‘The young have little in their satchel, and so would make of each possession something vast. Bulky, heavy, awkward. They end up with a crowded bag indeed – or so they believe, when we look upon it and see little more than a slim purse dangling jauntily from your belt.’

‘You belittle my wounds.’

‘Cherish the sting of my dismissal, won’t you? I’ll see it fiery and swollen, inflamed and then black with rot, until all your limbs fall off. Oh, summon the Abyss, and dare it be vast enough to hold your thousand angry suns. But if mockery wounds so readily—’

‘Forgive me, lord,’ Arathan interrupted, ‘I fear the old leaves in this pot may prove bitter. Shall I sweeten what I serve you?’

‘You imagine your silence does not groan like a host of drunk bards lifting heads to the dawn?’ Gothos waved a hand. ‘The older the leaves the more subtle the flavour. But a nugget of honey wouldn’t hurt.’

‘Was it Haut who said the tusk sweetens with age, lord?’

‘Sounds more like Varandas,’ muttered Gothos. ‘The fool shits coddled babies at the sight of a lone flower sprung from between stones. On his behalf I do invite you to his company on the next maudlin night, which would be any night you choose. But I should warn you, what begins as a gentle passing between you of your sore, broken hearts will soon turn into a hoary contest of tragedies. Gird yourself to the battle of whose past wounds have cut deepest. Come morning, I’ll send someone to clean up the mess.’

Arathan collected up the cup and poured tea. He dropped a nugget of honey into it. ‘There was a stabler, on my father’s estate, who made and ate rock candy. His teeth had all rotted away.’ He strode over to set the cup down on the desktop.

Gothos grunted. ‘An affliction when the child is taken too soon from the mother’s tit. Spend the rest of your days sucking on something, anything, everything. There are Dog-Runners who slip in among the herds they hunt, to suckle animal teats in the season. They too have no teeth.’

‘And none of these Dog-Runners are trampled?’

‘Obsession incurs risk, Arathan.’

Arathan stood studying the Lord of Hate. ‘I imagine something like your Folly must incur many risks, lord. How is it you have avoided such dread pitfalls?’

‘In itself, a suicide note involves no particular obsession,’ Gothos replied, collecting up the cup. ‘My haunting is both singular and modest, in that I mean to get it right.’

‘And when you do, lord? When you finally get it right?’

‘Proof against the accusation of obsession,’ the lord answered, ‘since what drives me is simple curiosity. Indeed, what will happen when I finally get it right? Be sure I will find a means of letting you know the day that occurs.’