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“It’s an Aer.”

“An heir to what?”

“An Aer.A-E-R. One of Fria’s companions. Symbol of purity and healing. Those who try to kill one suffer instant death.”

“Utter tosh,” said Osric.

“Preferable to the singed remains of a dog, anyway” was Fairhrim’s retort, accompanied by a vinegary look at Osric’s tacn.

She sailed towards the door.

“Go back to your House of Pestilence,” called Osric, “though I’m not sure which is the greater Pestilence, you or the House.”

“Go back to your derelict country pile and rot there.”

They parted with the usual levels of esteem and affection.

13

The Bunghole

Osric

Fairhrim occupied an annoying portion of Osric’s thoughts. He spent too much time that afternoon continuing their discussion in his head, resulting in an imaginary argument in which he featured prominently with sharp and witty rebuttals. He considered sending his deofol to Fairhrim with a script, so that she knew what he was capable of.

He managed to switch gears as he entered the Bunghole. He needed to be alert and not preoccupied by Fairhrim and her tongue.

Osric was an occasional patron of the Bunghole, one of those grotty little dens of sin, so useful in his line of work, where if no one was actively on fire, it was a quiet night. The pub was small, with a distinct odour and charm. The yellowing tiles lining the wall evoked something between the back room of an abattoir and a men’s toilet. The bar was wide enough for perhaps one and a half patrons to stand at. There were pornographic images plastered behind it, in case, Osric supposed, patrons fancied a cheeky wank while waiting for their pints.

Off the bar hung a sign that saidNO CANNIBALISM.

Osric, his hood up, his cowl raised, and smoked spectacles covering his face, fit right into the crowd; most of the clientele was hooded and sinister. He ordered a pint and retreated to a corner table, from whence he commanded an excellent view of the two dozen turds squeezed into the Bunghole.

He watched the come and go of the local fauna. This was the kind of pub where every regular had a name, which Osric learned as they greeted one another with varying degrees of friendliness: Pissbag Perry, Dandruff, Steve the Builder, Scratch and Sniff, the Artful Todger.

Sharing a table with Osric was the delightful One-Tooth, who wheezed into his whiskers and sipped something that he mysteriously called “long juice,” which smelled like pure camphor, before he chased it down with turpentine. Osric suspected that he was a walker of one of the Dusken Paths—because of his gloves—and particularly an Agannor, given the surfeit of purple in his ensemble.

Osric’s source had advised him to find a man with a wolf tattoo upon his neck. Osric spotted his mark hunched over a table, chatting with two others who looked as unsavoury as he did. The man was smoking a particularly foul cigar. He leaned back in a stretch that revealed his stomach, upon which he had tattooedCaution: Choking Hazard, with an arrow pointing towards his cock.

Charming.

Osric’s plan was simple: follow Choking Hazard out, shadow-walk him up a roof, interrogate him about the Swanstone thing, and, if he was of no further use, kill him.

The simplicity of the plan was shattered by the entrance of two women, one in red and one in blue. The red one’s dress consisted largely of scarlet fishnet; in a nod to decency, she had covered her nipples in heart-shaped pasties. The blue one was tall, smaller about the bust, but rounder about the hips, wearing boots to the thigh and the shortest ofskirts, at the back of which was the lettering:Make It Bounce.The women stopped to chat with Madam Miffle, who was ensconced in her wheelchair near the door.

“Ooh.” One-Tooth elbowed Osric. “Red girl’s Cerys. Isn’t she a beauty? Seen a couple of her films at the Sinema.” One-Tooth’s potent breath exfoliated Osric’s face. “Miffle usually has her working at the fancy place up the road. Wonder what she’s doing here tonight.”

One-Tooth gazed lovingly at the woman in red and updated Osric on her filmography (Death by a Thousand SlutsandBig Tits 4) and further informed him that her breasts were insured, and also that they had names (from left to right, Thoughts and Prayers).

“Don’t recognise the other one,” wheezed One-Tooth. “I s’pose she’s new. Pretty girl, though.”

The new girl stood behind Cerys. She had a gauzy scarf partly covering her hair and lacy gloves over her hands. But yes, thought Osric as she turned towards him and he saw the curve of a cheek and the shape of her mouth, she was a pretty girl. His eye roved up the boots to the edge of the skirt. A pretty girl with the precise kind of thighs of interest to him—until the scarf, the gloves, and the glimpse of her face clicked into place, and he realised who he was looking at.

He clutched at his pint.

“S’matter?” asked One-Tooth.

“That’s fucking—that’s—never mind,” gurgled Osric.