Any works on the Dreor Order including: creation of, history, ideals, recruitment, expansion, allies, ranks, secrets, systems, locations, conventions (rituals, ceremonies, initiations, other rites), decline, and any connected materials, please and thank you.
She called for Quincey, her assistant. The small owlish man popped his head into her office. “Yes, Haelan Fairhrim?”
Aurienne handed him her scrawl. Quincey took it with confidence: he was one of the few who could decipher her handwriting.
“Send a copy of this request to every academic and research library in the Tiendoms,” said Aurienne. “Ask them to be discreet about the enquiry.”
“Of course.” Quincey looked at Aurienne’s bit of paper and blinked. His confidence in his ability to decipher her handwriting was shaken by the note’s contents. “The—the Dreor Order?”
“Correct,” said Aurienne. “It’s a matter of urgency as well as secrecy. Let me know as soon as you begin to receive materials.”
“Yes, Haelan Fairhrim.”
Quincey bowed his way out and went to clatter feverishly at his writing ball.
Aurienne swept out of her office in search of Xanthe to inform her of the night’s events. Xanthe, an outstanding Haelan specialising in limb and organ regeneration, was one of the three Heads of the Haelan Order. She was also Aurienne’s mentor and confidante. (Occasionally she put thementorintormentor, such as when she ordered Aurienne to take on Osric Mordaunt’s case.)
At Ward 5 (Regeneration), Aurienne enquired after Xanthe’s whereabouts and was directed to the toilet.
A tentative knock upon the door revealed Xanthe flushing out her mouth and gargling hlutoform: a patient had ripped out their IV. Xanthe said that it was One Thing to be sprayed in the eye, but to be sprayed in the mouth was Quite Another, sentiments Aurienne found impossible to refute.
“It’s always the ones on an anticoagulant,” said Xanthe. “Blood on the ceiling. Blood in the light fixtures. At least the potted plants are thoroughly hydrated…”
Cleansed of her patient’s redecorating efforts, Xanthe turned to Aurienne with a face equal parts wet and grim. “What is it?”
“Two disturbing updates,” said Aurienne. “I had a late-night visit from Onion Boy. And I got the results back from Élodie’s lab for those bottles he found in Wellesley Keep.”
“What news from Onion Boy?” asked Xanthe, in a voice muffled by a towel. (Onion Boy was the unfortunate code name Mordaunt had been saddled with after his first encounter with Xanthe.)
“Item one,” said Aurienne. “Onion Boy has indicated that the Head of his Order accepted a job at Swanstone. Someone—or several someones—is in danger here.”
“What? The Head of the Fyren Order? Tristane?”
“Yes.”
Xanthe paused her drying, then resumed it with ferocity. “Has Tristane lost the plot? That’s a direct violation of the Peace Accords. We don’t touch other Orders. Howdareshe?”
“Onion Boy doesn’t know who or what the target is. It’s the same job Brythe had taken on, which failed due to Onion Boy’s—er—intervention.”
“Did Onion Boy say who’s paying Tristane?”
“He didn’t know. Only that whoever it was is also responsible for blocking the funding for Pox immunisation research throughout the Tiendoms. And they’re still alive—so it isn’t Lord Wellesley. I think we need to inform Élodie, in confidence. She and her lab are the most likely targets, since they’re working on the immunisation.”
“I agree. Tell her, and when she asks for your source, say I’ve instructed that the informant’s identity is not to be disclosed.”
Aurienne nodded. “Onion Boy has also given me advice on how to keep ourselves safe from Tristane. We’ll have to involve the Wardens.”
“Jot down what he told you,” said Xanthe. “I’ll manage the Wardens. If Tristane Épervier sets foot in Swanstone, she’d better hope it’s them who catch her, because if I do, I’m blowing up her liver.” Xanthe seethed for a moment, then asked, “What did Onion Boy ask for payment for all of this information? I suppose we’d better prepare a small fortune?”
A logical query that left Aurienne entirely wrong-footed. “He—he didn’t, actually.”
Xanthe was rarely shocked by anything, but her sparse eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “He told you forfree?”
“Yes.”
“The Fyren gave you intel? Pertaining to his own Order? For nothing? Gratis?”
“Erm—yes,” said Aurienne. “He said it’s because I’m at Swanstone and he wishes to keep me alive. It’s pragmatism, not generosity.”
