Page 96

Blessed distraction came. For no discernible reason, the Artful Todger tore off his shirt and challenged Scratch and Sniff to a fight. Dandruff launched himself onto both of them. Choking Hazard and his entourage threw their drinks over the combatants and were dragged into the fray.

Osric joined Cerys, Madam Miffle, and bloody fucking Fairhrim in the corner they’d retreated to.

“Hiya,” he said to Fairhrim, by which he meantI’m going to kill you.

Cerys wedged herself between Osric and Fairhrim. Thoughts andPrayers made, frankly, an impressive sort of barricade. “What do you want?”

Osric was about to tell Cerys to fuck off, when he noticed that Madam Miffle might not have had legs but she did have an ancient sabre, which was presently pointed at his groin.

“What museum did you pilfer that from?” asked Osric.

Cerys loomed. The dual threat of suffocation by tit and tetanus of the bollocks made Osric change tacks.

“Your new girl caught my eye,” said Osric.

“She isn’t having anyone tonight,” said Madam Miffle. “She’s only learning.”

“I just wanted to speak with her. See if we—er—connect.”

Madam Miffle and Cerys turned to Fairhrim, who had fixed Osric with a glare of her own. However, she gave them a nod.

“Fine,” said Madam Miffle. “Our fee for half an hour of conversation is three hundred thrymsas.”

“That’s highway fucking robbery,” said Osric.

“Pay up or leave,” said Madam Miffle, with an ominous sabre rattle.

Osric paid up.

Cerys and her nipple pasties moved aside. “Stay within our sight. And no touching her.”

As if Osric would dream of touching the most irritating, meddlesome little Haelan who had ever walked the earth. Other than to murder her, obviously.

Also: Fairhrim had no business having Thighs of Interest.

Osric spat out a proposition to go to the bar. Fairhrim snapped out a tight-necked nod.

They slid along the wall to avoid the brawl and squeezed up to the bar. Their backs were to the room, which was ideal, as their conversation was bound to look anything but friendly.

Osric ordered a Scotch. Fairhrim asked for water.

Gods.

“You didn’t tell me you’d moved on to a new career,” said Osric.

“A temporary arrangement,” said Fairhrim.

“How can you walk in those ridiculous boots?”

“How can you see in those ridiculous spectacles?”

“They’re for privacy.”

“You look like a bee.”

The bartender returned with their drinks, and then, for reasons known best to himself, flung himself headlong into the brawl.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to me,” said Fairhrim through clenched teeth. “I thought you were meant to be good at subterfuge.”