Yseult finishes collecting her betting slip from one of the roving bookmakers, a scrap of paper with a couple numbers and initials on it and the letter identifying a black-mottled goat currently snapping its teeth at its cage door, its trainer, and anything else that passes within a foot or two of its mouth. She presses a crease into the slip so it'll stand up on its side and then reaches across to pour the ale Marcus has delivered, filling all three cups before taking the last.

"Flint and Stark and I came here a few times," she says, as if that's a perfectly normal thing that of course they did. "The key seems to be to follow the careers of the trainers, but that's less entertaining that choosing among the goats."