Port Domax, and a cold wind coming off the sea. Filbert's last bronze slethenger got him a room at the Rot. Plus breakfast. If he lived to see breakfast - he didn't like the look of the wet, glistening hole that shoved down into the darkness. A nightmare waiting in the middle of the room, in full sight.
        "Old zopper mine," said the boss, seeing Filbert looking at it dubiously. "Don't nather about it, it's loshrip. Trapna?"
        "I guess," said Filbert.
        After all, night was coming on, and he needed to be indoors - he was an accountant, not a questing hero or some other species of lunatic. And, given that the assasins were so close, maybe a hole in the floor was the least of his troubles.
        Night. Moonlight. Filbert was surprised to be awakened by his demanding bladder. He had been dreaming that he was wide awake, sleeplessly watching the hole in the floor. He rubbed his eyes. The hole gleamed, wet and phosphorescent. He was tempted to piss in it, but then something murmered deep down below, and the thought came to him that, no, no way, that would be a very, very bad idea.
        Outside, the outhouse. And, returning in the moonlight, Filbert was ambushed by the dog. A big, lolloping, romping dog which was wide awake and playful.
        "Oh, scrub off!" said Filbert, tired and homesick and wanting the wretchedly warped and uncomfortable thing which the Rot called a bed.
        But it was no use. The dog shoved its way right into the room with him. And, his allergies being what they were, Filbert ultimately had no option but to go out.
        He ended up at the fishing dock, where he begged - there was no other word for it, this was real begging - an early breakfast. His was now right out of money, and close to despair. No, not close to despair. He was despairing. Well. Back to the Rot. Pick up his valise and then ... then what?
        The door to his room stood ajar. No dog. On the bed, a bright silver coin. A planisher. Filbert bit it with his teeth. A good one - no forgery, this. He understood. Someone had come in the night and had stolen the dog. But had been good enough (for some quirky reason) to pay for it. Now - he had a second breakfast coming to him, didn't he?
        When Filbert showed up for breakfast, the Rot's staff looked startled. But they fed him. Good meat stew. The dog? Filbert couldn't help noticing the bloody mound on the kitchen counter, where muttoncloth shrouded something not quite identifiable. While eating, he made a plan: scout around the fishing dock, see if he could pick up work as a net mender. He'd never mended nets, but surely all the hours he'd spent on embroidery gave him a transferable skill.
        "Good breakfast," said Filbert, taking his leave.
        Outside the door, a stranger, his back to Filbert, questioning a little boy. Filbert heard the accents of Galsh Ebrek. The assassin? The assassin was here for him?
        Quickly, he ducked round the back. To where the slop bins were. And the butchering block, where a ragged girl with a snotty nose was using a bloody knife to pick the usable meat from a pair of what were, unmistakably, human hands. And now Filbert thought he knew what had been paid for with the silver planisher. Not the dog, no. The man. An assassin, presumably. One down and dead, but another one alive and sniffing outside.
        "Girl," said Filbert.
        She looked up.
        "Tell the boss I'll be staying another night. And tell the man outside where I'm staying."
        She looked at him for a long two, three, four, five heartbeats, as if not comprehending. Then she jerked her head upward, which in Port Domax was a gesture meaning yes. And Filbert slipped away down the back alley between the pig pen and the chicken house.
        He would be returning the next morning. How would be pass the hours between now and then? That was something he hadn't quite figured out. But he was planning on arriving back at dawn the next day. And, on arrival, he fully expected to be one planisher richer.