The dim drinking-hall, smelling of spilled beer and human sweat, was as welcome a shelter from the cold as Zami could have hoped for. He hid his snout, ears and tail under his thick, scratchy wool cloak and muttered a prayer for food and rest, without thinking of what came after.

The all-human crowd filled the other tables with their mugs and dice and greasy plates. Zami's mouth watered. He squirmed over to the empty stool, patiently waited for a man nearby to leave, then snatched the mostly eaten sheep leg off his abandoned plate and chewed.

A waitress in a low-cut dress eyed him. "What do you want, witch-dog?"

Zami had forgotten his discretion. His furred, clawed hands were exposed from his sleeves, and his narrow vulpine muzzle was open in mid-bite. He swallowed and said, "Cheap beer and bread, and a bed."

"Do you have money?" She looked him over. "Hmmph. I think I see how it is. Keep your money. You can sleep in the stables. If scraps are good enough for you I'll bring more, and some beer." She turned away to navigate through the crowd.

Surprised, he said, "Thank you, miss!"

Zami tried to stay inconspicuous and awake, listening to the tavern's conversations. He'd guessed correctly that these lands opposed the northern tribes that had attacked his people. There was grumbling about ongoing cross-border raids. But he also caught talk about the local tyrant, the Glass Lord. No one spoke up in the Lord's defense, but none praised anything but his might in battle. Zami didn't care. Whatever problems the humans had weren't his. But then there was mention of the Glass Lord's tower, said to have sprung up in three days and to pulse with a violet glow.

The fugitive slave forgot his weariness and sat with his jaw hanging open. That particular color, and that power of construction, was no magic spell. It was his people's stolen property!

He listened for details, and when the conversation drifted away to other subjects, he approached and interrupted. "What protects this Lord?"

"He doesn't need protecting; he's a wizard. Anybody who went in would just get ripped apart by his men of glass. My cousin was a guard there for a while, and he said the Lord doesn't even let anybody but himself into the tower, within the outer wall."

One of the man's friends said, "That's a witch-dog you're talking to. Hey, creature, why don't you cast a mighty spell to fly out there?" Drunken laughter spread from his table, and the barmaid snorted.

Zami slunk back to his table. He didn't have "spells". He couldn't fly to the tower; all he could do was scale the outer wall and look for a window. His eyes widened as he realized he was making serious plans to break in and steal back his people's treasure!

"Well, why not?" he asked himself. He could take it back this very night, and have a good rest after. Zami finished his beer, nibbled a few more bits of mutton, and left.