Page 80 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
“Yes, sir,” said the nurse.
She stepped out of the room. The Agannor settled at the desk. Osric and Leofric relaxed in their positions. They were Fyren, used to stakeouts, and happily able to wait him out. The Agannor rustled through his papers, humming. It took Osric a moment to recognise the tune: it was “A-Hunting We Will Go.”
The nurse returned, accompanied by her purple-eyed colleagues. They clustered behind the Agannor’s desk.
“Thank you,” he said. “You know I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”
To Osric’s surprise, he gestured towards him and Leofric. “Our visitors are in that corner. I’d like to know how we can help them.”
The Agannor turned the flame of the gas lamp high, illuminating Osric and Leofric in their hoods and cowls. The nurses raised their hands. All bore sharp and shiny things—scalpels, a surgeon’s drill, an amputation saw.
“Step out,” said the Agannor with that euphonious voice. “Don’t be coy. I’d be pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Osric hadn’t encountered many of the Agannor, but those he had met were characterised by calmness, by a sense of control. This was control in a different sense to Fairhrim’s, whose control was over herself and her seith—and different to Tristane’s, born of the confidence of ending every encounter in a win. In the Agannor it was the simple knowledge that, thanks to their tacn, they would be obeyed.
This Agannor was tired. A trickle of blood ran out of his nose as he commanded the nurses in his thrall: his Cost.
“No?” The Agannor sighed. “Courtesy gets one nowhere these days.”
“Pax,” said Osric, stepping out. “We’re Fyren. We didn’t know another from the Dusken Path was here.”
Leofric, for no discernible reason, did a triple backflip out of the shadows.
The Agannor sniffed. “Fyren. Yes, I see that now. You oughtn’t be here. Your names, please, so that I might have the pleasure of knowing who I’m addressing?”
“Glunge,” said Leofric.
“Berb,” said Osric.
“Your real names,” said the Agannor.
“Furtus.”
“Snert.”
“Try again.”
Osric sighed. He pointed towards himself. “Hungwell.” He pointed to Leofric. “Maggot.”
“Maggot?” repeated the Agannor.
“It’s pronouncedmaggeau,” said Leofric. “It’s French.”
“And you are?” asked Osric.
“Stolther,” said the Agannor. He dabbed at his bloody nose with a silk handkerchief.
“What is this place?” asked Leofric. “What are you doing with these kids? Bit weird, if I’m honest, mate.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Stolther. “I’m paid to keep the nurses compliant, nothing more.”
“We were scouting out a location for our next headquarters,” said Osric. “We’ll be on our way. The place is clearly occupied.”
Stolther’s tacn glowed purple. The nurses tensed; their instruments flashed. The nosebleed began again in earnest.
“Tell the nurses to stand down,” said Osric.
“I’m not certain I can let you leave,” said Stolther. “This is a secret facility. You may have seen too much.”
