Yegres sighed. “This is very early for this sort of thing. I didn’t even manage breakfast. Too much to expect assassins to show more tact, I suppose. My belly’s empty as the new president’s head.” Yegres exhaled loudly. “And the old one’s, from the rumours of what the poison did to her. And that lovely girl, her AdC … Orpe, wasn’t it?”

Banstegeyn nodded. Yegres looked at the septame, leaned in towards him and put his hand over his mouth again. “Always thought she might be a bit keen on you, you know. Was that … was I …?”

“Septame,” a voice said from the other side of Banstegeyn, as the avatar of the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In appeared suddenly. Banstegeyn took a deep breath. He’d have sworn the silver-skinned creature could slide through spaces it shouldn’t have been able to, insinuating itself through a press of bodies almost as though they weren’t there. Still, at least now he had an excuse not to answer Yegres. “We are deeply sorry,” Ziborlun continued, speaking very quiet and close to his ear, “to hear of the death of President Geljemyn and wish to extend both our sympathies and an offer of help – any help at all – to the Gzilt people. I do hope you and I can talk further, soon. I may have information that I can share only with you. Thank you, Septame,” the creature touched him once on the forearm, slipped away again.

Yegres leaned out, looking across Banstegeyn. “I assume that was condolences,” he muttered, “but it looked more like a betting tip.”

“… It is not known, at this moment in time,” the acting president was saying, “precisely and exactly who is responsible, beyond a … a reasonable belief that the Ronte, and their, ah, their agents and their, ah, abettors are, ahm, behind whoever that person or persons might be. So. There we are. Yes. You. What?”

Banstegeyn sighed. “How did this moron get to be a trime? Or a degan? Or a thirty-second, for that matter?”

Yegres cleared his throat. “You promoted him, old son.”

The septame stared at the older man. “What?” he whispered.

Yegres shrugged. “Oh, every available opportunity, maestro; gave him a helping hand whenever people wanted to kick him upstairs, which was often. Eventually you kicked him up above yourself, made the old duffer a trime.” Yegres looked at him blearily. “Fuck me, Banners, you’re not starting to forget which useful dipsticks you’ve supported over the years because they’ll always agree with you, are you? Prophet’s piss, you’ll be forgetting me next.” He shook his head, glanced at his time-to and muttered, “Wonder if the bars are serving yet …”