Ormulogun grinned. ‘Oh yes, warrior, I see all too well for your comfort, yes? Now Gumble, spew forth your commentary, for I know its tide is building! Come now!’

‘You are mad,’ the toad observed laconically. ‘Forgive him, Shield Anvil, he softens his paint in his own mouth. It has poisoned his brain—’

‘Poisoned, pickled, poached, yes, yes, I’ve heard every variation from you until I’m sick to my stomach!’

‘Nausea is to be expected,’ the toad said with a sleepy blink. ‘Shield Anvil, I am no critic. Merely a humble observer who, when able, speaks on behalf of the tongue-tied multitudes otherwise known as the commonalty, or, more precisely, the rabble. An audience, understand, wholly incapable of self-realization or cogent articulation, and thus possessors of depressingly vulgar tastes when not apprised of what they truly like, if only they knew it. My meagre gift, therefore, lies in the communication of an aesthetic framework upon which most artists hang themselves.’

‘Ha, slimy one! Ha! So very slimy! Here, have a fly!’ Ormulogun plunged his paint-smeared fingers into a pouch at his side. He withdrew a deerfly and tossed it at the toad.

The still living but dewinged insect landed directly in front of Gumble, who lunged forward and devoured it in a pink flash. ‘As I was saying—’

‘A moment, if you please,’ Itkovian interrupted.

‘I will allow a moment,’ the toad said, ‘if possessing admirable brevity.’

‘Thank you, sir. Ormulogun, you say it was the practice of the Emperor of Malaz to assign artists to his armies. Presumably to record historical moments. Yet is not Onearm’s Host outlawed? For whom, then, do you paint?’

‘A record of the outlawry is essential! Besides, I had little choice but to accompany the army. What would you have me do, paint sunsets on cobbles in Darujhistan for a living? I found myself on the wrong continent! As for the so-called community of artisans and patrons in the so-called city of Pale and their so-called styles of expression—’

‘They hated you,’ Gumble said.

‘And I hated them! Tell me, did you see anything worthy of mention in Pale? Did you?’

‘Well, there was one mosaic—’

‘What?’

‘Fortunately, the attributed artist was long dead, permitting my effusiveness in its praise.’

‘You call that effusive? “It shows promise . . .” Isn’t that what you said? You well know it’s precisely what you said, as soon as that foppish host mentioned the artist was dead!’

‘Actually,’ Itkovian commented, ‘rather droll, to say such a thing.’

‘I am never droll,’ the toad said.

‘Though you do drool on occasion! Ha! Slimy one, yes? Ha!’

‘Suck another lump of paint, will you? There, that quicksilvered white. Looks very tasty.’

‘You just want me dead,’ Ormulogun muttered, reaching for the small gummy piece of paint. ‘So you can get effusive.’

‘If you say so.’

‘You’re a leech, you know that? Following me around everywhere. A vulture.’