Page 69

As they walked, a small voice declared, “Cock boil.”

Aurienne looked at Mordaunt, who, for his part, grew freshly irritated. “One of those damned critique crickets.”

“It followed you from the Downs?”

“Must’ve hitched a ride. It now lives here. I can’t find it to kill it.”

“Face like a bollock,” said the cricket.

“Fuck off,” said Mordaunt.

“Suck a fart out of my arse,” instructed the cricket.

“When I find you,” said Mordaunt, addressing the room at large, “I am going to make you suffer.”

“Perhaps you should deal with your daddy issues first,” said the cricket.

Mordaunt, looking grim, led Aurienne onwards.

They came to a sitting room abundant with ormolu, alabaster, and gilt. There was bric-a-brac upon every surface: bronze figures in erotic poses, candlesticks in the shape of storks, jewelled inkwells, fine porcelain dogs, trinket boxes inlaid with precious stones, horses, clocks, globes, marble busts, an enormous golden lobster. The walls were covered in tapestries and a large map of the Tiendoms in finely beaten gold, silver, and copper.

Mordaunt ushered Aurienne into a high-backed chair and sat across from her in another.

Thanks to a fire lurking moodily in the hearth, this was the most well-lit room in the house. The fire burned low and gave off a fragrant, slightly bitter smoke. It lent a Gothic aspect to the scene, flickering against wood panelling and touching Mordaunt’s scarred, fine-cut features. He was in only shirtsleeves tonight; they were pushed up to the elbows and showed off particularly vascular forearms. The veins seaming them were a phlebotomist’s dream.

A thought, unhallowed and unwelcome, sprang into Aurienne’s mind: Mordaunt, dishevelled, princely, bathed by the broody light of the fire, was genuinely attractive.

Discombobulating. Aurienne hadn’t found anyone truly attractive since—sinceher.

But it was fine. He had an unfortunate mouth and even more unfortunate morals, and so Aurienne was quite safe. She had better cheekbones, anyway.

She was surprised to find a quantity of old dogs limping about or sleeping in the sitting room. They were a skittish lot; most of them fled as soon as she entered the room. The only one brave enough to remain, an arthritic terrier, did not have a voice. It huffed out aggressive breaths of air that commanded her to leave or perish. Aurienne stared at it. It stared at her. The terrier, satisfied by her courage in the face of its ferocity, returned to its cushion.

On a low table sat a pot of tea and some biscuits, which Mordaunt made a vaguely invitational gesture towards.

“No, thank you,” said Aurienne, who remembered Mordaunt’s claim about his steward’s paramnesiac teas and did not wish to test their potency. “Your deofol said your seith wouldn’t come to your tacn.”

For the first time since her arrival, Aurienne could make out Mordaunt’s face properly. Beneath the scruff of day-old stubble, he looked harrowed.

“Noticed a fluctuation in the middle of a job today,” he said. “I was able to finish it, but haven’t been able to properly summon my seith since.”

He pulled off his glove and raised his tacn to Aurienne. The detestable hellhound’s skull flickered a faint red, then faded back to maroon. Mordaunt swore and focused on it again, but his tacn did not respond, and remained as inert as a bloodstain upon his palm.

“Let’s have a look,” said Aurienne. She put her satchel on the floor and found her feet. “Shirt off, please.”

Mordaunt rose and unbuttoned his shirt. “Is this it, then?” he asked in a voice that wanted to be casual, but sounded choked. “Has the rot finally advanced to those—those nodes you pointed out?”

“I don’t know,” said Aurienne. “We’re going to find out.”

The terrier sniffed the air and sneezed in objection as Aurienne sprayed her hands with hlutoform.

“Why have you got so many dogs?” she asked.

“I find them, or they find me.”

“And why do you keep them?”

“Why not?”