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“Did you try the adult cupboard?” asked Fairhrim.

“What adult cupboard?” asked Osric.

“The one you’re sitting on.”

“Oh,” said Osric.

(He had not tried the adult cupboard.)

Fairhrim advanced into the room with a critical air that made Osric feel like he was back in the barracks as a young Fyren, awaiting his warchief’s inspection.

“We’re going to need the examination table, if you wouldn’t mind moving this”—Fairhrim made an impatient gesture towards Osric’s weapons—“mess of an arsenal.”

Osric moved his things under Fairhrim’s watchful eye and sat upon the table.

“Is there a single inch of you that isn’t covered in scar tissue?” she asked.

Osric looked down at himself—at his chest, decorated by reminders of various blades; at his forearms, ridged by burns; at his shins, scattered with memories of a long-ago explosion.

“There is,” said Osric. “A few inches, actually. Under the kilt.”

Fairhrim, who had no sense of humour, said aridly, “Spare me further details.”

“These scars mark the hazards of my Order,” said Osric. “We haven’t got fancy Haelan at hand to fix things.”

“If your Order wasn’t so dead set on the mercenary, my Order might have come to an understanding with yours centuries ago. But we digress.”

Fairhrim dragged a large sack out of a wardrobe.

“What’s that?” asked Osric.

“Your body bag,” said Fairhrim.

So she did have a sense of humour. Dry, though. Very dry.

Osric expressed some doubts that his corpse would fit. Fairhrim pulled the sack open to reveal mysterious contraptions. She excavated one from the bottom and dusted it off. Osric recognised it as a small Curie machine.

She rolled the rickety machine into place next to Osric. Her arm brushed his. It was one thing for people to approach him when they didn’t know that he was a Fyren—he was, after all, strikingly good-looking and magnetically charismatic—but when they did know what he was, they stayed well clear. There was no brushing of arms. Except from Fairhrim, who, apparently, feared nothing.

“Right,” said Fairhrim. “We’ll begin with some imaging. I’d much rather be using our equipment at Swanstone, but, given the circumstances, this will have to do.”

“Why are we using machines? Why aren’t you doing the, you know?” said Osric, with explanatory mystical gestures.

“Because live diagnostics are extremely seith intensive,” said Fairhrim. “I’ll be able to examine these images at my leisure—and not waste my seith on the likes of you. Stop talking, and don’t move.”

She aimed the machine at Osric’s neck, which was not a sensation he enjoyed. There was the flash of her tacn as she powered up the machine with a surge of seith into its capacitor. It blinked into life with gleeful whirring. Then came brisk snaps, so close to Osric’s throat that he almost flinched.

Fairhrim switched off the lights and projected grainy images from the Curie machine onto a wall. She stood before the images and studied them in silence.

Stillness reigned in the clinic. Osric found himself watching Fairhrim’s tall figure with something disgustingly like hope. For a hintthat, perhaps, everything wasn’t as bad as she had said it was. For an indication that the rot wasn’t rot, and that it would be reversible. For a bit of good news.

Fairhrim stood in the pale light with a finger and thumb at her chin. She did not move, save for her eyes, which flicked along the image on the wall. Her brows were drawn together. Her cheekbones were prominent in the dim light.

Her precise voice broke the silence and skewered Osric’s hope.

“Pulverised,” said Fairhrim.

“What?” said Osric.