Page 87

“This is the only waystone out here,” said Mordaunt.

“We could negotiate.”

“Do they seem willing to negotiate?” asked Mordaunt, rightly, because the men were unsheathing their weapons. There was a gleam in his eye as he studied the assembled men. “I could take them all out from here.”

“No,” said Aurienne.

“Or I could go in closer and—”

“No.”

“What about—”

“No.”

“But we really must punish them for that tea,” said Mordaunt. “I’ll just kill them a little.”

“Kill thema little? Death isn’t divisible.”

They were unable to conclude their argument on murder as a fractionable activity because the men fanned out and began an approach. Aurienne recognised two of them from their earlier encounter with Mordaunt. Their reinforcements—four dozen men, perhaps—had given them fresh courage to face the Fyren.

From their chatter, Aurienne understood that they had applied a certain bandity logic to the situation; they had decided that if a lady had hired a Fyren for protection, she must be Worth Something. Some of the men eyed Aurienne, others her satchel. (The latter contained only burn gel, plasters, and a splint, for a total value of thirty thrymsas.)

The bandits had summoned their chief, a large man moving with confidence bolstered by the numbers behind him. He rubbed his hands like a fly that has found a particularly succulent poo.

As for Mordaunt, there was gleeful anticipation in his eye. Aurienne knew that he would have no scruples about murdering all of these men. Scruples did not form a part of his composition.

The bandit chief grinned at Aurienne. He did not have teeth so much as one or two sarsen stones. “A pretty thing like you come to visit us all the way out here? What luck.”

Aurienne flung a hand towards him—necessary dramatics, given the Fyren—and said, “Don’t come any closer, please. You needn’t die today.”

“Pretty?” interjected Mordaunt. “Who’s prettier, her or me?”

This gave the bandit chief pause. He pressed a meaty finger to his chin and consulted his colleagues.

Aurienne begged them to flee while they could; Mordaunt hushed her and said, “Let them talk.” One bandit piped up that she had better eyelashes but he had better cheekbones, and thus mortally insulted them both.

The bandit chief emerged from the conference and said, “About the same.”

Aurienne gasped in outrage. Mordaunt, labouring under the delusion that he was prettier, also gasped.

“Well,” said Mordaunt, “now you’re definitely going to die.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said the bandit chief. “Fyren or not, there’s forty of us and only one of you.”

Aurienne expected Mordaunt to loose twenty throwing knives and slay the men where they stood. However, he merely bent over to fix the lace of his boot.

The bandit chief took this as a show of submission. “Now,” he said, “let’s have the lady come over here, nice and slow.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said Aurienne. “He’s going to kill you. Let us get to the waystone and he’ll leave you alone. I’ve no money.” She rattled her open satchel. “Look: nothing of value.”

“You haven’t got money here,” said the chief, “but you’ve got money somewhere. It costs millions to hire a Fyren.”

“I didn’t hire him,” said Aurienne.

“Daddy did, then, and he’ll pay a pretty sum to get his daughter back.”

“No. The Fyren wasn’t hired. He’s here of his own volition, not for money.”