Unless we do something about it. Andy stopped in front of a doorway, and Raesinia looked above it to the swinging sign, which proclaimed the establishment the Dead Dog. A canine skeleton, though wired to the wood, managed to look down at Raesinia with what seemed like an aggrieved expression.

Andy squared her shoulders and pushed open the door. Raesinia followed.

The last time Raesinia had done this sort of thing, it had been in the Dregs, in the hothouse intellectual environment of places like the Blue Mask. There had been wine, gallons of it, but it had always been secondary to the exchange of ideas. People came to argue about the deep questions of law and human nature, in the company of other people who understood the importance of such matters.

The Dead Dog, by contrast, was a place where people came to get drunk. It was dark, lit only by a few candles on each table and a fireplace at one end of the room, and smelled mostly of smoke and wine, with a faint undertone of piss. The tables were big, thick things built like ships, scarred and stained black by years of spills of smoke. The chairs were crates, barrels, or loose collections of planks nailed together by someone who didn’t care much about comfort. There was no bar, but a trio of colorfully dressed women came and went constantly through a door to a back room, bringing clay jugs to the patrons.

The patrons were Dockmen, Raesinia surmised. There was a certain uniformity about them, big, heavy men with broad shoulders and arms like wrapped cords, dressed in rough leather and interested only in their drinks. There was practically no conversation, only the occasional exchange of grunts or the rattle of dice where a few patrons were doing a bit of desultory gambling. Aside from the servers, there were no women in evidence.

“What,” Raesinia said under her breath, “are we doing here, again?”

“Looking for people I used to know,” Andy said. “Just follow my lead.”

Raesinia was aware of eyes following them, from behind mugs and under slouched hats. Andy strode confidently through the tables, ignoring the gazes, and Raesinia stuck close behind her.

“Hey,” someone said as they passed by. “That’s not Wee Andy, is it?”

Andy didn’t respond, but a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Raesinia tensed. The man who’d seized her was old and running to fat, with gray hair under his cap. He looked up at her, blearily, eyes struggling to focus.

“It is!” he said. “Fuckin’ Wee Andy. You used to grab bread for me from the wagons on the Green Road.” He turned to his companions, who’d all lifted their eyes to stare. “Wee Andy had the fastest fingers in the Docks.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “And the best tongue, too. She had this thing she’d do where—”