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“Very good, sir,” said Mrs.Parson.

“That’s sorted, then. After you’ve seen our guests out, could you fetch my daggers for tonight’s sparring session? The Moulineaux pair, if you would.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mrs.Parson left. Osric flexed his hands. The numbness was spreading; it had started at the nape of his neck and now followed his seith system down, past his shoulders, and, in prickling tingles, into his fingers. Osric had thought little of it until he’d begun to notice corresponding fluxes in the flow of his seith, at which point he had summoned the physickers. Their diagnosis lay heavy upon him: seith degeneration. In common parlance, seith rot.

Would it be wiser to make up some excuse to avoid this evening’s spar with his fellow Fyren? He never missed a spar. It might raise questions, and Osric couldn’t afford to raise questions at this rather delicate juncture.

Mrs.Parson brought him his daggers. Osric strapped them on, plastered a roguish grin across his face, and went to the waystone.

He supposed it couldn’t hurt to go. With the numbness spreading as it was, it literally couldn’t hurt.

It took Mrs.Parson afew days to return to Osric with the results of her investigation on Aurienne Fairhrim. Osric considered himself an expert when it came to intelligence gathering, but Mrs.Parson, with her network of serving girls and charwomen, was a force in her own right.

She knocked on the door to Osric’s study with a conspiratorial air. Osric waved her in.

“Findings on Aurienne Fairhrim.” Mrs.Parson pulled a wodge of paper out of her apron. “My half grand-aunt’s daughter’s third cousin works in the Haelan kitchens.”

Osric did not attempt to work out Mrs.Parson’s genealogical Möbius strip. He fanned the papers out on his desk. “And? What have we discovered? Has Fairhrim got any family we can use? Any debts we can acquire? Kidnap? The situation is growing desperate.”

“There is some family,” said Mrs.Parson. “Father from the Danelaw, mother from Tamazgha. Both presently in London. No debts to speak of; she’s rather well-off. Kidnap would, of course, always be an option.”

“A classic,” said Osric.

“May I tell you what I think?” asked Mrs.Parson.

“Say on.”

“Given the nature of the task, you might prefer her to be cooperative,”said Mrs.Parson. “I’ve discovered that the Haelan Order is in pursuit of funding. They’re seeking a substantial amount for one of their research endeavours. You’ve heard of the Platt’s Pox outbreak?”

“Vaguely,” said Osric. “I don’t keep up with street urchins and their diseases.”

“This particular disease may offer scope for you to strong-arm a Haelan into healing you,” said Mrs.Parson.

“Bless the pestilent children, then,” said Osric. “What’s the required amount?”

“Twenty million thrymsas.”

“Bugger me sideways.”

“As I said, sir—substantial. The Haelan are in discussion with funding councils and the kings and queens of all of the Tiendoms in pursuit of the capital, but they’ve met little success. It seems everyone shares your apathy towards the street urchins, the poor things. But if you were to offer the amount, perhaps Haelan Fairhrim could be persuaded to set aside her natural antagonism to one of your Order.”

“Bribery it is,” said Osric. “Good shout.”

Mrs.Parson looked doubtful. “Do your coffers hold twenty million?”

“I didn’t say we were actually paying her.”

“Ah.”

“Proceed with the offer. Let me know how you get on.”

Instead of trotting off to accomplish her task, however, Mrs.Parson remained in front of Osric’s desk. “If I may make another suggestion, sir?”

“What is it?”

“Aurienne Fairhrim is well protected.” Mrs.Parson shuffled through the documents until she came to a series of floor plans. “She lives in the Haelan fortress at Swanstone. She has rooms in the compound itself. To further complicate matters, Swanstone is patrolled by Wardens.”