As Grizbut and Nero chatted, the Wise One felt a gentle tap. It was from a kind old man called Soree, and he was clearly troubled.

“Wise One,” he said. “Could you do something about the trader Maggor?” Grizbut rolled her eyes as she remembered the dead gerbil incident. “What has he done now?” she asked diplomatically as she took the old man to a quiet corner of the café. “Yesterday,” Soree said, “Maggor came to my door selling fudge at a dollar a pound. ‘What a fantastic price,’ I thought, so I bought some. It looked fine, smelled great. But I kid you not; it was the vilest tasting stuff I have EVER known. It filled my mouth like the bubonic plague and no matter what I did, I couldn’t get rid of the toxic taste. On top of that, it gave me a sense of dread that it was poisonous.

Anyway, a moment later there was a knock at the door and it was Maggor again, and guess what?” Soree answered his own question: “He was selling – for a hundred dollars a bottle!” Soree paused, clearly angry. “I then knew it was all a con. But the taste in my mouth was so bad, and the fear I’d been poisoned so strong; I chose to pay that scum Maggor his price.” The old man went quiet, clearly upset at himself as well as Maggor. Grizbut responded softly so only the old man heard her. “Soree, if I had my way, Maggor would be rotting in jail. But you know he’s a well-connected Denargian, so we have to be careful how we treat him. But don’t worry,” she said, looking Soree in the eye, “when the time is right, he’ll get what he deserves.”