The remaining Generals applauded the announcement and hurried away, leaving only a few Hall attendants, myself, Mr. Crepsley and Paris behind.

"This is foolish," Mr. Crepsley grumbled. "If the vampaneze are truly considering surrender, we should push hard after them, not waste time—"

"Larten," Paris interrupted. "Follow the others, find the largest barrel of ale you can, and get good and steaming drunk."

Mr. Crepsley stared at the Prince, his mouth wide open. "Paris!" he gasped.

"You have been caged in here too long," Paris said. "Go and unwind, and do not return without a hangover."

"But—" Mr. Crepsley began.

"That is an order, Larten," Paris growled.

Mr. Crepsley looked as though he'd swallowed a live eel, but he was never one to disobey an order from a superior, so he clicked his heels together, muttered, "Aye, Sire," and stormed off to the store-rooms in a huff.

"I've never seen Mr. Crepsley with a hangover," I laughed. "What's he like?"

"Like a… what do the humans say? A gorilla with a sore head?" Paris coughed into a fist — he'd been coughing a lot lately — then smiled. "But it will do him good. Larten takes life too seriously sometimes."

"What about you?" I asked. "Do you want to go?"

Paris pulled a sour face. "A mug of ale would prove the end of me. I shall take advantage of the break by lying in my coffin at the back of the Hall and getting a full day's sleep."

"Are you sure? I can stay if you want."

"No. Go and enjoy yourself. I will be fine."

"OK." I hopped off my throne and made for the door.

"Darren," Paris called me back. "An excessive amount of alcohol is as bad for the young as for the old. If you are wise, you will drink in moderation."

"Remember what you told me about wisdom a few years ago, Paris?" I replied.