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“Wonderful.”

“Am I persuading you?”

“Persuasion would require an iota of something like charm.”

This vexed Osric. “I’m not charming?”

“No,” said Fairhrim. “You follow one of the Dusken Paths. I won’t help you. And you stink of onions.”

“The onions areyourfault. Don’t do it to help me; do it to help the Poxies. Think of all the suffering you could alleviate.”

“Prevent, rather.”

“Whatever.”

Fairhrim studied him. Osric had to admire her composure. There were no tears or trembles. Her only real emotion was contempt when her gaze drifted to his gloves, now that she knew he wasn’t a follower of the Bright Paths. The question at present was whether the temptation of the gold—or the weight of his threats—would outweigh her aversion.

He hoped it would. She seemed a logical sort of creature.

“You’re calm about all this,” said Osric.

“I’m trained to keep a cool head in times of crisis,” said Fairhrim. “Though my subjects are usually haemorrhaging blood rather than absurdities.”

Osric had already suspected that he didn’t like Fairhrim. That was now confirmed.

His patience with the negotiations ran out.

“Kidnap it is,” said Osric. He rose, poured the onions onto the floor, and flapped the empty sack at Fairhrim. “Get in.”

Fairhrim’s scoff was interrupted by the door bursting open.

A second meteorological phenomenon entered the room. This one was a small storm.

“I amsickof tickling Research and Innovation’s balls,” said the storm.

It was an old Haelan, Black, white haired, crackling with anger.

Fairhrim leapt to her feet. Her haughtiness gave way to nervous servility. Osric was piqued; she looked more fearful now than she had at any point during their conversation.

Fairhrim folded into a low bow, a hand on her heart. “Haelan Xanthe.”

Haelan Xanthe surged into the room upon a cloud of white Haelan robes. In her fist was a crumpled letter, which she shook in Fairhrim’s direction. “A rejection from those muppets at the Research and Innovation Council.”

“Oh no,” said Fairhrim.

“Oh yes,” said Xanthe. From her broad tones, Osric surmised thatshe was from Strathclyde. “On the most spurious of grounds. Our proposal doesn’t line up with their funding programme’s priorities, apparently. Have you ever heard such bollocks? We are literally in the throes of an outbreak. We’ve been asked to resubmit next cycle. I’ve half a mind to infect Woolwich with the Pox. Perhaps then he’ll understand what we’re about. Cultivate a bit of empathy among the scabs. Pity it only affects children—”

Xanthe cut herself off, sniffed the air, and asked, “Why do I smell onions?”

Looking about to find the source of the pong, she noticed Osric. Her eyes travelled down his cloak to the mess of bulbs at his feet.

“Who’s this, then?” she asked. “The new undertaker?”

“No,” answered Osric. “I am not the bloody undertaker. You’re interrupting a negotiation session, Gran-gran, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

“A negotiation? For what?” Xanthe turned to Fairhrim. “Did this man just call meGran-gran?”

Fairhrim looked, if you please, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. No idea who he is. He’s got in somehow. He tried to bribe me for a healing. And now he’s threatening kidnap with, honestly, grotesque ineptitude. The Wardens will make short work of him.”