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“Sacramore.”

“You mustn’t say my name in such commanding tones,” said Sacramore. “You’ll give me the vapours.”

Osric placed his hand over Sacramore’s on the counter and made deep and intimate eye contact. “You know how much I depend on you.”

Sacramore fanned himself with his kerchief and said coyly, “You beguiling bastard.”

“Tell me.”

“Can’t blow the gaff.”

“Can you blow other things?”

“Osric,” gasped Sacramore.

“Ican.”

“You’re being rather cheeky for someone within immediate kissing range,” said Sacramore.

Osric swept his thumb over Sacramore’s knuckles and dropped his gaze towards his mouth.

“You’ve stopped talking and it’s making me nervous,” said Sacramore.

“Not everything can be said with words,” said Osric. “That’s why we invented longing looks.”

“Oh, behave.”

“Tell me.”

Sacramore caved with a sigh. “Noldo just came out of there shaking like a shitting dog.”

“Really? Why?”

“No idea. I only hope you haven’t done anything to incur Madame’s displeasure.”

“Of course not,” said Osric, who would obviously never dream of gallivanting about with a member of an enemy Order, etc.

“Then you haven’t anything to worry about,” said Sacramore. “I dare say you’ll be fine.”

Osric raised Sacramore’s hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss on it, made Sacramore’s knees buckle, and proceeded down the corridor. Among old boxes lining the hall, there lay a massive, scummy tub letting off a foetid reek. The water within—more gunge than water—wriggled with thousands upon thousands of leeches. By what quirk of nature were the creatures still alive? Osric peered over the edge of the tub to find the answer: they were feasting upon themselves.

Interesting.

He came to the door of the pharmacist’s office and knocked.

“Entrez,”came Tristane’s voice.

Osricentrez’d.

Tristane was such a fabled figure in the Fyren legendarium that it still shocked Osric to find her doing regular human things, such as eating a Cornish pasty.

“Sit,” said Tristane, around a mouthful of crust.

Her green eyes followed Osric as he found a seat in the gloom; she liked to keep things dark in her war room. The only light emanated from the flickering glow of a Lovelace engine.

Tristane was Osric’s warchief, a revered Fyren with, it was rumoured, over three thousand kills to her name. She had the most geometrically correct hair that Osric had ever seen and was particularly frightening because she was French.

“Pornish pasty,” said Tristane, pushing a basket of pasties towards Osric. “Owing to them being shaped like penises. Leofric brought them in.”