‘You don’t look injured.’ Tuttugu buried his fingers in the ginger bush of his beard and scratched furiously, muttering something. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Brothel rash,’ he said. ‘Whore pox?’ That at least made me smile. ‘Ha!’ ‘Snorri said—’ ‘I ain’t laying on hands down there! I’m a prince of Red March for God’s sake! Not some travelling apothecary-cum-faith-healer!’ The fat man’s face fell.
