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Fairhrim reached for Choking Hazard’s empty glass. “Can I get you another drink, Mr.—erm, I don’t even know your name—”

“Scrope,” said Choking Hazard.

Fairhrim’s fingers around the glass twitched. Osric choked on his drink.

“S-Scrope?” said Fairhrim.

“Yeah. You’ve heard of me?” asked Scrope, né Choking Hazard, with a grin that was meant to be roguish, probably. (Insufficient teeth. Osric did a much better roguish grin.)

“I think I might’ve,” said Fairhrim. “People say you’re in the know about—well, everything. But I must be getting you confused with someone else. You hadn’t heard the Swanstone rumour, after all. I’ll be right back. It was whiskey, wasn’t it?”

Having pricked Scrope with this needle, Fairhrim tottered off to the bar. She asked for another whiskey, then excused herself to the toilet.

Osric rose from his card game. “Flash diarrhoea,” he said, and the group asked for no further explanations.

Osric didn’t need to ask for directions to the privies; he needed merely to follow the whiff of stale urine. He pushed open the door to the toilet to find Fairhrim undertaking some sort of deep breathing exercise at the sink, and washing her arm where Scrope had touched her.

“What’s the next step in your master plan?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Fairhrim. “I’m improvising.”

“You might’ve told me you were going to try to seduce him.”

“That wasn’t the plan. But, well—if I’m his type—”

“This is appalling to watch.”

“To watch? What about me? I’m living it.” Fairhrim shuddered. “That man is a vaginal desiccant.”

“Get another whiskey down him and try the castle line again. And if it doesn’t work, get back to the safety of your friends, and I’ll do it my way—just as we should’ve done from the beginning.”

“Fine,” said Fairhrim.

“I can’t believe I paid three hundred thrymsas to watch you be groped by Scrope.”

“Is hethatScrope? The ejaculate-in-the-baths Scrope?”

“Ask him. I’m sure he’d be delighted to tell you about his wanking habits.”

There was a thump at the door.

Osric and Fairhrim opened the door to find Cerys, Madam Miffle, and two other women waiting outside. They all glared at Osric as though he were the troublemaker here, and not Fairhrim. In their fists were knives, the sabre, and two broken bottles. They were ready to maul him.

“Everything all right?” asked Cerys.

“Everything is fine,” said Fairhrim. “Thank you. I’ve almost got what I need.”

Osric lingered in the corridor a bit to give Fairhrim the chance to return to her conversation. The ladies left him behind with suspicious glares over their shoulders.

He rejoined the card game and fielded a few witty enquiries about his bunghole at the Bunghole. Scrope and Fairhrim got to chatting again. One-Tooth won a suspicious number of rounds. Osric found it difficult to focus on his cards, other than how frequently the ace of hearts popped up in his hands.

Scrope was—gods, was he really?—yes, he was asking Fairhrim to feel his muscles.

(Osric never indulged in such ridiculous showing off.)

“You’re built like one of the Wardens,” said Fairhrim.

“Pah,”spat Scrope. “Those fucks.”