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It was a typically gray day in the Cage, and I  was at the pub Agony's Rest sipping something with fermented erinyes milk that  the owner, a weird creature everyone called Dis had concocted for me. In came a  gang of greybeards looking like Dustmen who had been asleep in the morgue too  long without bathing, wearing black, rumpled rags that still looked oddly  luxurious. None of them looked like they knew what a comb or bar of soap was;  yet, they had the arrogant air of Guvners or Takers and the stiff posture of  Harmonium officers. They were an odd lot, which made them fit right in here in  the City of Doors. They sat down together at a table, heaved