The bell brought a man creeping through a side door, hands rubbing nervously together. Small and dark-skinned with a sorry face. Worried they were here to rob him, more’n likely, what with Orso’s army not far distant. Everyone in Puranti seemed worried, scared they’d lose what they had. Apart from Shivers himself. He hadn’t much to lose.

“Sir, madam, can I be of assistance?”

“You’re Scopal?” asked Monza. “The eye-maker?”

“I am Scopal,” he bent a nervous bow, “scientist, surgeon, physician, specialising in all things relating to the vision.”

Shivers undid the knot at the back of his head. “Good enough.” And he started unwinding the bandages. “Fact is I’ve lost an eye.”

That perked the surgeon up. “Oh, don’t say lost, my friend!” He came forwards into the light from the window. “Don’t say lost until I have had a chance to view the damage. You would be amazed at what can be achieved! Science is leaping forwards every day!”

“Springy bastard, ain’t it.”

Scopal gave an uncertain chuckle. “Ah… most elastic. Why, I have returned a measure of sight to men who thought themselves blind for life. They called me a magician! Imagine that! They called me… a…”

Shivers peeled away the last bandages, the air cold against his tingling skin, and he stepped up closer, turning the left side of his face forwards. “Well? What do you reckon? Can science make that big a jump?”

The man gave a polite nod. “My apologies. But even in the area of replacement I have made great discoveries, never fear!”

Shivers took a half-step further, looming over the man. “Do I look feared to you?”

“Not in the least, of course, I merely meant… well…” Scopal cleared his throat and sidled to the shelves. “My current process for an ocular prosthesis is—”

“The fuck?”

“Fake eye,” said Monza.

“Oh, much, much more than that.” Scopal slid out a wooden rack. Six metal balls sat on it, gleaming silver-bright. “A perfect sphere of the finest Midderland steel is inserted into the orbit where it will, one hopes, remain permanently.” He brought down a round board, flipped it towards them with a showy twist. It was covered with eyes. Blue ones, green ones, brown ones. Each had the colour of a real eye, the gleam of a real eye, some of the whites even had a red vein or two in ’em. And still they looked about as much like a real eye as a boiled egg might’ve.

Scopal waved at his wares with high smugness. “A curved enamel such as these, painted with care to match perfectly your other eye, is then inserted between metal ball and eyelid. These are prone to wear, and must therefore be regularly changed, but, believe me, the results can be uncanny.”

The fake eyes stared, unblinking, at Shivers. “They look like dead men’s eyes.”

An uncomfortable pause. “When glued upon a board, of course, but properly fitted within a living face—”

“Reckon it’s a good thing. Dead men tell no lies, eh? We’ll have no more lies.” Shivers strode to the back of the shop, dropped down into the chair, stretched out and crossed his legs. “Get to it, then.”