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“I could,” said Aurienne.

“Could?” repeated Mordaunt.

“You didn’t ask me why I’d been delayed today,” said Aurienne.

Mordaunt, demonstrating a heretofore unsuspected modicum of intelligence, grew cautious. He was right to; at this moment, Aurienne had Leverage.

“I should’ve asked,” said Mordaunt, with sudden, and insincere, politeness. “Why were you delayed, dear Haelan?”

“In your dealings with the criminal underworld”—Aurienne flung her hand towards an imaginary slag heap—“have you heard of anyone targeting Swanstone?”

“No,” said Mordaunt. “Why?”

There was no hesitation in his answer, but that told Aurienne little about whether or not he was lying.

“The Wardens caught four intruders tonight,” said Aurienne. “They weren’t our usual sorts of trespassers. We get the occasional thief wanting to get into our garden, or addicts breaking into the apothecary’s storeroom. But this crew was armed to the teeth—with incendiary devices, if you please—and well funded.”

“Any tacn?” asked Mordaunt.

“No.”

“Idiots. Bypassing Wardens is near impossible, unless you’re me. And civvies, at that? They had a death wish.”

“Or they were desperate,” said Aurienne. “Or they were being coerced into it. Or they’re after something or someone in particular, and it was important enough to risk their lives.”

“Interesting,” said Mordaunt.

“Will you see what you can find out?” asked Aurienne.

“Are you going to withhold healing this embolus until I agree?” asked Mordaunt.

“Yes,” said Aurienne.

The Fyren crossed his arms over his bare chest, which pushed together his pectorals. Aurienne noted in passing that he had more cleavage than she did.

“Well?” prompted Aurienne.

Just as Mordaunt opened his mouth to answer, something banged in a distant part of the house.

There was a cry of “Hallo! Anyone home?”

The voiceless terrier barked. Mordaunt whipped around. Aurienne froze.

“Shit,” said Mordaunt.

The next thing she knew, Aurienne had been dragged across the room and stuffed into a wardrobe.

“Stay there,” said Mordaunt above her muffled objections. “Don’t move.”

There was more banging, as of someone running into furniture. Uneven footsteps stomped along the corridor.

The wardrobe’s door was ajar. Aurienne could see a sliver of the sitting room. Mordaunt kicked her Haelan satchel under the sofa.

The owner of the uneven footsteps meandered into the room. Judging by his cloak and hood, he, too, was a Fyren. Like Mordaunt, he had a surfeit of weapon holsters strapped to his person, but among knives and swords, his contained a pair of pink safety scissors and a rolling pin.

Mordaunt, still shirtless, strode towards the intruder and hissed, “Leofric. What are you doing here?”

Leofric pulled his hood off to reveal a pale complexion and masses of fluffy red hair springing incongruously upwards.