She stepped inside, letting the old goat-skin curtain fall back to fill the doorway. ‘Why aren’t you in the Tower of Hate?’

Sighing, Arathan set down the stylus. ‘I needed somewhere without interruptions. Gothos was getting too many visitors. Everyone’s complaining. Though it has nothing to do with Gothos, they all seem to think he has some influence with Hood. But he doesn’t. Who has freckles?’

She strolled closer, eyeing the decrepit furnishings, the arcane symbols scratched into the plastered walls. ‘Young, sweet Ifayle. A Dog-Runner. He wants to sleep with me.’

Arathan returned to his transcribing. ‘That’s nice. I hear they have lice and ticks and fleas. Maybe those weren’t freckles at all, just welts from all the bites and things.’

‘They were freckles. And he’s clean enough. They use oils on their bodies. Drowns everything, and highlights the red in the hairs on his arms – they glisten like gold.’

‘You really like his arms, don’t you?’

‘They’re strong, too.’

‘So go roll in the grass with him, then!’

‘Maybe I will!’

‘Better do it now, since presumably this Ifayle’s here to march with Hood.’

‘March? Where? When? There’s a reason Hood’s not packed up his tent – he can’t figure out where to go!’

Arathan scowled down at the vellum, resumed his work. ‘Don’t be absurd. He’s just waiting.’

‘For what?’

‘More people are still coming in—’

‘A mere trickle, and most of them are undecided. More curious than anything else. People like spectacle, and that’s all this is. Vapid, useless, pointless spectacle! Hood’s joke, and it’s on all of you.’ She walked over to the etched wall. ‘What’s all this about?’

Arathan shrugged. ‘It’s not Jaghut script. Gothos said something about a mad Builder.’

‘Builder?’

‘The ones who make Azath Houses.’

‘No one makes Azath Houses, you fool. That’s the whole point, the whole mystery of them. They just appear.’

‘What’s that in your hand?’

‘This? An acorn. Why? Do you have a problem with it?’

‘Well, there are no oaks here.’

‘So? Anyway, the Azath Houses just grow up out of the ground.’

He leaned back. ‘Have you seen this happen?’ he asked.

‘Haut explained it. And their yards are hungry.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just what I said. Their yards are hungry. Haut’s own words. I have a good memory, you know. Better than most people.’

‘So you don’t know what it means either. Hungry yards. Sounds… ominous.’ Abruptly he began cleaning his stylus, and then he stoppered the bottle of ink.

‘What are you doing? I thought you were busy.’