After the Downfall

“Ah,” the Grenye said, suddenly able to understand him – or more willing to admit he did. “You’re that one. I wasn’t sure before.” What’s that supposed to mean? Hasso wondered. The basket-seller went on, “He mostly drinks at Negustor’s tavern.” He rattled off directions too fast for Hasso to follow.

Turning to the wizard, Hasso asked, “You have that?”

“I have it,” Aderno said grimly, sounding as if he wished he could throw it away. “We go there, we’re asking to get knocked over the head.”

“Tell me – slow – how to go. I go by myself, then. You stay behind,” Hasso said.

“I ought to,” Aderno exclaimed. But Hasso shamed him into leading the way, as he’d thought he might. When they left the road to the east gate, everything got even smellier and dirtier and more crowded than it had before. The muddy streets were hardly wide enough to let Hasso stretch out his arms without hitting buildings to either side. He had to flatten himself against a wall when two Grenye led several heavily burdened donkeys up one alley.

“Excuse us, masters,” the men said, doffing their lumpy brown wool caps. The things reminded Hasso of cowflops.

“We shouldn’t get out of the way for Grenye,” Aderno said.

“Not do that. Get out of the way for donkeys,” Hasso said, which left his companion scratching his head.

Negustor’s tavern stood next door to what seemed to be a pawnshop and across the street from what was undoubtedly a brothel. A bare-breasted Grenye woman in an upstairs window shouted an invitation to Hasso and Aderno, then mocked their manhood when they ignored her. Hasso thought it was a good thing the day was clear; had raindrops hit the wizard’s skin, they probably would have burst into steam.

Inside the tavern, Hasso had to duck his head. The ceiling was plenty high for Grenye, but not for him or Aderno. It was dark and gloomy and smoky enough to make his eyes sting. Along with the smoke from the torches, the place smelled of stale beer and sour piss.

Hasso looked around. Grenye drank at the bar, and at several tables. They were looking at him, too, and not with anything approaching warmth. A new dog in the neighborhood would have got the same kind of once-over. He wondered whether somebody would be drunk and angry enough to pick a fight.

Meanwhile, there was Scanno. He wasn’t a big Lenello, which meant he was about Hasso’s size. But, even sitting down, he was noticeably bigger – to say nothing of noticeably blonder – than the Grenye at the table with him. And he was also noticeably drunker, swaying on his stool as he poured down what was obviously at least one too many large mugs of beer.

One of his small, dark drinking buddies left as soon as Hasso and Aderno came far enough into the tavern to give him a clear path to the door. Hasso wondered who wanted him, and for what, and how badly. But that was a question for another day. He went up to the Grenye behind the counter – Negustor himself? – set a small silver coin on the counter, and said, “Beer, please.”

The tapman blinked. Had he ever heard please from a Lenello? Even from Scanno? Or from anyone at all? He made the coin disappear, then dipped up a mug, filling it quite full. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Hasso turned. “Want something, Aderno?”

To get out of here. Every line of Aderno shouted it. But the wizard just said, “Wine.” He set down a coin, too. The tapman took it and gave him a smaller mug. Aderno tasted, made a sour face, and sighed.

Hasso dug out another coin. He pointed to Scanno. “One for him, too, please.”

“He needs more beer like a drowning man needs a boulder,” the tapman said, but he dipped out one more mug.

Hasso took it and carried it over to Scanno’s table. “Here,” he said, setting it down in front of the Lenello. “Join you?”

“Hang on.” Scanno drained the mug he already had. Then he patted the stool to his left that that Grenye had hastily vacated. “Anybeery who buys me bod’s a friend of mine.” He frowned, knowing that wasn’t right, but fixing it seemed too much trouble.

Aderno, disapproval sticking out of him like a porcupine’s quills, perched gingerly on another stool. The Grenye next to whom he sat down upended his mug and also made a quick exit. The one on Hasso’s left stayed where he was. Innocent? Curious? Dangerous? I’ll find out, Hasso thought.

Scanno’s eyes had as many red tracks as a railroad map of the Reich. God only knew when he’d last combed his beard. He stank of sweat, alcohol, and stale hops. “Well, friend, waddaya want?” he asked, slurring his words so Hasso could barely understand him. “You out slumming?”

“We want to talk to you,” Hasso answered.

Scanno took a pull from the fresh mug of beer. “Piss in the river.” He eyed Hasso, blinking blearily. No matter how bleary he was, his ears still worked. “You’re no Lenello,” he said. “I’ve heard plenty of Grenye who talk our lingo better’n you. Who are you? Where are you from?”