The Broken Dog sat on a crossroads a little way from a bridge across the river defining the northern edge of old Bellpolis. Zeb looked at the sign showing a black and white dog in pieces as if it had been made of glass. It was no odder than the signs of other taverns he had seen in the past weeks. He pushed the door open and walked in.

"Arthur!" someone shouted. Zeb walked to the bar and ordered a drink. The man behind the bar looked like he had seen a ghost. At that moment, a ...