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Bloodletting services available.

The bell on the door gurgled a sickly jingle as Osric pushed it open. His nostrils were met with the acridity of decaying materia medica. In the dimness around him stood rows and rows of amber glass bottles, some broken, some whole, their dusty labels fading away in the gloom. Remains of the pharmacist’s trade were scattered about on the floor: disintegrating prescription ledgers, a brass scale, smashed.

Behind the counter stood a slender man balancing a rapier upon the point of a finger. It was the dainty Sacramore, the Fyren Order’s second-in-command—small, oversensitive to draughts, and an absolutely deadly swordsman.

“Osric, darling, lovely to see you,” said Sacramore.

“Who lost his melon?” asked Osric, with respect to the orphaned head outside.

“Some lordling or other,” said Sacramore. “Offended Tristane by trying to negotiate. Threatened to report our location to the Strathclydian king. And Tristane, pure soul that she is, wished to save the king the trouble of beheading him. The rest is here.” Sacramore nudged at something below the counter with a satin slipper. “I’m meant to dispose of him, but, honestly, he’s making a decent footrest.”

The footrest oozed a rivulet of blood towards Osric, who sidestepped it to approach the counter.

“Have you got anything for me?” asked Sacramore, who was not only an excellent fencer but also an excellent fence.

Osric clattered a handful of precious stones onto the counter, stolen after dispatching his latest mark.

Sacramore didn’t even bother to prod at the gems; he determined their value, apparently, by sound alone. He peered at Osric like a disappointed magpie. “Why are you wasting my time with trinkets, darling?”

“I’ll take whatever you can get for them,” said Osric.

“Tss,”said Sacramore. “Bit short on cash, are we?”

Osric, who had just paid twenty million thrymsas for the privilege of being called an “Abscess with inferior hair,” said bitterly, “A little.”

Sacramore brushed the gems out of view with a disgusted sweep of his handkerchief, as though Osric had just done a poo on the counter. He jutted his chin towards the signet ring on Osric’s right hand. “That would go for a pretty pile, if you ever wanted to part with it.”

“It’s not for sale,” said Osric.

“Let’s have a look at it anyway,” said Sacramore, pressing a loupe to his eye.

Osric slid the heavy gold ring off his glove.

“Bloodstone, eh?” asked Sacramore.

“From Rùm.”

“Intaglio of a hound rampant. Lovely rose motif.” Sacramore held the ring upon the flat of his palm. “Heavy gauge. Eighteen carats. Shank attractively ornate. I like the scrollwork. Rather worn down—a few centuries’ worth of use, eh?” Sacramore returned the ring to Osric. “If you found the right buyer, you could have a fair bit of pocket money.”

Osric replaced the ring. “No buyer could pay what it cost me.”

Sacramore, his loupe still pressed against his eye, tutted at Osric. “Dramatic boy. What’s a little patricide among friends?”

“Is Tristane in?” asked Osric.

Sacramore twirled his rapier towards a corridor behind the counter. “Madameawaits. Do be careful.”

“Why? What am I in for?”

“Nothing. Proceed.”

“What sort of mood is she in?”

“Quixotic,” said Sacramore.

“I’m serious,” said Osric.

“Canescent.”