Chapter 1 Qui Dit Aimer Dit Souffrir #2
“We’ve found nothing,” said Lady Windermere, clutching her thin hands together. “Not a trace of Brythe. Not a whisper. No body.”
Osric joined the others in making sounds of sympathy. He was, incidentally, responsible for Brythe’s death. The man had accepted a job at Swanstone, and Osric, not knowing what the job entailed, and unwilling to risk Fairhrim’s life, had murdered him in cold blood.
Well, not exactly cold. Warmish. Osric had certainly been bothered by the possibility that Fairhrim might get hurt. He had also almost died in the process of killing Brythe.
There was desperation in Lady Windermere’s plea. “Can any of you remember anything about the last time you saw Brythe? Anything unusual at all?”
There were unhelpful, though kind, murmurs around the table; no, no one had noticed anything unusual.
Lady Windermere left with a heartbroken sigh.
“Poor little mite,” tutted Beaufort. “She’s taken it hard.”
“She can’t mourn, but she can’t move forward,” said Sacramore.
“I think it’s unhealthy,” said Lirain. “Best to assume he’s dead, grieve, and move on.”
“Let her keep hoping,” said Sacramore. “If she gives up on hoping, the loss will kill her.”
“Brythe’s going to show up,” said Leofric confidently, though not accurately. “Man’s probably off on a bender somewhere.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Osric.
“Maybe he’s run off to America,” suggested Beaufort. (America was a large country across the ocean, whose principal export was smooth jazz.)
Tristane shook her head. “No one’s deofol can reach him. He had no reason to unlink us all. We needn’t plumb the depths of eternity in a saucer. He’s dead.”
“And poor Windermere is pining herself sick,” said Beaufort. “This is too macabre.”
Sacramore, who was a romantic, sighed. “He was her Great Love.”
“One ought to avoid Great Loves for this reason,” said Lirain.
Osric nodded in vigorous agreement. Great Loves were more trouble than they were worth. He would never make such a mistake himself.
Tristane set up court in a corner of the pub, as she occasionally did to dispatch assignments to assembled Fyren. Osric joined her at the table when it was his turn.
As was her habit, Tristane had brought her own wine. She was French, and refused to drink what she called the “sublime horrors” that passed for wine in the Tīendoms. She poured a glass for Osric.
Osric, who fancied himself a connoisseur, picked up the bottle. “What are we drinking?”
“This is a Domaine de Brecé. You’ve never had any, so don’t pretend.”
Thus humbled—he hadn’t—Osric drank.
Tristane handed three envelopes to him.
“Three jobs?” asked Osric.
“Apparently, you’re poor,” said Tristane. “Stop spending your money stupidly.”
She was right, in that Osric was newly poor, but wrong, in that he hadn’t spent his fortune stupidly. He had secretly bribed the Haelan Order to help cure his seith rot. The privilege of Fairhrim’s expertise had cost him twenty million thrymsas, as well as the risk of falling in love with her.
But Tristane mustn’t know this. Osric pocketed the envelopes and said, “It’s hard to shop moderately: everything suits me.”
“You look like you haven’t been eating,” said Tristane. She pinched his chin between two fingers and turned it from left to right. Her black-painted nails dug into his skin. “I don’t like seeing this. Reminds me of the starving boy I found stealing teacakes for his maman.”
“I’m fine. Had a bit of a stomach bug.”
Tristane pushed her plate towards him: roast gosling and potatoes. “Eat.”
(Tristane could occasionally be tender and maternal with her favourites, of which Osric was one. It was terrifying, like being coddled by an affectionate dragon.)
Sacramore came over to discuss administrative matters. The landowner of the abandoned abattoir where the Fyren Order was presently headquartered had caught wind of the place’s new capacity and objected.
“What is our dear landlord’s name and address?” asked Tristane.
Sacramore provided them.
Tristane said, “I shall candy his balls.”
Osric wished to ask Tristane whether she had made any headway when it came to completing the job that Brythe had failed to at Swanstone, but could find no natural opening to pose the question.
It was too risky to ask out of the blue—and now Sacramore was listening, too.
Osric would have to hope that Fairhrim implemented his recommendations, and that Tristane, when she eventually got to Swanstone, would be dissuaded from entering the fortress by the threat of the Wardens’ nasty wards.
When Osric returned to Rosefell Hall, his tācn tingled with vicious annoyance. He had ignored Fairhrim’s deofol for days now, and it was making its irritation known. It felt like it was pressing its canines to the inside of his tācn, insisting on being let through.
Osric, readier now to tackle Fairhrim and her missives head-on, raised his tācn and let the deofol materialise.
Fairhrim’s deofol was a white genet whose usual mode of greeting was insults. It did not diverge from the habit, particularly since Osric had raised its ire.
“Did you just bite me?” asked Osric.
The genet studied Osric and, with a scathing look towards his ensemble, said, “The more pressing question is: Why are you wearing upholstery?”
“It’s a smoking jacket,” said Osric.
“All the sartorial splendour of a futon,” said the genet. “You’ve been ignoring me.”
“I’ve been busy,” said Osric. Because he didn’t want the deofol to know he had been busy desperately moping, he added, “With murders.”
“You look sick.”
“I’m fine, but thank you for your concern.”
“It was an observation, not concern,” said the genet. “The full moon is approaching, and Aurienne is anxious to schedule a planning session for your ill-conceived break-in of the Faerwundor.”
“Can she come to Rosefell Hall on Tuesday night?” asked Osric.
“Rather short notice, isn’t it? But that’s typical of you. Short notice, shortsighted, short on brains.”
Osric whipped a throwing knife at the impudent deofol. It was only a creature of seith, and the knife sailed harmlessly through it, but it made him feel better.
“Short-tempered, too,” sniffed the deofol. “I’ll see if she can make it on Tuesday.”
“I’ll send my deofol to confirm the time,” said Osric.
He expected the genet to disappear, but it continued to hover before him. Its tail twitched violently. “Breaking into the Faerwundor still strikes me as a terrible idea. What if the Druids catch you?”
“It was your mistress’s idea,” said Osric. “Her precious data pointed her to the Faerwundor as the best place for the next healing session.”
“That was before you disclosed that you’re wanted under Druidic law, and that you’re to be subjected to the Threefold Death if caught.”
The Threefold Death was a Druidic punishment.
Death inflicted three times: impalement, stoning, and drowning.
Professionally, as an assassin, Osric admired the concept.
This was commitment to the kill. Several layers of redundancies built in.
Personally—well, it was unfortunate that he was on the Druids’ list to receive it, but he’d never let them catch him to dole it out.
“The Druids won’t even know we’re there,” said Osric. “I’m very good at what I do.”
The deofol remained unconvinced. “Aurienne will bring any materials she can find on the Faerwundor. She asks you to do the same.”
“I will.”
“If anything happens to her, I will haunt you.”
“I would never let anything happen to her,” said Osric.
He meant this to sound casual, but an emphatic sincerity rang through the words.
It surprised the deofol as well as Osric. The genet twitched a superciliary whisker as it faded into the ether. “Strangely, I believe you.”
Osric felt ready to meet Fairhrim again. There was no peril here; there was no Great Love. Flights of Fancy were not dangerous. He could even flirt with her if he wanted. Perhaps he would flirt with her, just to prove it to himself.
Such was his colossal arrogance.