Page 144

“Haelan Fairhrim,” said Quincey when Aurienne rounded the corner. “Is something the matter?”

A fair question, given that it was rare for Aurienne to ever be mucking about in the supply room.

Aurienne, unused to being in the wrong, and struggling to recover her self-possession, spoke in a voice approximately four octaves higher than usual: “No, nothing.”

“Can I help you find something?”

“No, no—I was merely inspecting.”

“An inspection?” asked Quincey. He nearly dropped his toast. “But—but we just conducted an audit. Have you found anything out of order? Anything I can correct?”

“I think the manufacturer recommends that those impregnated gauze pads be kept out of light. I’d move them to one of the drawers.”

Quincey took the misplaced gauze pads personally. He wilted over his marmalade. “Right—of course—thank you.”

“Otherwise, it’s perfect. Well done, you. Enjoy your toast. I’d best crack on; I’m meeting Cath. Goodbye.”

Quincey received the compliment with a blush. Aurienne, her satchel bursting with contraband, strode away with exceptional briskness.

A group of villagers was hanging about outside the Publish orPerish. They greeted Aurienne with respectful bows. She heard their conversation pick up again after her passage; there had been a Mysterious Incident in the village the night before—loads of screaming and blood, no bodies found, but a peculiar smell of burnt pork had lingered all night.

Aurienne wouldn’t know anything about that.

Neither did Cath, who was sitting in a back corner of the pub, putting away a curry, and blessedly out of earshot of the villagers. She sat with Felicette, the Ingenaut-in-residence who maintained and developed Swanstone’s seith-powered equipment, and occasionally introduced less popular advancements, such as the sentient charts.

The chimes at the door of the Publish or Perish consisted of a dozen stirring rods all tied together. Aurienne’s presence was announced by their metallic clang. She returned waves from the Paeds matron, Breage, and a few nurses and fellow Haelan. She received bows from apprentices swallowing lunchtime pints and pies, and nods from a few village grannies setting the world to rights over their cups of tea.

The walls and ceiling of the Publish or Perish were plastered with scientific papers produced by Swanstone—accepted papers, rejected papers, papers scribbled all over with notes, first drafts, final editions. Aurienne’s works were there, too, pasted in during celebratory rounds or dejected rejection pints. A few cheeky scholars had even glued in full books, the pages of which fluttered amid the pong of fried fish and onions, and added their own esoteric whiff to the place. The walls of the Publish or Perish were thus always interesting to stare at; even in their most drunken stupors, patrons always Learned Something.

At the counter, Aurienne flagged down old Grette, the publican. Instead of her usual small ale, Aurienne asked for an entire bottle of Rathcroghan’s Fortified Wine, calculated to please Cath.

“You’re going to get absolutely wankered,” said Grette, who fancied herself an oracle as well as a publican.

“I thought you’d be proud of me,” said Aurienne. “You take the piss out of my usual.”

“If I took the piss out of your usual, it wouldn’t have any flavour at all,” said Grette.

She handed over the bottle; Aurienne pondered how much urine she had ingested in her lifetime.

“Here,” said Grette, softening the blow by handing Aurienne a plate of bread-and-butter pudding. “Last piece—have it before it goes stale. On the house.”

“You’re sure you don’t want it yourself?”

“Milk gives me wet shits.”

Grette placed the pudding on a tray, upon which she arranged some deformed glassware in lieu of cups. Her husband was the Haelan Order’s glassmaker; pieces that were flawed or otherwise didn’t reach the quality standards set by Swanstone’s laboratories were put to use in the pub.

Aurienne took her tray and bottle, and approached Cath with her bribe.

Cath kept her head shaved because of her Cost, which caused hair loss. On days when she had triggered it, she hadn’t any eyebrows, either, and painted them on in various colours. Today, they were an iridescent shade of mauve.

Felicette was observing something under a large, illuminated magnifying glass.

“Felicette has made friends with a fly,” said Cath, drily, to Aurienne.

“Our conceptualisation of sight is pathetically simplistic,” said Felicette. “They can teach us so much.”

The fly flew off; Felicette followed it with her magnifying glass held high.