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“Oh?”

“I made an exceptional decision on an exceptional basis.”

“What exceptional basis?”

“Money.”

“Well, obviously.”

Tristane’s hard eyes surveilled Osric. “Aren’t you going to query me about the advisability of attacking another Order?”

“Did Brythe?”

“No, but Brythe considers nothing beyond the money. It’s why I asked him in the first place. You’re just as rapacious, I know—but you’ve got a Particle of intelligence and political acumen.”

“An entire Particle?” said Osric. “You flatter me. Can the job be done without evidence of Fyren involvement?”

“That was, of course, the idea,” said Tristane. “Otherwise I’d be pulled up to the Stánrocc to explain myself to the Heads of every other Order, and probably sentenced to death.”

“What Order was the target?”

“That’s not for you to know,” said Tristane. “Sacramore was against my taking it on. Bit of a traditionalist.However, if no one knew our Order was responsible, his reservations would be moot.”

“Who’s the client?”

“Someone worth breaking a few rules for.” Tristane meandered through the hanging men as one would through a peaceful Zen garden, with her hands behind her back. “Somesombre idiotdonated a substantial wodge—twenty million—to an Order when all other funding avenues had been strategically blocked by the client.”

This was a bit awkward for Osric, given that thesombre idiotwas, you know, him.

“And now Brythe has disappeared,” continued Tristane. “He can’t have been caught—if they’d caught a Fyren, I’d have been dragged before the Stánrocc already to explain why I’ve broken two hundred years of Peace Accords.”

Osric gestured to their bloodied audience. “Haven’t this lot heard a little too much?”

“I suppose,” said Tristane. She paused. A knob on the wall caught her attention. “What do you think this does?”

“A mystery knob,” said Osric. “Pull it.”

“I have tugged a few mystery knobs in my lifetime,” said Tristane.

Tristane pulled the mystery knob. It severed the man next to her clean down the middle.

“Ah,” said Tristane, observing the result. “Very good. I wouldn’t go to a pie shop round here for a little while if I were you.”

“Thank you for the tip.”

“You’re dismissed,” said Tristane. “Come to me if you hear anything about Brythe. I will pass the information to Lady Windermere. You saw today that she’s…quite emotional about this.”

“Understood. And the job?”

“Leave the job to me.” Tristane walked pensively away from Osric, her boots squelching in fresh offal.“On n’est jamais si bien servi que par soi-même.”

Which, Osric understood from his rudimentary French, meant that she was going to do it—whateveritwas—herself.

Which meant that Tristane was going to pick up where Brythe had left off, and go to Swanstone.

Which meant that Osric needed to see Fairhrim immediately.

A few other Fyren were milling about the reception area when Osric exited the killing floor. Sacramore asked him whether he’d join them at the Dog’s Bollocks for drinks. Osric, panicky, produced some sort of strangled gurgle from his larynx—he hoped it sounded like a viable excuse—and strode off.