“Right,” Handy said, rubbing his face as they sat. They were seated at a round wooden table with more than a few nicks and chunks cut out of it from too many years holding the drinks of questionable people with more knives than sense. It was at the corner of the tavern, underneath the overhang currently holding aloft more ponies. The occasional cloud of dust was shaken loose from the rafters as some asshole started playing music on some kind of stringed instrument and a couple of ponies decided to do a little jig. Right above their fucking heads. Still, Handy had insisted on sitting here if they simply had to stay here until nightfall because it gave them a commanding view of the entire bar floor, plus an eye on the corner entrance.