The dog howled mournfully in time with a less than gifted lute player over in the corner. There was something eerie about that sound, and the short hairs did a little dance on the nape of my neck. Gerta threw back her head and howled in commiseration, then roared with laughter, beating her fist on the table.

The stranger sat in an empty chair at our table, even though we hadn’t given him leave, and placed the dog before him. Its ratty fur reeked as though it had rolled in something vile. Ingato, evidently not a canine fan, lurched to his feet, spilling his tankard, mumbled something about meeting us the next morning, and wove through the tables. The ungainly beast lapped at the spilled ale, then regarded me with blood-red eyes.

“That’s the ugliest thing I ever saw,” Gerta said, drunk enough to speak her mind. “Since when did dogs start being green?”

“Since never.” I stared at the large, odorous pool it had just piddled on the tabletop. “Do you want me to cut your ears off? Take that blasted thing out of my face!”

“I’ll have you know pups of this rare breed are worth a pretty copper back in Damery.” He glanced around the crowded room, licked his lips, then lowered his voice. “I’d take it there and sell it myself, but I have business which will prevent me crossing the mountains for some time to come.”

The beast, green as spoiled meat, flattened its ears and growled. Its breath would have downed an ox at ten paces. I scraped back my chair and lurched to my feet, gagging.

“Isn’t that cute?” Gerta said. “It likes you.”

“There’s nothing remotely cute about it,” I said as the pup’s piddle ate through the wood. “Come on. Let’s find another tavern.”