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“Don’t you like them?”

“Self-righteous cunts. Just like the Haelan, and any of those so-called Bright Path walkers. Think they’re better than everyone else.”

What a surprise for Osric, to find himself agreeing with Scrope. Fairhrim’s impassivity served her well; she did not react to his insult, except for the barest thinning of her smile.

“Bloody good at their jobs, though, those Wardens.” Scrope sucked down the dregs of his whiskey.

“Oh?”

Scrope seemed torn between discretion and wishing to impressFairhrim. The wishing to impress won out. He leaned close to her and whispered something in her ear.

“Really?” gasped Fairhrim.

Scrope whispered again.

Fairhrim gave him a wide-eyed look. “But who would do such a thing?”

Scrope whispered something else.

Fairhrim looked—well, she looked like she was going for coquettish. “I knew you werethatScrope—the one who knows everything.”

Scrope pulled Fairhrim in sloppily and muttered something else that Osric didn’t catch.

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Fairhrim, pushing her fingers to Scrope’s mouth, which was presently attempting to attach itself to her ear. “Is he important?”

“Aye, but not enough to matter to you. You just focus on perfecting your suck jobs, eh?”

Scrope’s meal arrived. He spaded it into his mouth. Now that she had the information she needed, Fairhrim’s patience wore as thin as her smile. Osric watched her shy-debutante veneer fade. Her jaw found its usual set. Her shoulders dropped and resumed their square. Her bearing grew cold, authoritative, severe.

Scrope, busy at the trough, did not notice these changes. He scratched at his belly. His shirt rode up. Fairhrim caught sight of theChoking Hazardtattoo and looked, if it was possible, even grimmer than she had at the Twat Wall. Scrope smacked at his potatoes.

“Must you masticate so loudly?” asked Fairhrim.

“M’what?” was the sparkling response.

Fairhrim made a sound of impatience and rose.

“Where’re you going?” asked Scrope in a gurgle of potato.

“Leaving,” said Fairhrim.

“Nah. You’re not going anywhere. I’m going to have you tonight.Madam Miffle’ll make an exception.” Scrope swung a heavy hand to Fairhrim’s waist—then it slipped lower, and disappeared under her skirt to grip her arse. “Here, Madam Miffle, you’re opening this one’s legs up for business tonight, you hear?”

Fairhrim peeled Scrope’s hand away. Osric thought of twenty-six ways to kill him using only the potato. Madam Miffle materialised at the table with inexplicable rapidity. Her sabre rested on Scrope’s forearm.

“Idecide, and I said no,” said Madam Miffle.

“Come on, Mags. We’ll do twice the going rate—how’s that?”

“No.”

“Three times.”

“No.”

Scrope, who had obviously considered this an irresistible offer, said, “No?No?What’s so bloody special about this girl?”

“I’m training her how I see fit,” said Madam Miffle.