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“You pointy-footed bugger,” gasped Osric.

“That’s a messy kill,” said the deofol, jutting its chin towards the body.

“My client wished to send a message,” said Osric.

“Was the messageI don’t know where the jugular is and had to stab him twelve times to find it?” asked the deofol.

So Fairhrim’s deofol was as irritating as she was. No surprises there.

“When I want a—a cat-weasel’s opinion on my work, I’ll ask for it,” said Osric.

“I’m a genet,” said the cat-weasel. “An albino genet. Aurienne was right. Youarestupid.”

“Insult me again and I’ll have your head.”

“You’d be in possession of at least twice the amount of brains, then,” said the deofol. “Perhaps I should let you. It would be the charitable thing.”

If the creature hadn’t been made of seith, Osric would’ve snatched it by the scruff of its neck, but he couldn’t snatch it any more than he could grab Fairhrim’s seith.

“Aurienne has found a place for you to meet,” said the deofol. “Take a waystone to the Princess and the Fool in Hessilhead. You’ll see signs for a clinic for acute buttock folliculitis.”

“A clinic for what?”

“Spotty bums,” said the deofol. “Follow the signs. Aurienne will be there.”

“When?”

“Now,” said the deofol.

“Now?” repeated Osric. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Now,” said the deofol again. “She won’t wait for you.”

It disappeared in a puff of white fur and did not hear Osric’s choicest swear words.

Osric, provoked, took the nearest waystone to the designated pub. First, he was at nobody’s beck and call, least of all this priggish Haelan’s. Second, it was broad daylight, and he hated operating in broad daylight. Third, between the name of the pub and the signs for a clinic for spotty bums that he was now following through this gods-forsaken little hamlet, he rather felt that she was taking the piss.

The villagers puttering about gave Osric startled looks as he stalked through the hamlet’s streets, his hood up, his greatcoat flaring behind him.

What part ofmy condition mustn’t be discoveredhadn’t this idiot understood?

He found the final spotty-bum sign and knocked upon the clinic door.

The idiot opened the door.

Fairhrim’s greeting consisted of a look. There was a lot in it; she looked at Osric as though he were a wart that had acquired sufficient sentience to knock on doors.

“Are you bloody serious?” asked Osric.

Fairhrim, taken aback by the wart’s rudeness, straightened. “Excuse me?”

“Summoning me? In broad daylight? In a public place? I told you that my condition mustn’t be discovered.”

“It hasn’t been discovered,” said Fairhrim. “You’re hooded up like death personified. And anyone who did see you will think you’re suffering from folliculitis.”

Osric pointed at one of the overly detailed posters that had haunted his walk. “You had to choose arse acne?”

“To guarantee us privacy,” said Fairhrim. She held the door open. “Get in.”