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took great pains to explain the system. ‘You get your tray,’ he said, ‘and you stand in line while they serve the people in front of you, and then you ask the girl behind the counter for what you want. Food-wise,’ he added. ‘And then she puts it on your tray and you take it up to the cash desk. Got that?’
    Boamund nodded. ‘And then what?’ he asked.
    â€˜Then we sit down and eat,’ Toenail said.
    â€˜Where?’
    Toenail looked up at him. ‘You what?’
    â€˜Where do we sit?’ Boamund repeated. ‘I mean, I don’t want to make a fool of myself by sitting in a dishonourable seat.’
    Jesus flaming Christ, thought Toenail to himself, why didn’t I just bring sandwiches? ‘You sit wherever you like,’ he said. ‘It’s a service station, not the Lord Mayor’s Banquet.’
    â€˜What’s a—?’
    â€˜Shut up.’
    To do him credit, Boamund waited very patiently in the queue. He didn’t push or shove or challenge any of the lorry drivers to a duel if they trod on his foot. Toenail’s stomach began to unclench slightly.
    â€˜Next,’ said the woman on the Hot Specials counter. Toenail asked for steak and kidney pudding and was about to move on when he heard Boamund’s voice saying:
    â€˜I’ll have roast swan stuffed with quails, boar’s chine in honey, venison black pudding, three partridges done rare and a quart of Rhenish. Please,’ he added.
    The girl looked at him.
    â€˜I said,’ Boamund repeated, ‘I’ll have roast swan stuffed with...’
    One of the few advantages of being a dwarf is that you can walk away from situations like these without anybody noticing, if necessary by ducking down between people’s legs. Very carefully, so as not to spill his gravy, Toenail started to walk...
    â€˜Toenail!’
    He stopped and sighed. Behind Boamund, quite a few people were beginning to get impatient.
    â€˜Toenail,’ Boamund was saying, ‘you told me to ask the girl behind the counter for what I wanted to eat, and she’s saying all I can have is something called lassania.’
    â€˜You’ll like it,’ Toenail croaked. ‘They do a very good lasagna here.’
    Boamund shook his head. ‘Listen,’ he said to the girl, whose face was doing what concrete does, only quicker, ‘I don’t want this yellow muck, right, I want roast swan stuffed with quails...’
    The girl said something to Boamund, and the dwarf, whose genes were full of useful information about the habits of insulted knights, instinctively dropped his tray and curled up into a ball on the floor.
    But Boamund just said, ‘Suit yourself then, I’ll get it myself,’ muttered something or other under his breath, and started to walk away. Against his better judgement, Toenail opened an eye and looked up.
    Boamund was still holding his tray. It contained a roast swan, a boar’s chine in honey, some peculiar-looking slices of black pudding, three small roast fowl and a large pewter jug.
    â€˜Here,’ said the girl, ‘that’s not allowed.’
    Boamund stood very still for a moment. ‘Sorry?’ he said.
    â€˜Eating your own food’s not allowed,’ said the girl.
    Toenail felt a boot digging into his ribs. He tried ignoring it.
    â€˜Toenail, I don’t understand this at all. First they don’t have any proper food, only lassania, and now she says I’m not allowed to eat my food. Does that mean we all have to swap trays or something?’
    Toenail stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re leaving. Quick.’
    â€˜But...’
    â€˜Come on!’
    Toenail grabbed Boamund by the sleeve and started to drag him doorwards. Behind them somebody shouted, ‘Hey! Those two haven’t paid!’
    Boamund stopped dead, and try as he might Toenail couldn’t induce him to move. ‘What did you