"No brew yet," he hummed in a high falsetto, throaty and puling from so ponderous a carcase.
Fulviac set one foot on the stairs.
"St. Prosper's wine, fat Jean," he said.
The rotund soul turned his face suddenly earthwards, as though he had been jerked down by one leg out of heaven.
"Ah, sire, it is you."
"Who else? What of the good folk of Gilderoy?"
"Packed like a crowd of rats in a drain. Will your honour sup?"
The man stood aside with a great sweep of the hand, and a garlic-ladened breath given full in Yeoland's face.
"And the lady, sire, a cup of purple; the roads are dry?"
Fulviac pushed up the stairs.