“Kindly take your animal outside.”

“Horace is no animal,” the man scowled to the barkeep. He straightened what little his hunched back would allow, and peered out from behind a mop of frosty disheveled hair. “He is my guardian.”

“He’s a glauver.”

“Do you have something against glauvers?”

The barkeep clearly did. His reply was indignant. “Do you think that a shedding, mangy yak with serrated teeth carrying a family of hitchhiking voles would be welcome in this place?”

“If you’ve seen what I’ve seen, I think you would demand it.”

“And then there’s you. Unwashed. Uncouth. Most likely diseased. And you smell of brandy and old cheese. Now if you will KINDLY —”

“The crabs are on the march again.”

“What’s that, old man?”

“The crabs. We thought they had gone, but Asmaine has come out of hiding. At this very moment, a crustacean horde emerges from the sea, and they’re coming to St. Renault.”

The barkeep stood agape. “Nonsense. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“We shall see. In about ten minutes, we shall.”