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“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 tacn. 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?”