'The same day,' Murillio said, as he helped his friend remove his mail hauberk. 'We're still on schedule, though from all this blood it looks like you won't be duelling Orr at Simtal's Fete. I'll handle that.'

'Stupid idea.' Rallick groaned. 'You'll just get killed and Turban Orr will walk away, still Lady Simtal's backer and still powerful enough to prevent Coil's claim to rights.'

Murillio made no reply to that. He peeled back the leather padding to expose the wound. 'What's with all this blood on you?' he demanded. 'There's nothing here but a week-old scar.'

'Huh?' Rallick probed the place where Ocelot's wrist-blade had stabbed him. It felt mildly tender, itchy at the edges. 'I'll be damned,' he muttered. 'Anyway, get me a washcloth, so I can clean all this rust off.'

Murillio sat back on his haunches, clearly confused. 'What rust?'

'The stuff on my face,' Rallick said, scowling at his friend.

Murillio leaned close.

'Baruk's magic-deadening powder!' the assassin snapped. 'How the hell do you think I managed to kill Ocelot?'

'Your face is clean, Rallick,' Murillio said. 'You're welcome to the washcloth. We'll get all that dried blood off you in any case.'

'Give me a mirror first,' Rallick said.

Murillio found one and stood watching Rallick study his own pallid reflection, which bore a deep frown. He observed drily, 'Well, that expression confirms it for me.'

'Confirms what?' the assassin asked, in a dangerous tone.

'That you're you, Rallick.' Murillio squared his shoulders. 'Rest here for a while. You've lost a lot of blood. I'm off to find the Eel and tell him a thing or two.'

'You know who the Eel is?'

He strode to the door. 'I've got a hunch. If you can walk, try locking this door behind me, will you?'

Kruppe mopped his brow with his limp, sodden handkerchief. 'Kruppe has uttered every single detail at least a thousand times, Master Baruk,' he complained. 'Will this ordeal never end? Look at yon window. A whole day in Kruppe's life has passed!'

The alchemist sat frowning down at his slippers, occasionally wiggling his toes, as the minutes passed. It was as if he'd forgotten Kruppe's presence in the room, and it had been this way for the past hour, no matter how much Kruppe talked.

'Master Baruk,' Kruppe tried again, 'may your loyal servant leave? He's not yet recovered from his horrific journey in the eastern wastelands. Simple fare, of roast mutton, potatoes, fried onions and carrots, mussels in garlic butter, dates, cheese, smoked slipper minnows and a carafe of wine, now occupies Kruppe's mind to the exclusion of all else. Such as he has been reduced, his world contracting apace with his stomach—'