Page 3 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“Did you just nick that from the bar?” asked Beaufort.

“At those prices, the crime has already been committed,” said Osric.

“Hello, infants,” said a new voice.

Every Fyren at the table sat up straighter. Tristane had arrived. She carried herself magnificently, queenlike even in her dusty travelling cloak. Her green eyes surveyed the table. Her black hair fell in a perfect glossy triangle.

Tristane was a legendary shadow-walker, a killer unrivalled, and the Fyren warchief. Every Fyren present owed their substantial fortunes to her. She had pulled the Fyren Order from obscurity decades ago and built it into what it was now: a guild of the most highly paid assassins in the Tiendoms. She ran it with an iron fist.

Accompanying Tristane was Lady Windermere, a willowy, whip-wielding Fyren whose specialty was strangulation. She had a fevered look about her. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes red and swollen. There were general questions posed round the table pertaining to her health, and whether she had made any headway in investigating Brythe’s disappearance. (Brythe was a fellow Fyren; he and Lady Windermere had been long-term lovers until Brythe vanished a few weeks ago.)

“We’ve found nothing,” said Lady Windermere, clutching her thin hands together. “Not a trace of Brythe. Not a whisper. No body.”

Osric joined the others in making sounds of sympathy. He was, incidentally, responsible for Brythe’s death. The man had accepted a job at Swanstone, and Osric, not knowing what the job entailed, and unwilling to risk Fairhrim’s life, had murdered him in cold blood.

Well, not exactly cold. Warmish. Osric had certainly been bothered by the possibility that Fairhrim might get hurt. He had also almost died in the process of killing Brythe.

There was desperation in Lady Windermere’s plea. “Can any of you remember anything about the last time you saw Brythe? Anything unusual at all?”

There were unhelpful, though kind, murmurs around the table; no, no one had noticed anything unusual.

Lady Windermere left with a heartbroken sigh.

“Poor little mite,” tutted Beaufort. “She’s taken it hard.”

“She can’t mourn, but she can’t move forward,” said Sacramore.

“I think it’s unhealthy,” said Lirain. “Best to assume he’s dead, grieve, and move on.”

“Let her keep hoping,” said Sacramore. “If she gives up on hoping, the loss will kill her.”

“Brythe’s going to show up,” said Leofric confidently, though not accurately. “Man’s probably off on a bender somewhere.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Osric.

“Maybe he’s run off to America,” suggested Beaufort. (America was a large country across the ocean, whose principal export was smooth jazz.)

Tristane shook her head. “No one’s deofol can reach him. He had no reason to unlink us all. We needn’t plumb the depths of eternity in a saucer. He’s dead.”

“And poor Windermere is pining herself sick,” said Beaufort. “This is too macabre.”

Sacramore, who was a romantic, sighed. “He was her Great Love.”

“One ought to avoid Great Loves for this reason,” said Lirain.

Osric nodded in vigorous agreement. Great Loves were more trouble than they were worth. He would never make such a mistake himself.

Tristane set up court in a corner of the pub, as she occasionally did to dispatch assignments to assembled Fyren. Osric joined her at the table when it was his turn.

As was her habit, Tristane had brought her own wine. She was French, and refused to drink what she called the “sublime horrors” that passed for wine in the Tiendoms. She poured a glass for Osric.

Osric, who fancied himself a connoisseur, picked up the bottle. “What are we drinking?”

“This is a Domaine de Brecé. You’ve never had any, so don’t pretend.”

Thus humbled—he hadn’t—Osric drank.

Tristane handed three envelopes to him.