Page 16

In the quaint village of Swanstone-on-Sea, Aurienne passed low sod-and-stone houses and arrived at the Publish or Perish. At this late hour, the pub’s waystone was, thankfully, devoid of travellers and new batches of sick children.

The usual etiquette when using a waystone was to have a drink at the connected pub—or, when one hadn’t the time, such as when skulking off to meet a Fyren, to leave payment upon the windowsill. Aurienne, unfortunately in the latter category, left a coin upon the ledge.

She held her tacn to the ancient standing stone and pressed seith into the runes that spelled out the Gogmagog. She took a steadying breath as she did so; she hated waystone travel. It was discomposing in a literal sense. One’s molecules ought to stay together, not be splayed into a ley line. The alternative, however, was endless journeying by carriage, and so Aurienne braved the waystone graticule, even if every plunge into it turned her stomach.

The waystone glowed into life, flashedMind the gap—Aurienne minded the gap very much—and whisked her into a ley line.

The particles that made up Aurienne reconvened at the waystone just outside the Gogmagog. She pressed one hand against the stone forbalance and the other, with her tacn aglow with seith, to her forehead to stem her queasiness.

The Gogmagog was set among desolate, snowcapped hills. A lonely gas lamp was the only source of light. The pub’s windows were dark. Aurienne left a coin on the sill and peered about, given the high probability that a Fyren was lurking nearby.

“You’re punctual,” came the voice of the Fyren. “Good.”

Yes: there he was. Lurking. That was what his sort did. Lurk, and murder innocents for money.

Deeming his remark on punctuality too jejune to merit a response, Aurienne said nothing. She could make out only bits of him among the shadows: the tip of a boot, the snow-sodden bottom of a cloak, the edge of a black hood.

Unfortunately, he was chatty, and was determined to inflict his conversation upon her. “I’d thought you might be cheeky and bring a Warden,” he said.

“I’m sure they would’ve been enchanted to meet you, but no. I don’t typically double-cross those with whom I’ve made agreements.”

“Charming habit,” said Mordaunt. “You don’t look remotely nervous.”

“I’m never nervous,” said Aurienne. It wasn’t boastful; it was true. “Where are we going?”

“Up,” said Mordaunt, with a gesture towards the hill.

After more than fifteen hours on her feet that day, Aurienne wasn’t overkeen on the walk. She let Mordaunt take the lead and break a path for her in the snow. Their steps grew ponderous as they climbed higher and the snow deepened. Their trails added long veins to the white hillside. After a few minutes of this exertion, their breath streamed behind them in plumes. The February wind grew lazy as they climbed; it opted to pass through them, rather than around.

Their objective seemed to be a half-collapsed structure at the top of the hill. It was a barn, Aurienne realised as they approached. A literal barn. Was this a joke?

Mordaunt held the door open for her with vast gallantry, as though he were ushering her into the most fashionable assembly room in London.

“You needn’t look so cross,” said Mordaunt.

“I specified an aseptic environment,” said Aurienne, stepping over broken flagstones. “How do you expect me to heal you if you can’t follow the simplest of instructions?”

“It’s perfectly clean,” said Mordaunt. “There hasn’t been a cow here in months—present company excepted.”

So he was a Fyrenandan arsehole. What luck.

The barn wasn’t perfectly clean, by the by. There was a heap of steaming excrement right in front of Aurienne, and it could talk.

This vulgar aside she kept confined, naturally, to her thoughts.

“Does the ventilation meet your standards at least?” asked Mordaunt. The wind whipped at his hood as he posed the question.

Aurienne caught a glimpse of a close-lipped smile bisected by a scar.

Brilliant. The arsehole thought he was funny, on top of everything else.

“I need a proper consulting room,” said Aurienne. “Or did you intend to sit in the trough to be examined?”

“Make do,” said Mordaunt. “I thought you were meant to be exceptional.”

“In normal working conditions,” said Aurienne. “Not in a derelict barn, in a blizzard, at midnight.”

The Fyren drew the door shut, which cut out the worst of the wind. He pulled a lantern out of his cloak, lit it, and sat upon the mouldy remains of a bale of hay. “There are too many eyes in normal working conditions. Can we begin?”