The barman winced, and mumbled: “Temp’rance League…”

“Right! Well done!” said Maladict. “And one more thought for you, if you’ve got room. I’ve only taken a pledge not to drink human blood. It doesn’t mean I can’t kick you in the fork so hard you suddenly go deaf.”

He released his grip. The barman slowly straightened up. Under the bar he would have a short wooden club, Polly knew. Every bar had one. Even her father had one. It was a great help, he said, in times of worry and confusion. She saw the fingers of the usable hand twitch.

“Don’t,” she said. “I think he means it.”

The barman relaxed. “Bit of a misunderstanding there, gents,” he mumbled. “Got the wrong barrel in. No offence meant.” He shuffled off, his hand almost visibly throbbing.

“I only thaid it wath horthe pith,” said Igor.

“He won’t cause trouble,” said Polly to Maladict. “He’ll be your friend from now on. He’s worked out he can’t beat you so he’s going to be your best mate.”

Maladict subjected her to a thoughtful stare. “I know that,” he said. “How do you?”

“I used to work in an inn,” said Polly, feeling her heart begin to beat faster, as it always did when the lies lined up. “You learn to read people.”

“What did you do in the inn?”

“Barman.”

“There’s another inn in this hole, is there?”

“Oh no, I’m not from round here.”

Polly groaned at the sound of her own voice, and waited for the question: “Then why come here to join up?” It didn’t come. Instead, Maladict just shrugged and said, “I shouldn’t think anyone is from round here.”

A couple more new recruits arrived at the bar. They had the same look—sheepish, a bit defiant, in clothes that didn’t fit well. Eyebrow reappeared with a small keg, which he laid reverentially on a stand and gently tapped. He pulled a genuine pewter tankard from under the bar, filled it, and timorously proffered it to Maladict.