Chapter 2 Aurienne Is Troubled #2
Xanthe massaged her temples. “There’s a logic to it.
The Dreor Order is almost extinct; they need to repopulate.
Does the Pox create an ideal Dreor candidate?
I wouldn’t have thought their Order had the funds, or the connections, or the brains for a plan of this magnitude.
” Her shrewd eyes narrowed. “If you’re right, any surviving children are at risk. They’d be the prize.”
“We need to keep them safe,” said Aurienne. “We’ve got beds full of survivors here, but there are others all over the Tīendoms.”
“The Hedgewitch Order has just advised us that the Pox is rampaging through their newlings, too.”
“We should bring them into Swanstone. Every child we can.”
“I fear we’re heading into dark days, Aurienne.”
“Haelan Xanthe?” came a voice from outside the toilet.
Xanthe opened the door. A Haelan apprentice in a grey tunic was looking for her. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Have either of you seen Lambert?”
Lambert led Swanstone’s Charity and Donations department. Xanthe answered in the negative, as did Aurienne.
The apprentice sighed. “His wife is at reception. She says he hasn’t been home in days.”
Aurienne did not think about Osric Mordaunt, because she was In Control.
However, she couldn’t help but note that he was being singularly uncommunicative since their rooftop tête-à-tête.
She couldn’t remember her tācn going this long without being touched by his seith: he was regularly victim of some crisis or other and never hesitated to make use of their link.
His silence wouldn’t bother her normally, only they had a plan to break into the Faerwundor at the next full moon, for which they had done very little actual planning.
As Mordaunt’s silence continued, Aurienne sent her deofol to ask to meet.
Her deofol, Cíele, was ignored by Mordaunt over the course of several days.
Today, at long last, he returned with an answer. “I finally got through to the Fyren.”
“Was something the matter with him?” asked Aurienne.
“He said he was busy with murders,” said Cíele. “I think he’s been ill. He’s hollow about the cheeks and eyes.”
“He ought to tell me if he’s been ill,” said Aurienne.
“He suggests Tuesday, for the planning session for the Faerwundor.”
Aurienne pulled out her diary. “I’m doing a demo on the Fulhame Chemiluminator that evening. What time?”
“He’s to send his deofol to confirm,” said Cíele.
“Right. Thank you for going to him, darling. I know you don’t like it.”
“Unfortunately unavoidable,” said Cíele, fading away in a dissatisfied puff of white fur.
Days whizzed by, filled with lab work (end-to-side seith fibre repair; seith hydrodissection; congenital irregularities in seith systems: surgical considerations of), shifts in the Platt’s Pox ward, mildly enraging budget meetings, and Quincey and the Administrative Faff.
By Tuesday afternoon, Aurienne had still heard nothing from Mordaunt about their meeting that night.
She paced in her office. Quincey brought her tea and a few more instances of administrative faffery.
She locked the door, preparing to summon Cíele again.
A high-pitched meow interrupted her. It was her cat.
Her cat? Not really. The cat who lived in her quarters. Or whose quarters Aurienne lived in. The black cat’s name was Acts of Warranted Brutality, and she had been given to Aurienne by Mordaunt during their infiltration of Wellesley Keep.
Acts of Warranted Brutality demanded the milky remains of Aurienne’s tea.
Aurienne poured tea onto her saucer and nudged it across the desk. “Only a little, all right? Caffeine isn’t good for you.”
The cat flattened her ears when Aurienne dared look at her. She loathed everyone, including Aurienne.
Acts of Warranted Brutality did continue to earn her name, however—she was a wicked hunter who left Aurienne daily gifts of dead spiders and rats murdered by diverse and creative means—and thus maintained her place in Aurienne’s good graces.
She also provided a superb source of material for Aurienne’s collection of skulls.
Aurienne didn’t mind the cat’s prickliness as long as it came with competence.
(In this way, Acts of Warranted Brutality reminded her strangely of herself.)
The cat lapped at the tea while her yellow eyes fixed on Aurienne, in case Aurienne tried to do anything obscene, such as stroke her.
Then, just to make sure Aurienne knew her place, the cat volleyed the saucer off the table. It landed with a thump on the carpet.
“Brat,” said Aurienne as the cat darted away.
She was far more beloved by her deofol, Cíele, whom she summoned presently. The albino genet materialised, curled into a fuzzy white doughnut.
“Poor thing,” said Aurienne. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s Tuesday, and I’ve had no news from Mordaunt regarding our planning session tonight. Will you go to him again?”
Cíele made a sound of lugubrious assent. “With any luck, it’ll be the last time.”
“Why?”
“The Druids’ Threefold Death.” Cíele stretched, flipped over, and suggested elastically: “I thought perhaps you could see to it that he gets caught.”
“Cíele,” tutted Aurienne.
“I know you won’t.” Cíele sighed. “You’ve already had one chance to let the Fyren die, and you didn’t take it.”
“You really think I should’ve?”
Cíele grew serious. He gathered his paws below him and pressed his chin gravely into his chest. “No. Not after what he did for you. I was—unfortunately—joking.”
“This is messy, isn’t it?” said Aurienne.
“Yes.”
“I abhor mess.”
“It won’t last much longer,” said Cíele. “It’s a temporary arrangement.”
He was right. Aurienne’s deal with Mordaunt was temporary.
The problem was that the end point—healing Mordaunt’s seith deterioration—was, as far as Aurienne knew, scientifically impossible.
The arrangement could go on for months or, Frīa forbid, years.
They’d know a bit more after the healing session at the Faerwundor.
A sly, inky seith prickled at Aurienne’s tācn.
“Speaking of devils,” she said to Cíele, “Mordaunt’s deofol is asking to come through.”
“Brilliant. Spares me the journey. Let it through; I’ve never met the foul creature.”
Cíele, his tail twitching with splenetic anticipation, perched himself upon Aurienne’s shoulder as she pointed her tācn towards the floor.
Mordaunt’s deofol took her usual form: black miasma in the shape of a wolf. Few had the control over seith required to render a deofol in the kind of detail Aurienne did with Cíele. Aurienne wasn’t a snob about it, but Cíele was, and he scoffed at the developing haze.
Only the wolf’s maw revealed itself with any sort of precision. A set of very large, very sharp teeth grinned at Aurienne and Cíele.
“Greetings, Haelan Fairhrim,” said the teeth, suspended at Aurienne’s eye level.
Cíele sniffed the air and said, “Smells like wet dog.”
The teeth disappeared and reappeared, closer than before. “Ah. The Hellrat.”
Cíele moved to Aurienne’s other shoulder, farther from the wolf. “I’m a genet.”
“You’re dinner,” said the wolf.
“Am I meant to feel threatened by a few floating incisors?” asked Cíele.
Aurienne interrupted further deofol grandstanding by asking the wolf, “What news from your master?”
“You’re to meet him at nine o’clock, at Rosefell Hall.” An amused ripple passed through the wolf. “I look forward to hearing how it goes.”
Aurienne bristled, as did Cíele, who asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” said the wolf. “Oh—and he asks you to wear black.”
“Why?” asked Aurienne.
“How should I know?” asked the wolf. “I’m only a few floating incisors.”
The wolf vanished. Her teeth faded last, grinning in Cíele’s direction for a long time after the rest of her had gone.
“Hardly even a deofol,” sniffed Cíele, though the fur along his back stood on end. “A lump of seith debris.”
“Why must I wear black?” asked Aurienne. “Have I even got black things?”
“Perhaps he wants you to be camouflaged. When is the break-in happening?”
“At the full moon, three days hence.”
“Summon me if things go wrong during. I can call the Wardens if you’re in need of muscle.”
“I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Aurienne. “The Druids are our allies. They don’t deserve to be drawn and quartered.”
“If the Druids confine their Threefold Death attempts to Mordaunt, they’ll be fine,” said Cíele. He pressed his cheek to Aurienne’s in farewell—it felt like the kiss of a breeze—and faded in a shimmer of white.
That evening, having led the Chemiluminator demonstration only mildly distracted by what was to come, Aurienne returned to her quarters to change into something black.
She searched with increasing desperation through a wardrobe consisting chiefly of Haelan whites, discovering, eventually, dark wool trousers and a black roll-neck.
She donned her blackest boots and a cape of navy and twisted her hair into a meticulous plait, pinned to her crown.
A pair of black two-button gloves gave the ensemble a final whiff of criminality.
Aurienne pulled her cloak around herself to cover her unusual attire and descended the spiral stair that led out of the north tower.
The Wardens on duty saluted her as she strode through Swanstone’s courtyards on her way to the portcullis.
Their plate armour and closed-face helmets made it difficult to identify who was who.
Aurienne had grown to recognise them through their body language or their brief words of greeting: Verity, the leader and the friendliest, which wasn’t saying much; Haven, brash; Solace, quiet; Ataraxia, always up on the ramparts; Tenet, the taciturn ward specialist.