The rain was falling on Puerto Salmuera

as if some drunken god had spilled the

ocean onto the roofs.

I was sitting in my office, on the third

floor of a building so old that ghosts paid

rent, observing how a leak tried to fill

my coffee cup before I did.

My name is

Viktor Grimsby.

Private investigator.

Human.

Thirty-eight

years.

Two scars.

Three debts.

And a deep

disdain for bards.

...

Especially

for the bards.

The door opened suddenly.

A woman entered.

She was an elf.

Tall.

Elegant.

Dressed

completely in black.

And she was carrying a goat.

The goat also was dressed in black.