The inns where we tend to congregate have a few things in common, such as a magikal link to the Bank of Zoorik, off-dimension newspapers, a host of mercenaries and other be-ings-for-hire, and a hot grapevine where gossip, rumors and job offers are mixed up with the local news. They're not always friendly or comfortable places.

The first demon bar I visited had all the charm of the waiting room in the Bucharest airport. No one was there but a couple of loudly-dressed Imps hanging over a table in the corner drinking up the proceeds from the day's sale of snake oil to the locals. The second had just been raided by the Perrt Constabulary to haul away a drunken Ogre and the angry Salamander he'd ticked off. There wasn't anything left to sit on. All the furniture was smashed or burned, and the Orion proprietor was curled into a furry fetal ball in the corner behind the ruined counter.

We struck lucky, as I could have guessed, in hostelry number three. Even though the lights were pretty low I could see that the place was crowded. Hardly an Orion was in sight except for the bartender and the barmaids who swished their abundantly furry tails playfully around the patrons. Conversations, furtive or fueled by alcohol, were going on in every part of the big room. I walked in with Ersatz displayed in plain sight on my hip, golden hilt and gems glinting. I nodded to a couple of Deveels playing Dragon Poker, and cleared my throat.

"Yo, bartender," I called. "A table for me and my sword."

The elderly tabby Orion polishing bowls and glasses glanced around, then nodded toward a rickety two-top in the corner near the stairs. Every eye in the room followed me as I sauntered over and plopped myself down in a chair. Within moments, I felt a saucy tickle at the fringe of my right ear.