her head, and grew coquettish, and asked, “Was it you?”
Wellesley shuffled closer to Aurienne. He gave her a warm smile, but there was no concordance of sentiment between it and his eyes, which remained cold. “Do you think it could be?”
“Maybe,” said Aurienne, returning the smile. “Have I the honour of meeting our incredible benefactor?”
They smiled at each other moronically, until Wellesley’s grin disappeared, and he said, “In all seriousness, Haelan—no. It wasn’t me. But I’d like to contact the donor, actually, to work out a donation of my own.
Perhaps we could make a joint contribution to your Order.”
“Oh, that is so kind of you,” said Aurienne. “The Heads will be thrilled.”
Wellesley came closer. “Surely someone in your Order knows the donor’s identity, to assist me in this pursuit?”
Aurienne wished that he would invest in a tongue scraper.
“I’m afraid not a single one of us knows,” she said. “The funds were quite literally left in sacks upon our doorstep. No one saw anything—and we have Wardens at Swanstone; if anyone was to have spotted something, it would’ve been them.”
Wellesley’s smile was back, pained this time. “Yes, you do have Wardens. One wouldn’t expect such a level of protection in a place of healing.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone comes to Swanstone with the best of intentions,” said Aurienne.
“You’ll forgive me for pressing you further—but you’re quite certain no one in your Order has any idea who donated these funds?”
“No.”
Wellesley’s smile was fading. “I need to know who made the donation.”
“I can’t help you,” said Aurienne, in perfect, innocent confusion.
“I’d like you to give me names of people who might know. People I might approach. My enquiries have met with nothing. It’s vital that I know
the provenance of the funds.”
“Why is it vital?”
“The reasons don’t concern you,” said Wellesley. “Think. You’re a Haelan; you know the inner workings of the Order—if you don’t know, who
might know? One of the Heads, surely?”
“The donation was anonymous,” repeated Aurienne.
“That’s not a good enough answer,” said Wellesley.
“I’m not giving you names. You look as though you’re about to go and shake them up for information.”
“At this stage, yes, that is what I’m going to do,” said Wellesley.
“I refuse,” said Aurienne.
“So you do have names.”
“I don’t.” Aurienne rose. “I’m leaving. Your behaviour has grown alarming. I thought I was summoned to see to a sick child, not to be subject to an interrogation.”
Wellesley eyed Mordaunt, who was now lounging against the wall in a decidedly un-guardish way.
“You’ll leave when I say you can,” said Wellesley.
His men-at-arms found their feet. Five or six remained next to him; the others moved towards the door.
“I need a few small pieces of information,” said Wellesley.
“Recommendations. Nudges in the right direction. That’s all.”
“I won’t point you and your men towards anyone in my Order,” said Aurienne. “I’ve already told you: no one knows who gave us that money.”
“Think this through carefully, Haelan.”
“You should think this through carefully,” said Aurienne. “You’ve upset me, but I’m willing to walk away and not mention this ill-conceived interrogation to anybody. I shall consider it a misguided decision by a distressed father. Let me go. I can assure you that the consequences of angering my Order would be dire.”
“There are much larger things at stake here than your little Order playing house in that bloody fortress.”
“Really? You’re on the verge of war. My Order can withdraw every Haelan in Wessex and double those in Kent. Any man of yours who goes down will stay down. Are you sure you want to keep me here?”
Wellesley pressed his hands together until his knuckles went white. “We needn’t resort to threats. Give me hints—informally, off the record—that I
can pursue, and you can go free. No one needs to be hurt. I just need to know what absolute fool made a donation of twenty million bloody thrymsas to save wretched, Pox-ridden strays.”
Aurienne still felt the squeeze at her fingers by one of the wretched, Pox- ridden strays. She mastered her outrage.
“No one knows,” she repeated, slowly, so that the words would penetrate the suppository. “I’m leaving. You’ve wasted my time abominably.”
As Aurienne strode towards the door, Wellesley’s men-at-arms glanced at him. He made a curt gesture. In a body, they gathered in front of the door, all armed with swords and lances and shields.
There were no shadows for the Fyren to work with. Aurienne made eye contact with him to enquire whether they should be concerned. Mordaunt lounged against the wall, unperturbed. Which was probably bad news for Wellesley and company.
“Tell your men to stand aside,” said Aurienne to Wellesley. “They needn’t die today.”
It was the second time in so many months that she’d asked a man to stand aside to avoid a massacre. Would this one listen?
No. Wellesley merely looked at her in disbelief. The men guffawed.
“You do realise,” said Wellesley, “that you’ve only got one man here.”
“No,” said Aurienne, with ruefulness born of sad truth. “I’ve got a monster.”
Now Mordaunt moved. With a clang, one gauntlet hit the floor. With another clang, the other fell. Clang. The helmet came off. Clang. The pauldrons. Clang. The chest plate.
Wellesley’s men watched the performance with their brows raised, and with reason, because her guard was armouring down rather than armouring up, as one might imagine a Swanstone sergeant ought to be doing when his Haelan was being threatened.
Finally, Mordaunt stood before them in shirtsleeves and braces, dusting off his palms.
“Hiya,” he said. He gave Wellesley’s men a coy wave. His tācn was a red glow among the room’s white lights.
There were gasps. There was confusion. There was a shrinking back of
the assembled men.
“Fyren,” someone gasped.
“There are no shadows—he’s powerless,” said Wellesley, who had himself taken several steps away. “He’s got nowhere to hide. Kill the bastard.”
Mordaunt flashed a smile uncannily like his deofol’s grin.
“Don’t,” said Aurienne. “You will die. Step aside, all of you—just step aside, for Frīa’s sake, and let me leave.”
“Skewer him,” snarled Wellesley, and his men surged forwards.
“Your cheeky little lights didn’t get rid of all the shadows,” said Mordaunt to the approaching men.
And he shadow-walked to the only dark places in the room: their insides.
The first man burst in a wet, bloody slurry as Mordaunt materialised in his chest cavity. The second became a many-legged anomaly as Mordaunt walked through him. The third collapsed into an indistinct pile of organ, bone, and limb. Then the next. Then the next. For added efficiency, Mordaunt held the Swanstone sword at neck height, and decapitated those he wasn’t stepping through.
When he had dispatched the men, Mordaunt, dripping with guts and blood, looked down at himself, and said, “Well, this shirt is ruined.”
A long piece of intestine slid off his shoulder. A split pancreas dribbled down to the floor with a soft splish. He plucked a stray patella off his trousers.
Wellesley, still next to Aurienne, made the mistake—the very grave mistake, the last mistake he would ever make—of laying a hand on Aurienne.
He pulled her against him with a knife at her neck and spat at Mordaunt: “Stay back.”
“That,” said Mordaunt, “was a bad idea.”
But Aurienne, unfond of knives at her throat, did not wait for rescue. She pressed her tācn to the back of Wellesley’s hand, sent her seith into him, and pinched his carotid artery shut.
An act which oughtn’t have killed him, but, just as everything else today, it derailed spectacularly, and instead of slumping against her into a faint, Wellesley fell backwards and, with a sick crack, smashed his skull open, and scattered his brains on the stone floor.
There was a long silence.
“Shit,” said Aurienne.
Mordaunt eyed her with a new interest. “How did you do that?”
“Never mind how,” said Aurienne. “I’ve just killed Lord Wellesley.”
Mordaunt tutted. “Murderer.” He stood over Wellesley’s corpse and wiggled a finger over it in a circle. “That was meant to be my job. I was going to enjoy it. But I forgive you.”
Aurienne stared at the gory exhibition around them. “What—what’s the bloody importance of the name of the donor? Isn’t it good someone donated?
Why the desperate need to know? Why did he want to hurt a Haelan to find out? Why was it worth this?”
“Don’t know,” said Mordaunt. “But we need to get out of here. There’s an entire garrison just outside these walls, and when this is discovered—”
“Right,” said Aurienne. “Get back into the armour. We were never here.”
Aurienne—now, officially, a Murderer—plunged back into the reception room, straightened her dress, sat primly in a chair, and tried to look annoyed, rather than aghast. Mordaunt, his blood-soaked clothes hidden by shining armour and his sword wiped clean on Wellesley’s trousers, tumbled in after her, shut the door to the carnage, and stood at attention next to her. A split second later, Pipplewaithe popped his head into the reception room with an enquiring twitch of the feather.
“Hullo!” he said. “Still haven’t gone in, eh? They’re always behind.”
“No, we haven’t,” said Aurienne. “I’m quite sick of waiting, actually. At this juncture, I’d like to go see the patient, rather than her father.”
“I am so sorry, Haelan Fairhrim,” said Pipplewaithe. “I shall interrupt them. It’s simply unacceptable to keep you like this.”
Pipplewaithe knocked, and knocked again, and opened the door, and let out a high-pitched scream.
AURIENNE AND MORDAUNT ACTED THEIR hearts out as news of the massacre spread through the Keep. They were questioned for hours, but held fast to their story—greatly assisted, credibility-wise, by Pipplewaithe’s testimony— that they had been stuck in the reception room, had heard nothing and seen nothing, and had discovered the murders only when Pipplewaithe had opened the door.
The consensus was that a Haelan (Harm to none, etc.) and a single Swanstone guard simply could not be responsible for butchery at this scale against ten of Wellesley’s best men, fully armed, and that Kent must be to blame.
Lord Wellesley’s second-in-command, freshly arrived from some excursion, slammed his fist on several tables, and declared that Wessex must
go to war with Kent.
“Oops,” said Mordaunt.
Aurienne and Mordaunt were sent back to their rooms between bouts of questioning. No one noticed Mordaunt’s half-closed eye under his helmet; when their interrogators had left, he explained to Aurienne that jumping between shadows that weren’t connected was far more burdensome on his seith, and hence, he had triggered his Cost.
Their moments alone gave Aurienne ample time to gurgle and churn with guilt. She had not Harm to none’d. She had done the opposite. She had killed.
She was no better than the Fyren.
She glanced at him. He seemed bored; he had killed ten times the men she had, and on purpose, and he cared not at all. Aurienne, sick with convulsions of guilt, wished she could be as lackadaisical, but no—she was highly daisical.
She sent Cíele to Xanthe with the latest developments and with many apologies, as though apologies were sufficient to atone for starting a war.
Xanthe’s axolotl deofol, Saophal, carried her answer to them: “Shit.”
“That’s what I said. Also, I murdered someone.”
“Who?” asked Saophal.
“Wellesley,” said Aurienne. “Meant to put him in a faint when he attacked me, but he fell wrong. Cracked open his skull and spilled his brains out. Died instantly.”
Saophal looked grave. “He attacked first?”
“Yes.”
“Self-defence, then.”
“It was.” Aurienne held her head in her hands. “I still feel sick.”
“Who witnessed it, other than the Fyren?” asked Saophal.
“No one,” said Aurienne.
“Then no one will know,” said Saophal. “If the Fyren tells anyone, no one will believe him anyway.”
“Oi,” said Mordaunt from where he lounged on the bed.
“If they don’t release you soon, send your deofol,” said Saophal. “Xanthe will go directly to the Wessexian queen. There’s no proof of your involvement in this mess. They can’t hold you long.”
The axolotl disappeared. Aurienne the Murderer stewed in more guilt.
Mordaunt sauntered towards the table where his pilfered bottles of Scotch still stood.
“Really?” said Aurienne. “You’re going to have a drink? Now? Between interrogations? A dead man’s stolen Scotch?”
Mordaunt wiggled a bottle at her. “I’m a bon vivant.”
“You’re a common thief.”
“Common? How dare you?”
Mordaunt found a goblet, opened one of the bottles, and inhaled.
Aurienne anticipated much waxing eloquent on the Scotch and, wrestling with her own agonies over Wellesley’s death, made a swift remark about how it smelled like Malfeasance and Acts of Unwarranted Brutality—but Mordaunt coughed and gagged and cut her off.
“What the hell is this?” he asked of the bottle.
“If it’s gone bad, it serves you right,” said Aurienne.
Mordaunt tilted the bottle to peer at the liquid therein. “No—it’s not Scotch at all.”
He passed the bottle under Aurienne’s nose. The smell was lightly chemical, acidic, and familiar. It took Aurienne two or three sniffs to place it.
Then, with a gasp, she recognised it: “That’s sophoglycolate broth.”
“Sack the chef. I’ve never smelled a worse broth in my life.”
Aurienne snatched the cork from Mordaunt’s hand and popped it back onto the bottle. “It’s a liquid media, a mix of stabilisers and pH buffers.
Never mind the details—sophoglycolate broth is used to preserve viruses.”
Aurienne plonked the bottle on the table next to its twin.
She and Mordaunt stared at it.
At length, Mordaunt asked, “I was about to drink a virus?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why’s Wellesley got viruses in his cellar?”
“I don’t know.”
“What virus?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve got a shrewd guess.”
“The Pox?”
“The Pox.” Aurienne picked up both bottles. “I’m going to have these tested.”
“Oh, so now we’re smuggling bottles out of the Keep,” said Mordaunt as Aurienne stuffed them into her satchel. The black kitten was still within; it hissed at her—she had interrupted its nap.
“Were there other bottles?” asked Aurienne.
“There was a whole cellar full,” said Mordaunt.
“You said it was unusually well guarded?”
“Yes. Sixteen men.”
“None of them saw you?”
“Your question offends.”
Aurienne hid the bottles in the depths of her satchel. If her suspicions were right, she no longer felt bad about murdering Wellesley.
They named the kitten Acts of Warranted Brutality.
