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“Our dear Noldo has failed a mission.” Tristane rapped long black-painted nails on the desk, in a way that suggested that, at this moment, Noldo wasn’t particularly dear; in fact, she would like to press those nails into his jugular.

“Ah,” said Osric. “He’s getting on a bit, isn’t he? Perhaps too old for fieldwork?”

“If only it was old age,” said Tristane. “The reality is far worse: it appears that he’s developed a conscience.”

“No,” gasped Osric.

“A malady that strikes the best of us,” said Tristane. “He decided that the mark, and I quote, ‘didn’t seem to deserve being murdered.’ ”

“Deserve?”repeated Osric, scandalised. “We don’t arbitrate. We execute.”

“I know. Can you imagine if we all fannied about, hemming and hawing about deservedness? This is an equal opportunity Order. No judgement. Only results.” Tristane shook her head; her triangle of hair swayed in alarm. “It appears that Noldo’s grasp of this key part of ourphilosophiehas weakened.”

Osric tutted. “He’s practically gone rogue.”

“His target for the assignment has now gone into hiding,” said Tristane. “I had to refund the client, which was mortifying, as you can imagine. We don’t do refunds. We’re the Fyren Order, not Murder Mart.”

“What are you going to do with Noldo?”

“I might’ve carried out a tacn excision—Iamfond of him; he’s always served the Order well—but, given that he hadn’t solid enough kidneys to complete the most basic of jobs, and made the Order look incompetent in the process…”

Tristane had the charming habit of translating French idioms directly into English; Osric was generally too frightened of her to request clarification. He took Noldo’s feeble kidneys in stride and asked, “Do you want me to take care of him?”

“No,” said Tristane. “I’ll do it myself. He deserves that much.”

“Be careful. He’s wicked with that blaecblade.”

Tristane gave Osric an indulgent smile. Her eyes became crescent moons above her cheeks. “Thank you, but…few are more wicked than me.”

“Will you tell the others?”

“Only when I’ve got the body. I’ll bring it here to burn. It isn’t worthy of our tacn, even in death.” Tristane sighed, then grew businesslike again. “I expect you here tonight to meet our new recruits. Mind you don’t forget.”

“Of course,” said Osric, bowing. “I do apologise about last week. It won’t happen again.”

“Keep your cock under control, Mordaunt.”

Then, in a threatening sort of way, she took a large bite out of a penis pasty.

Osric took that as his cue to leave.

Back in the leech reek of the corridor, he crossed two other Fyren coming in to meet Tristane: Lady Windermere and Brythe. Lady Windermere, her whip at her hip and a dancer’s grace in her stride, always put Osric in mind of an elegant praying mantis—in stark contrast to Brythe, who was a graceless brute.

Lady Windermere winked at Osric. Brythe was occupied in dragging along a hapless prisoner. His maul was strapped into his belt—the same maul, incidentally, that was responsible for Osric’s training injury a few months ago.

Pulverised your cervical spine,came Fairhrim’s precise voice as Brythe neared.Barbaric.

Osric, who had never held a particular rancour towards Brythe for the injury, now found himself macerating in it. That maul had resulted in complications. In Osric having to crawl to an enemy Order and empty his coffers into theirs for a minuscule chance at healing Brythe’s blunder. And he couldn’t even ask for justice, because revealing the extent of the damage would put him in his Order’s crosshairs for a cull.

It was therefore tempting to push his dagger into Brythe’s too-thick chest.

“You all right, Mordaunt?” asked Lady Windermere. “You’ve a gleam in your eye.”

“Mordaunt?” Brythe turned around with a grin. He slapped Osric on the shoulder and almost propelled him into the wall. “My man. As great a blackguard as ever was damned. All right?”

“Good to see you both,” said Osric, trying to look less killy. (Lady Windermere had sensitive antennae about that sort of thing.)

Lady Windermere gave him a curious look, but seemed to detect no ill intentions. She tilted her chin towards their prisoner. “Just back from a stakeout.”