It wasn’t until Aurienne Fairhrim that Osric learned eye contact could hit like a knife. She stood, upright and austere, in the confines of a daguerreotype, pinning him with black-bright eyes.

“Her?” asked Osric.

“Yes, sir,” said Physicker Fordyce.

“Must it be her?”

“You really haven’t a choice, sir.”

Osric dropped the daguerreotype. It landed on his desk, from which vantage the woman’s penetrating gaze found a new victim and perforated the ceiling. Also ornamenting Osric’s desk unpleasantly were Aurienne Fairhrim’s curriculum vitae and a list of publications verging on the infinite.

“She’s one of the Haelan,” said Osric. “Her Order won’t work with mine. She’ll refuse as a matter of principle.”

“She may, sir,” said Physicker Fordyce. “You asked us who could heal you— not who would.”

“Don’t be cheeky.”

“No disrespect meant, sir,” said Fordyce. “The Haelan Order’s members are matchless healers, and Aurienne Fairhrim is herself unsurpassed among them. She’s a phenomenon when it comes to the seith system. If she ­declines—”

“Of course she’ll decline; she’s a Haelan.”

“— then Physicker Shuttleworth and I will do our utmost to slow the degeneration.”

“How long have I got left?” asked Osric.

Fordyce glanced at his colleague. Osric waited for the latter to say something of use, but Physicker Shuttleworth merely looked frightened, had a panicky spasm, and choked on his own saliva.

Fordyce found his courage among his colleague’s sputters. “It’s difficult to predict with any sort of accuracy.”

“Answer me,” said Osric.

“At our best guess, three or four months before your abilities begin to dwindle significantly, sir,” said Fordyce.

“Dwindle significantly,” repeated Osric.

“Yes, sir,” said Fordyce.

“I’m going to lose my seith.”

“That is, unfortunately, one of the likely outcomes, sir.”

“I can’t lose my seith,” said Osric. “You know what I am.”

Yes, the physickers knew; it was why they were on the verge of pissing themselves. They both nevertheless confirmed it with vigorous nods towards Osric’s boots.

“You’re a member of the Fyren Order, sir,” said Shuttleworth.

­

“P- perhaps you could envisage an early retirement?”

A brutally stupid question to which Osric replied, “Do you know how Fyren are retired?”

“Er— no, sir.”

“Death.”