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“So what does the blackened sun at land’s end mean?” asked Mordaunt. “Clouds? Smoke?”

“It means that Widdershins’ entire translation was a fabrication,” said Aurienne. “I don’t know about the blackened sun, but if we suspend our disbelief—which this entire treatment plan requires anyway—wemight find interesting intersections with the data on places at land’s end. Peninsulas. Headlands. Capes. There’s an obscure annal from Fortriu focusing on instances of— Erm, I’m sorry—what’s funny?”

“Aren’t most instances of anal obscure?”

“Annal. Notanal. One is a written record. The other has to do with the anus.”

“Both can be obscure, then,” said Mordaunt.

“Yes.”

“Bit darkish in there.”

Aurienne gave the Fyren a long look. He certainly giggled a lot about anuses for a thing that had crawled out of one.

“Have you finished?” asked Aurienne.

“Yes.”

“I’ll send my deofol with instructions when I’ve worked out where we should meet for May’s full moon.”

“I hate that little hellrat,” said Mordaunt.

“The feeling is mutual. He refers to you as ‘the Parasite.’ ”

The clouds broke as they reached the waystone. Moonlight fell like hoarfrost around them. The gravel drive ribboned into the black moorlands, a striation of white.

Under the pewter light, everything was distinct, crisp, separate. Shadows mirrored their subjects in livid detail. Light sharpened dark; dark amplified light.

Aurienne pressed her tacn to the waystone.

They did not say good night.

10

Guano

Osric

Two ladies’ maids, seduced; one valet, ditto; one Northumbrian man-at-arms, dead in his bed. Osric was having a good day.

It couldn’t last, due to the fact that Fairhrim existed.

She had been of spectacular utility for the embolus, but whatever goodwill Osric had developed towards her was eradicated by the arrival of her deofol.

“Stop interrupting me during jobs,” said Osric as Fairhrim’s albino genet took shape.

“I can’t seem to choose a time when you aren’t killing someone,” said the hellrat. It twitched its whiskers at the corpse in the bed. “Is he dead enough yet? Are you sure? Perhaps more stabbing?”

“This is hardly an excess,” said Osric. “This is industry standard.”

“Can you stop fingering him while I’m speaking to you?” asked the deofol.

“First of all, this is my thumb. Secondly, no. He pushed a scroll up his bum. The very scroll that I—unfortunately—was paid to retrieve.”

“Grim,” said the deofol.

“I know,” said Osric. “These gloves were new.”