Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] looked at this a certain way, then he said, “Let me say I'm aware of your condition. At the same time, I assure you, I would not use this knowledge to my advantage. Just that I am aware shortly that biologically you won't be able to function, shortly, much longer, which is why you are quite so wantonly attempting to destroy yourself with obscene quantities of liquor, and certain herbs of exotic provenance.”

There were the rinds of ashcaff leaves, they were called, but they weren't really, scattered all over the floor. He noticed now that he had somehow successfully managed to acquire ashcaff leaves; which were in reality, he could see, now on the floor. Their chewed up rinds. This explained the particularly whimsical nature of his hangover; which was a species of relationship to reality he found especially detestable. Whimsy.

Thankfully, he wasn't – he was pretty sure - seeing stuff that wasn't there.

Art[ion] had a short think to himself and then glanced back at the six and a half foot one eyed entity-species facing him in a whicker chair, lit quite delicately through the blurry window light.

“I'm not a figment of your imagination.” There was strange emphasis on the word your, that - “and neither am I despite my knowledge of your condition deliberately employing it against you to -”

“- Quick tell a lie.”

“What?”

“Don't act like you don't know exactly what I'm talking about; I think I'm – the other way - reading your thoughts.”

Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] reproached himself inwardly for his obvious inability to hide the fact he was reading his thoughts - “My name is not Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] it is in fact Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify, the 28th, I'm in fact your great-great-grandfather.”

There was no twinge, in his right ear - the invisible one – that accompanied the sensation that something, a gas, a cloud, a liquid, was poured across the right side of his face.

Of the colours.

A lie.

The Cyclops was real.

“You're a real liar, that's fine; that's fine. Say your name again if only to recalibrate me a trifle - by the way - what colour's my face?”

“The invisible parts – there's a swirl of turquoise in there. My name is not Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify but is rather Pry-Boak [cL^YoP]. I'm a Cyclops.”

Through all this Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] had finally untangled the belts from his doublet. Art's. Which he tossed at him. They had no business being attached to that garment, that they apparently had been. He wore it under a cuirass much of the time – dented in the corner – and anyway who cared about anything he was thinking.

Casting around the various piles he found his soiled undershirt; he'd put himself back together later.

Every time, he thought: incapable of living unless he was moving toward something irrational and mysterious.

“No use being coy,” said Pry, “I exist.” And then he had a thought:

Maybe the truth would work.

If there was any scenario in which a single thought could be identified, it was this, more than even Art's identity, that caused the great cataclysm to follow.

And it wasn't even his,

thought.

Maybe the truth would work.

“I exist to give you this quest in the exact same way that you exist to receive it. In some ways we're the same man. I'm here for you. No use pretending you're a person that can live any other way. You've heard of Waat?”

“It's a major country; I've heard of a major country, yes. I retain certain facts despite...” Art indicated with a gesture the room and the evidence it contained of his unravelling mental well-being.

“And their experiments in government?”

“I need a drink.”

“Try water for the first half hour.”

Art went under the bed for the slop bucket, confounded for a moment, Pry watched him sling it out the window. What this event had to do with his experiencing thirst the Cyclops did not know.

There was a stale tankard of water behind the curtain.

“Yeah they got a queen, or something, or the queen is the king. Or something. It's modern?” He said this, darting at the door, a sudden thought seizing him; he opened it - the door - shouted, in a voice that did not countenance delay, “Thirty six eggs! I can count, even if you cannot. Otherwise. Every egg.” A reeking bedmaid opened the door opposite him. He recognised her... not so much face... she had a tit out.

“What?”

“36 eggs. Or all of your eggs. Or all of your chickens. Go before there's a series of murders. Post haste, darling, run, thanks very much a lot,” bleary eyed, she left and with force behind, Art slammed the door.

“I prefer politeness but the further from any Polis of civilisational importance the less it... functions.” He stared at him momentarily, not a thought in his head. “Government?”

Words were exchanged.