‘A man came here a few days ago. He said that it would be worth a hundred gold pieces to every physician in the building if you left empty-handed.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He had a military bearing and white hair.’

‘Martel,’ Sparhawk said to Sephrenia.

‘We should have guessed almost immediately,’ she replied.

‘Take heart, friends,’ the messy little man told them expansively. ‘You’ve found your way to the finest physician in Borrata.’ He grinned then. ‘My colleagues all fly south with the ducks in the fall going, “Quack, quack, quack.” You couldn’t get a sound medical opinion out of any one of them. The white-haired man said that you’d describe some symptoms. Some lady someplace is very ill, I understand, and your friend – this Martel you mentioned – would prefer that she didn’t recover. Why don’t we disappoint him?’ He drank deeply from his tankard.

‘You’re a credit to your profession, good doctor,’ Sephrenia said.

‘No. I’m a vicious-minded old drunkard. Do you really want to know why I’m willing to help you? It’s because I’ll enjoy the screams of anguish from my colleagues when all that money slips through their fingers.’

‘That’s as good a reason as any, I suppose,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Exactly.’ The slightly tipsy physician peered at Sparhawk’s nose. ‘Why didn’t you have that set when it got broken?’ he asked.

Sparhawk touched his nose. ‘I was busy with other things.’

‘I can fix it for you if you’d like. All I have to do is take a hammer and break it again. Then I can set it for you.’

‘Thanks all the same, but I’m used to it now.’

‘Suit yourself. All right, what are these symptoms you came here to describe?’

Once again Sephrenia ran down the list for him.

He sat scratching at his ear with his eyes narrowed. Then he rummaged through the litter piled high on his desk and pulled out a thick book with a torn leather cover. He leafed through it for several moments, then slammed it shut. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said triumphantly. He belched again.

‘Well?’ Sparhawk said.

‘Your friend was poisoned. Has she died yet?’

A chill caught at Sparhawk’s stomach. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘It’s only a matter of time.’ The physician shrugged. ‘It’s a rare poison from Rendor. It’s invariably fatal.’

Sparhawk clenched his teeth. ‘I’m going to go back to Cimmura and disembowel Annias,’ he grated, ‘with a dull knife.’

The disreputable little physician suddenly looked interested. ‘You do it this way,’ he suggested. ‘Make a lateral incision just below the navel. Then kick him over backwards. Everything ought to fall out at that point.’

Thank you.’

‘No charge. If you’re going to do something, do it right. I take it that this Annias person is the one you think was responsible?’

‘Undoubtedly.’