of an effort, and knocked back several swallows. He then grimaced, made a truly awful noise, and shook his head unhappily.
“Just a little pick-me-up; it’s hard to go straight from the drunk into the hangover without any sleep in between. Damn, I feel rough.” He took another long swallow, and then glared at me. “You were matching me drink for drink at the Wulfshead, Eddie. Why aren’t you suffering as well?”
“It’s the torc,” I said. “It can flush all the poisons out of my system in a hurry, in an emergency. For when I need my mind to be clear.”
“Lucky bastard,” said the Seneschal. “Why can’t our armour do something that useful?”
He took one last drink, slammed the cork back into the bottle, and put it down on the floor again.
“What is that stuff?” I said.
“Disgusting,” Sir Perryvale said flatly. “I think it works on the principle that anything that tastes so utterly vile has to be doing me some good. I do feel a little better. I think. Why do the worst emergencies always have to happen when you’re never in a suitable state to deal with them?”
He forced himself up onto his feet, swayed a little, and then strode over to a side door and kicked it open, revealing an adjoining self-contained bathroom. He turned on the light, which turned out to be stark, unforgiving electric, glaring back from a lot of white tiling. Sir Perryvale winced and went inside.
“You stay put,” he said over his shoulder. “While I get changed into something less comfortable. So one of us can stop being so damned embarrassed. Keep talking! I’ll still be able to hear you.”
The Seneschal left the bathroom door open while he got changed. He threw his nightcap on the floor and then whipped off his long nightgown, revealing himself to be entirely naked underneath. He pottered around the bathroom, picking things up and putting them down again, entirely unconcerned about his nudity. I took one look at his large Falstaffian figure, broad and heavy and entirely unconfined, and then looked determinedly in another direction. It does seem to be some sort of general rule that the people most keen on casual nudity are nearly always the kind of people the rest of us least want to see doing it.
“I know,” said a voice behind me. “I’ve been trying to get him to diet for ages.”
“I heard that!” said Sir Perryvale.
“You were meant to!”
I looked around, but there was no one else in the bedroom with me. Apart from a large, puffed-out owl, sitting proudly on a wooden perch in the corner and watching me intently with dark, thoughtful eyes. I blinked at him a few times, trying to figure out how I’d overlooked him before. His feathers were grey, with long tawny streaks, and he clutched his perch with heavy, powerful claws. I moved over to him and put out a hand to stroke his head.
“Don’t get familiar, bub,” said the owl.
I withdrew my hand. “Why didn’t I notice you before?”
“Because I’m a stealth owl. Finest kind.”
“Don’t mind him,” Sir Perryvale said cheerfully from the bathroom. “Archie is always a bit tetchy, with people he doesn’t know.”
“I am not tetchy!” said the owl. “I’m just . . . careful. You have to be careful around strangers, because they’re always trouble. I keep telling you that!”
“Eddie is my guest,” said Sir Perryvale.
“He’s a Drood!” the owl said loudly. “I can see his torc! Unnatural thing . . . just looking at it puts my teeth on edge. And I don’t even have any teeth!”
“Do I mention your shortcomings?” said Sir Perryvale.
“Frequently,” said the owl.
Sir Perryvale came back in from the bathroom to join us. He was wearing the same colourful outfit he’d worn to the Wulfshead—a loud Hawaiian T-shirt over very short shorts. They stank of old booze, cigarette smoke, dried sweat, and other party residues. Away from the club, they smelled flat and sad, like the ghosts of parties past.
“Sorry,” said Sir Perryvale. He didn’t sound it. “If you wanted to see me in my ceremonial robes, you should have given me more warning.”
“He’s only got the one set,” said the owl. “And they’re in the wash. Ugly things . . .”
“I knew I should have chosen the talking raven when they offered it to me,” said Sir Perryvale.
“What? Edgar?” said the owl. “But he’s got no personality! And no conversation!”
“Precisely,” said Sir Perryvale.
“Well, really . . . ,” said the owl.
Sir Perryvale smiled at me. “How