"Good. We can use that." I look at Bukh. At the panda. At the grin. "Use it for what?" "Not here. Too many ears." He stands. The stool sighs. He sways. Just a little. The way he always sways. "Come on. Back room." I follow him. Past the bar. Past the drunks. Past a door marked Private. "Listen here, new guy — hic — why are you so pale? Didn't eat? Or just weak with ale? — hic." "I ate." "Did you? You look like death. Old death. — hic — Not the fresh kind." "I've been told." "Who told you?" "You did. Ten minutes ago." Bukh stops. Thinks. Drinks from a flask he produces from somewhere. He always has a flask. I'm starting to think it's part of him. "Right. — hic — I'm a good judge of character. And you, new guy, are cursed." "I know." "Good. — hic — We can use that." He pushes open the back room door. Crates. Barrels. A table with three chairs. A lamp. And an iron door. No handle. A keyhole shaped like a mouth. "That's the cellar door," I say. "That's the cellar door. — hic." "You could have just told me." "I could have. But Sera doesn't like the new guy knowing about the cellar before he's had a drink. Says it makes them nervous. — hic." He points at a chair. I sit. He sits. The chair groans. "Now. The curse. — hic — Tell me." "I don't know much. A woman. Red skin. Green eyes. A temple. A stone." Bukh shrugs. Drinks. Belches. The way he always does. "Never heard of her. — hic — But a curse is a curse. And curses are useful." "For what?" He points at the door. Sways. Steadies himself on the table. "That. Scratching for three days. Wants something old. Something cursed. — hic." "And you think it wants me?" "I think it wants what's in you. The old death. — hic — The years. The stuff that doesn't go away." I touch my chest. Young. Smooth. No scars. "Who cursed you?" Bukh asks. "I told you. I don't know." "Then we'll find out. — hic — After the door." He stands. Walks to the iron door. Puts a paw on it. Sways. Steadies. The way he always does. "It knows you. — hic — It's been waiting