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“Took days,” said Brythe. “Bored the arsehole off me.” He tugged a rope, and his unfortunate prisoner tripped and flopped towards him. “But we’ve got our man in for his interrogation.”

“Bit whiffy in here, isn’t it?” said Lady Windermere.

Osric indicated the tub. “That’ll be the leeches.”

Lady Windermere approached the tub and observed the slow roil of the leeches. “Poor things.”

“I know,” said Osric. “They must be starved.”

Osric looked at Lady Windermere. Lady Windermere looked at Brythe. Brythe tilted his head in the direction of the prisoner.

“Soften him up before he meets Tristane?” asked Lady Windermere.

“I reckon that’s a good idea,” said Brythe.

Brythe pulled the sack off the prisoner’s head and pushed him towards the tub. The man screeched into his gag at the sight of the starving, wriggling goo beneath him. Just as things were about to get interesting—Osric was keen on animal welfare—his tacn tingled.

Fairhrim’s deofol was asking to come through.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” said Osric. “Let me know how you get on. This is all rather innovative.”

Brythe seized the prisoner by the hair and plunged his head into the tub. There was a high-pitched, bubbly gurgle.

“We’ll share our notes,” called Lady Windermere over the splashing.

Osric exited the Harmacy, blowing a kiss to Sacramore (returned with a girlish flourish) as he left.

He shadow-walked to a nearby roof. His tacn buzzed insistently at him; Fairhrim’s deofol had absolutely no patience.

As usual, and because Fairhrim was a show-off, the albino genet gleamed into existence with every whisker and hair rendered in extraordinary detail.

“Finally,” said the deofol as it materialised.

“What do you want?” asked Osric.

“I’m here to convey a message.” The deofol floated to Osric’s eye level. “Aurienne spent the past week conducting inferential statistical analyses.”

“Maths?”

“Yes.”

“That does strike me as her sort of hobby.”

The deofol bristled at Osric. “It wasn’t forfun. You’re to keep your diary clear the night of the Hara moon. Meet Aurienne at the waystone at the Rummy Thing. Ten o’clock at night.”

“She’s found something promising, has she?” asked Osric.

“More promising than bathing in spunk.” The deofol wrinkled its muzzle. “Did it make your skin smooth, at least?”

“As a baby’s bum.”

“Like your brain, then.”

Osric aimed a cuff at the deofol, but it went right through the creature.

“Aurienne did say you were slow,” tutted the deofol. “I had assumed she meant that metaphorically.”

It disappeared. Osric could not have said, at that moment, whether the deofol or its mistress was more aggravating.