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rather less exciting. As a peasant youth, still known then as Jereome, he had managed to trip over his bootlaces and land on a boar’s tusk, thus rendering his eye irreparably damaged. But such a lowly story would not do any more. Besides, a man such as he now claimed to be would never wear anything as common as bootlaces!
    Yawning widely, the fiendish trickster stretched and disrobed, enjoying the feel of each item of clothing as he folded it carefully and put it away. He donned a soft embroidered nightshirt and a nightcap and before he climbed into bed he removed his false eye, gave it a little caress and placed it in a small velvet bag on his bedside table.
    He reached into a drawer and took out a cutting from the Northside Diurnal (they too had paid so much more than he expected!). Although the recent downfall of Augustus Fitzbaudly still dominated the headlines, he was more interested in the society section. He turned the sheets until he came to a half-page illustration of dancing ladies and gentlemen, and read again the caption beneath the sketch:
    Northside Lords and Ladies of Urbs Umida enjoy the recent Vintners’ Ball (ports and wines supplied by Faulkner’s of Vine Street)
    He stared at the picture with a wide grin. ‘Soon, very soon,’ he thought, ‘that will be me.’
     
Chapter Nine
          
The Landlord’s Pickle
    ‘A penny a go!’ shouted Hector. ‘A penny. Who today will challenge me with a riddle for a penny?’
    Hector stood on a podium in the middle of Fiveways. He was well acquainted with the place these days. He was thinner than he used to be, and his clothes were more worn, but he was cheerful and energetic. His dark eyes scanned the small crowd that had gathered around him. Not so many this morning, but Hector knew there was always someone willing to part with a penny or two and soon the riddles came thick and fast.
    ‘What can a man break many times without touching?’
    ‘His promise,’ replied Hector. ‘Let’s ’ave another.’
    ‘Give me food and I will live; give me water and I will die. What am I?’
    ‘Fire. Another.’
    ‘What can a craftsman make that is never seen?’
    ‘Noise,’ said Hector. ‘Any more?’
    A large man stepped forward, his arms folded across his barrel-like chest. ‘You won’t get this one,’ he said. ‘I found it in a book!’
    The crowd ‘oohed’ and ‘aaahed’ and applauded. Imagine, a book!
    ‘We’ll see,’ said Hector evenly. He had found that those who were most sure of themselves were usually the losers. ‘Let us hear it.’
    ‘How does a man get down from an elephant?’
    The crowd laughed. Some asked their neighbour, ‘What’s an elephant?’
    Hector pretended to think, steepling his fingers and looking skyward. ‘I believe,’ he replied slowly, ‘that you can’t get down from an elephant because it comes only from a duck!’
    The crowd cheered and clapped as Hector smiled broadly. Riddling, something that once had been little more than an enjoyable diversion with his father, was proving to be a lucrative skill. Sometimes he almost felt it was wrong to accept payment – he enjoyed the whole act so immensely, and it lifted for a while the sombre mood that had descended on him since losing his father. But Polly, who often stole a moment from her day and came down to hear Hector at work or bring him lunch, told him that was nonsense, that he thought about things far too much. As another penny landed at his feet, he bent to pick it up and a new voice cut through the noise.
    ‘Hi, young man! I have a riddle for you.’
    Hector looked around. He couldn’t see to whom the voice belonged.
    ‘And what is it, sir?’ he called out. He spotted a figure in the mob surrounding him. On account of his odd-shaped hat, his face was obscured. He sounded older than Hector but not yet a full-grown man.
    ‘It is called the Landlord’s Pickle,’ said the stranger, ‘and it goes thus:
    Ten weary footsore travellers,
All in a woeful