The bouncer grabbed Spar by the arm. “Watch it.”

Spar gently removed the bouncer’s hand one finger at a time. “Consider it watched.”

Hesitant, the bouncer looked at his hand, at Spar, then shrugged. “Don’t cause trouble.”

Spar tossed a salute and vanished down the stairs into the darkness.

Twain ducked by the bouncer, trailing Fell. “Sorry, excuse me, sorry.”

A meaty hand closed around his arm as well. He turned.

“No masks,” the bouncer grunted.

Twain shook off the bouncer’s hand and passed his hand over Fell’s face. The bouncer’s face stared back at him, utterly incongruent on Fell’s scrawny shoulders.

Startled, the bouncer jumped back. He glanced at Twain, then Fell, his brows furrowed.

“Wow, you two look so similar! You could be brothers. It’s amazing,” Twain said, pushing Fell ahead of him down the stairs.

The bouncer shot a suspicious glare after them, but didn’t bar their way.

Twain breathed out. A few dozen steps down and around the first landing, he snapped his fingers, and Fell’s pillowcased face appeared once more. He let out a satisfied sigh. “Damn, it’s nice dealing with humans who’ve never seen real illusion work before. So easy.”

Fell tipped his head, confused.

He patted Fell’s head. “Don’t worry about it.”

A lantern flickered out of the darkness, then another. They descended into the dark. Spar waited at the foot of the stairs, cast to a smoky gray by the low lighting. He smiled. “Welcome to the party.”

An empty bar awaited them. Rickety, mismatched barstools wobbled down the bar. Behind the bar, a wrinkled old man whose race Twain couldn’t make out stirred a concoction of some sort. In the low light, it was impossible to tell just what he stirred. Tables and recessed booths wandered around the room, laid out in no particular pattern. Some huddled together, chairs bumping chairs bumping tables, while others stood alone, a wide space between them and everything else. At the back of the room, a lone bard sat atop a low wooden stage and plucked at her lute, tuning it. Empty space ahead of him suggested a dance floor, though currently empty.

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“Er… is it?” Twain asked, giving the bard a look. She ignored him, intent upon tuning her instrument.

Spar took in the silent room. “Okay, so it hasn’t started yet. But that’s what we’re here for! To get it started!”

Twain sighed. He gestured Fell on. “Let’s go get some beer. Maybe Spar’ll make more sense after we down a few.”

Fell nodded.

Clambering up onto the barstool, Twain nodded at the old bartender. “I’ll take a pint of whatever’s on tap.”

The bartender half-turned toward Fell, limbs creaking audibly, body stiff.

“Uh, um, the same?” Fell tried.

Nodding, the bartender wobbled over toward a cask in the corner, one slow step at a time. With the blazing speed of a geriatric tortoise, he drew two mugs of something amber-colored and frothy and wandered back toward the bar. He lurched over the wooden floor. The beer sloshed in the mugs and slopped over the edge, splashing on the floor with every step.

Twain pressed his lips together. We’re going to have half-pints by the time it gets here.

At last, the man reached them. He extended the mugs toward the bar one inch at a time.

Spar pulled up to the bar. “Ah, one for me too, please.”

The man hesitated. He peered at them from under a pile of wrinkles and blinked. He turned, retrieved a glass, and trudged back to the cask, carrying all three pint glasses with him.

Twain narrowed his eyes at Spar. Spar grinned back.

At last, three beers sloshed onto the counter. Spar’s splashed over his shirt, but the inch or so left in Twain and Fell’s glasses remained.

Twain snorted and sipped at the remaining beer. He nodded at Spar, lips quirked in half a smile. “Oh, no, pity about the shirt.”

Spar pulled the shirt off his body and scowled. “Dammit. That’s gonna stink forever.”

The door creaked open far above. Twain glanced up. “Is that the party, do you think?”

Spar turned. “Might be.”

Down the stairs, a slender figure draped in dark fabric appeared. A single eye shone out from under the folds. A quiet snort rang out. The slender man swerved around the three of them and hunched at the end of the bar. He raised a single finger.

“What you want?” the bartender grumbled, stumbling over to him.

“Ah, the party,” Twain chuckled. He tipped back his mug but only got a mouthful of foam. He frowned into the remnants. Maybe I should try wine next? No… I already ruined one shirt today.

Spar sighed. “Give it a minute. Just a minute or two.”

The door kicked open again. This time, a gaggle of human girls giggled their way inside, all curves and tight dresses. They sashayed up to the bar and gestured the bartender over. He hurried to their side, suddenly quick and limber.

Spar sat upright. “Hey, here we go.”

Twain hooked an eyebrow at the bartender’s back. Oh, you only serve well to girls, huh? Give me five minutes and a nice dress, and you’ll be at my beck and call.

Another bunch of girls. This time, skimpily dressed demonesses huddled in, glancing around. They giggled at the sight of Spar and Twain. One gave Spar a little wave. Behind them, a catfolk girl paused on the stairs to check her purse while a dwarf with a nicely braided and beaded beard edged by.

He leaned back against the bar and flipped his hair with a suave motion. “See? I told you. Party’s here.”

“Guess I have to hand it to you,” Twain said, shaking his head. I would’ve never pegged this place as a hot spot for women. Spar knows his stuff.