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“The northernmost Tiendoms are the ones with the lowest rates of the Pox—I suppose that explains their lack of interest,” said Aurienne, running through the numbers. “The Danelaw and Dyfed contributed something—not much, but something. Kent and Mercia are egregious. They’ve got some of the highest incidence rates of the Pox and have given the least to anyone.”

“Dumnonia, too,” said Xanthe. “Clowns. All clowns.”

“Clowns with a distinct lack of empathy.”

“They wouldn’t know empathy if it bit them on the cock.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Aurienne.

“Write a strongly worded letter to each clown,” said Xanthe. “I’ve got them ready.”

Xanthe wriggled out of her armchair and went to her desk. Beside her silver writing ball was yet another stack of letters. Mysteriously, she also pulled out a sealed test tube in which a clear liquid sloshed.

“Erm…what is that?” asked Aurienne.

“A special addition I’m going to include in the letters,” said Xanthe. “A sort of postscript.”

“A postscript? Labelledbiohazard?”

“Yes.”

“Haelan Xanthe, you can’t.”

“Can’t I? Did you not see those children whose so-called lives we just spent three hours prolonging? And the monarchs throwing an insulting handful of thrymsas their way? And in the meantime, life in their castles goes on—masquerades, dances, banquets?”

“It’s awful—it’s wretched—but you can’t do this. You’d better sit on it.”

“I can’t sit on it,” said Xanthe, wiggling the tube. “I’ll get verrucas in my arsehole.”

“What?”

“Ignis papillomavirus,”said Xanthe, tapping the tube. “Don’t look at me like that. A few warts won’t kill anyone.”

“That’s—that’s an excruciatingly painful condition,” said Aurienne.

“So is the Pox.”

“Have you spoken to the other Heads about this?”

“Prendergast is a diplomat,” said Xanthe, with a dismissive swing of the fire-wart tube. “Sometimes I’m not certain what the difference is betweendiplomatanddoormat. Three or four letters, but much the same thing. Abercorn is nothing but a fart.”

“He is not,” said Aurienne. (Abercorn was a highly respected endocrinologist.)

“In this case, he’s been just as effective as one.”

Aurienne didn’t often dare contradict Xanthe, but her mentor’s anger was leaking dangerously into vengefulness. She took the stack of letters from Xanthe and found that they were directed to kings and queens and variously addressed asDear Feckless IdiotorCretinorAbsolute Invertebrate.

“Élodie is working on the inoculation,” said Aurienne. “There’s an end in sight. If you were to send these and infect everyone with warts—I know, Iknow; they aren’t lethal—there would be impacts on our Order.”

“We don’t owe allegiance to any of the clowns.”

“Right, but wearein the territory of the king of the Danelaw, who you’ve addressed as”—Aurienne checked the letter—“an anaemic, inbred, cowardly pig. He could make life difficult for us. He could expel us. You know how long it took us to develop our facilities at Swanstone.”

“I could soften it,” said Xanthe. “Could simply call him a pig.”

But she was, herself, softening. She took the letters from Aurienne’s hands. “It did make me feel better to write them.”

“I know.”