"You can get it at the Bazaar," she says, "if you don't mind getting stiffed. The honey-dens might sell you some at a better rate. Or you could steal it, what do I care?"

"Might as well try the honey-dens first."

He closes the jar and puts it away and smiles at her. "Thanks," he says. "I'll see you again when I've got your honey."

He bows on his way out of the room, fluid and understated like he wasn't thinking about it at all and simply found it more natural than departing any other way.

From the bemused look on her face, she doesn't get that a lot.

The nearest honey-den to the Singer's place offers Prisoner's Honey at 80 pence per ounce. "Really it's measured by the drop," the Oleaginous Proprietor tells him. "If you want that much honey, you've either got a very serious habit, or you're spreading it on scones."

Well, it sounds like she's got a very serious habit, then, but that's none of his business. He's not even sure he knows what prisoner's honey does.

Question is, can he come up with four times eighty pence on the spot, or does he have to go make some money first?

He could, but it'd take almost all he got from the mugger. He'd be left with about twenty of the various currencies, plus the thumbnail-sized diamond.

Well, being broke sounds like a problem for future him.

—wait, no, that's Bad Forward Planning, isn't it. Probably he should make sure to not spend all his money without first obtaining more. On the other hand, a thumbnail-sized diamond is almost like money, isn't it? Maybe he could just buy the honey and get the mandrake its singing lessons and then go find more money afterward... no, that still sounds like leaving his future self to deal with the problem. If he can't figure out on the spot exactly how he is going to have the funds to feed himself next week, he should go make some more money right now and obtain singing lessons for his mandrake later.

He takes the mandrake home and pats its jar affectionately and leaves it in his room and heads over to Watchmaker's Hill to see if those nice people at Menace Eradication have got another bounty he can claim.

They have plenty of bounties! He could hunt marsh-wolves, or sorrow-spiders, or even a fungus-column. These bounties are all posted on a board outside the Department.

Also outside the Department is a woman who looks very tired of everyone's bullshit. "What kind of hunters won't kill anything that flies?" she mutters.

He stops and looks at her curiously. "What's the trouble?"

"My chandlery workshop is infested with frostmoths," the Bitter Chandleress explains. "So I thought I'd come by to get a Menace Eradicator, get them cleared out. But when I mentioned the nature of the problem, the superstitious idiots just started crossing themselves. Said it's against the will of the Prester to kill anything that flies! So I suppose nobody's going to get this reward I pulled together, and I'll have to fumigate the place."

"I could take a look," he says cheerfully.

"Oh, would you? That'd be awfully nice of you. Come on, the workshop's a ways this way."

She leads him through some marshland to a little workshop. Inside, it's frigid, his breath coming out as clouds of steam, and the ceiling is carpeted with translucent insects.

The Chandleress hands him a pair of thick leather gloves. "You'll want these - their wings are like razors."

"Good to know!"

He puts on the gloves and investigates the ceiling. Can he just grab them and crush them, is that a thing? Or is he going to have to get more strategic about this?

As he reaches up to the ceiling, the Chandleress whispers "Careful - they might swarm you for your body heat, and that's a bad way to die. Maybe you can light a candle and wait for them to come down?"

Strategy it is, then. He shrugs and tries the candle.

The candle draws the moths down, one or two or half a dozen at a time awakening and going towards the bright heat. They crunch between the gloves like ice underfoot. It's meditative, in a way.

They're pretty! Crunch crunch.

It takes a while, but the floor is eventually covered with meltwater and insect husks, and the ceiling is clear. "Thank you," the Chandleress says with a relieved sigh, handing over a pouch of rostygold. "Here's what I'd have spent on the poison to fumigate, plus a bit since I don't have to clear the workshop for the day. You're a lifesaver."

"You're welcome! Happy to help!"

And now how much money does he have?

The Chandleress gave him two hundred fifty rostygold - enough that he'll have no trouble feeding himself even after paying for the Singer's fee.

Oh good! Then - well, it's getting pretty late, but the next day he can go buy some honey and bring the honey and the mandrake to the Singer.

The Singer receives him with a gracious curtsey, then takes the honey bottle from his hand and secrets it away into a hidden pocket. "Thank you very much."

She takes the mandrake out of its jar and beholds it. It beholds her, in turn.

She sings a high note. The mandrake cocks its head quizzically, then attempts to imitate her. It's rather flat, and very loud. She winces, then shrugs. "I've heard worse. You can run along - I'll have your vegetable singing Die Zauberflöte soon enough. Call it four hours a day until we're both satisfied?"

"Seems reasonable! Should I be back for it in four hours, then?"

"Yes, four hours and I'll have a good estimate of where its talents lie."

He beams delightedly at her. "Thank you!" he says, and takes his leave, again with that absent-minded courtesy.

So, four hours. What shall he do with four hours? Maybe he'll wander the streets some more and see if he sees anything new and interesting in places yet unexplored.

As he's crossing Hater's Bridge, he may hear the leathery flap of wings above. Not the quick wingbeats of the average bat - slower, more intense.