Page 51

Fairhrim resumed the brusque back-and-forth. Osric expected a cutting refusal and prepared to launch his own barbs—only Fairhrim, to his vast surprise, ended up agreeing with him.

“Why not, indeed?” said Fairhrim.

Osric felt that stumbling feeling—you know the one, when you’re aggressively climbing stairs and the top stair is simply not there because you’ve already hit the landing.

“This entire treatment plan is predicated on nothing but fantasy,” continued Fairhrim. “Why not indulge further? Lean into the ridiculousness of the whole idea?”

“I’ll remind you that this ridiculousness is my only hope of survival,” said Osric.

“Against expert advice to the contrary,” said Fairhrim, like the pitiless creature she was.

Osric produced a piece of paper, upon which an address was written in Mrs.Parson’s tidy cursive, and gave it to Fairhrim. “We’re going to go find the discredited philologist.”

“What?”

“Tonight. It won’t involve using up your precious seith. Have you anything better to do?”

“Thousands of better things.” Fairhrim read Mrs.Parson’s note with a raised eyebrow. “Nether Wallop?”

“Ooh,” said Osric. “My favourite game: is it a place or is it a kink?”

“This is going to be a waste of time. Widdershins was already a fringe sort of professor before he went off the deep end. He’s absolutely barmy. I told you—his findings were retracted. His doctorate was revoked. He hasn’t any scholarly credibility.”

“I don’t care about scholarly credibility,” said Osric. “We’ll shake him up. Get some answers. See how they fit into the rest of the apocrypha.”

“He might not want to talk to us.”

“I’ll make him talk,” said Osric.

“How?” asked Fairhrim, like the naive thing she was.

“Trust me.”

“Trustyou?” repeated Fairhrim. “Absolutely not. Make him talk? Is your plan to torture the man?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Have you no compassion?” asked Fairhrim.

“I’m not burdened with it, no.”

“I categorically object to torture.”

“Do you, really? It had escaped my notice,” said Osric, before sauntering away.

“Mordaunt,” snapped Fairhrim, and she made his name sound so pejorative, it delighted him.

They bickered about the merits of torturing dotty old professors all the way down the Downs. Osric said that he was the expert here and that he would appreciate it if Fairhrim reserved her pointy opinions for her own areas of specialisation. Fairhrim said she was going to review the literature on the efficacy of torture and sharpen her pointy opinions further, and then puncture him with them. Osric asked why she must be so obstreperous. Fairhrim asked when would he stop being a Menace to Society. Osric called her a Self-Righteous Plague. She called him a Foppish Crouton.

The night air was full of the hum of insects, but the critique crickets did not offer fresh insult, perhaps because Osric and Fairhrim were doing such an excellent job by themselves.

They returned to the waystone and the lean-to that passed for a pub. Instead of striding up to the waystone, as Osric had expected, Fairhrim walked towards the Rummy Thing.

“You can’t be serious,” said Osric. “We’ve got things to do.”