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It's a short, uncomplicated workout that day.

It is, for some reason, a little hard to concentrate, so Havelock comes back a little over half an hour later, damp from swimming (still a novelty for an Ankh-Morpork boy, even a privileged one) and still restless.

He knocks this time before he opens the door.

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There is, by now, a small pile of ashes on Havelock's floor, and a distinct reduction in the number of matches Puck is toying with.

"Who is it?" he inquires sweetly.

In answer, Havelock opens the door.

He glances at the reduced pile of matches.

Then at Puck.

"How are you getting on?" he asks, for lack of better words.

Puck regards him with a guarded expression.

Is he going to bolt again?

"Swimmingly."

Who really knows, with Havelock?

...It seems unlikely for now, though, as he shuts the door behind him and comes further in.

"Good," he says.

Puck tilts his head, idly, though his gaze is momentarily diverted to the remaining matches.

"And yourself?"

"Much the same."

Quite literally, as Puck can probably tell from the state of his hair. He sits on the arm of one chair, and looks thoughtfully at the ashes.

"Are you busy?"

His hair, and the damp smell to him, and the slight sheen left on his skin.

... Not that Puck's looking.

"Now?"

He picks up a match and twirls it lightly between his fingertips.

Havelock glances up, watches the match twirl, and nods once.

"Now," he confirms.

He glances regretfully down at the matches.

"I suppose I am not so terribly engrossed that I haven't a moment to spare," he concedes.

And looks up at Havelock, the cant of his head expectant and in no way expecting the worst.

"That will do," Havelock nods, lacing his fingers together with a frown.

"I need to know more about Satan," he says seriously.

"...Perhaps I should have asked you sooner."

Better late than never?

Puck blinks, straightening, and the waiting in him tenses.

"--Of course," he says smoothly.

"What specifically do you wish to know?"

"I want to know what manner of power he has, and what its source is, if anything."

His expression doesn't exactly change, but he looks a little tense himself.

"I can find no exact parallel except for gods where I come from, and I dislike that thought."

But still. It would at least give him a starting point.

"Ah."

Puck shrugs, lightly.

"Well. I expect you recall that I told you he was the adversary-- the once-loved. They say he was the brightest star in Heav'n, ere he fell ... but I hardly care to speculate on the exact nature of his crime and casting-out." His voice has taken on a storyteller's cadence, smooth and easy and not overly invested. "Suffice it to say that it occurred, and he claimed dominion over devils and the souls of the damned. His powers, as I understand it, may be limited by items or persons of some holiness, despite his erstwhile angelic nature-- but to what extent I cannot say. I know only that from what I have seen of him, he has at least the ability to see into men's hearts, and bend fire to his will, and trick the body into imagining pleasures or pains that never existed. He has as well an uncanny knack for locating those he wishes found and the power to forge bargains that cannot be undone."

Havelock listens quietly. It isn't exactly an encouraging recitation, although it does sound oddly familiar.

"Bargains," he says finally. "Binding for him as well or just those he makes them with?"

That will do for a start.

"For him as well," Puck says, with a quirk of his lips, "which may be considered their saving grace, if one is moved by such considerations. On the whole it is better to make no deals with him at all." An infinitesimal pause, after which he adds, "It may also be of some interest that, when so inclined, he can cause one's body to freeze, immobile. I doubt he shall strike against anyone in that manner in the bar proper, but it should be a good deal less noticeable than other harms."

"Hmm," Havelock agrees distantly, before glancing up a little more sharply.

This just keeps on getting better.

"...Perhaps. But inconvenient. To say the least."

Puck has been willing himself into relaxation by degrees.

"Rather," he agrees.

A fluid shrug, and he reaches for one of the pillows at the head of the bed and pulls it onto his lap. Pillows are snuggly.

Havelock... does not relax. Then again, he hasn't done so for weeks.

He shakes his head instead, in thought and a little in frustration.

He does so hate not to know or not to understand.

"Angelic," he says, with apparent lightness. "That in one world a being can have such power, and yet be nonexistent in another. I would not wish him on mine, yet I could certainly use the knowledge of someone who lives where he exists."

Puck frowns, elbows resting atop the pillow.

"Would you know more of me?" he says.

"I have told you what I can; he is as knowable to one such as myself as to any other who dwells in his particular reality-- perhaps even more. Mortals seldom perceive him directly."

Havelock drums the fingers of his right hand once on the arm of the chair.

"I suppose it is unlikely that he can be killed by any means at my disposal," he says, voice just a little more clipped than usual, then looks up.

"What does he want? In general, as well as any specifics you have encountered."

Puck doesn't reply for a moment.

He glances down at the pillow, thoughtfully, though it is quite likely that whatever thoughts he has aren't meant for it.

"Traditionally," he says after a pause, "this one shall be after what the others of his kind seek most keenly-- the downfall of 'God,' however one chooses to conceive of that individual, and all related forces of light. Humans he views with especial disdain-- envy, perhaps. Such are the rumors." Another sharp shrug. "In my case, all that I can say with certainty is that he seems to glean at least some small enjoyment from my face and form ... and enjoyment in a larger part from having some dominion over me, or seeing the end of me, or causing me distress quite outside my control."

"Power," Havelock sums up softly.

(It would be nice, perhaps, if Havelock could not understand the appeal.

Sadly, there is a reason the boy has politically mobile ambitions, and he can see it all too easily.)

"I see."

"Power."

Puck doesn't spit the word, quite.

But it's a very near thing. He looks very small, just now, and somehow faint.

"It is seldom anything else."

Havelock looks at him, feeling unaccountably guilty. There is nothing he can do. Not that he has thought of so far, at least, and the knowledge is a bitter one.

Evidently, then, he will just have to work harder.

"Yes," he agrees finally, then continues as close to hesitantly as he ever gets. "How much does he already have over you, if any?"

He really wishes he'd noticed something, whenever this first came about. He might already know these things - and knowing has always been most important to Havelock.

At that question, something in Puck's expression goes rigid. His fingers, curled over the pillow (as indeed all of him is more or less curled over the pillow), dig into it with the faint scriiiitch of ripping fabric.

"If by that," Puck mutters in a low, clipped, loathing tone, "you mean to ask whether some amount of his power may have curdled within me, I can assure you with relative certainty that if such were the case, and I were unaware of it, he or Mistress Rowlands should surely have made mention of the matter."

A pause.

"If, however, you mean to inquire as to blackmail ... you are more than passing clever, my own heart. You must know that the greatest power he has over me lies in you."