Hasso only nodded. “Why not?” he said, and meant it. The Lenelli had fleas and lice, too. The Grenye were grubbier, but it was a difference of degree, not of kind. Before the war, Hasso would have hated how grubby he was himself. But after what he’d been through in the Wehrmacht, it was just one of those things.

Not to Aderno. “They are Grenye,” he said, as if that explained everything. Velona had been just as thrilled about wearing Grenye boots, Hasso remembered. He couldn’t have disgusted an SS man more by suggesting a walk through a ghetto.

He shrugged now. “The more we learn, the better the chance we have when King Bottero moves against Bucovin.” Would Aderno be able to come up with an argument against that? Hasso would have bet the wizard couldn’t, and he would have won his bet.

They plunged into the Grenye quarter that very afternoon. They went on foot; Hasso wanted to be as inconspicuous as he could. That wasn’t very easy. He was fairer than any Grenye, and at least fifteen centimeters taller than most of them. And Aderno, who was both fairer and taller still, walked on tiptoe all the way, as if afraid he would pollute himself if he planted his feet squarely.

Here in their own district, the Grenye were bolder and noisier than at Castle Drammen. There they got very quiet whenever any Lenelli came into sight. Part of that was deference; part, Hasso judged, was fear. Among their own kind, the short, swarthy natives chattered and chaffered, both in the Lenello tongue and in what sounded like two or three of their own languages.

Hasso stopped in front of a plump man who was selling wickerwork baskets. “Where can I find Scanno?” he asked – that was the drunken Lenello’s name.

The Grenye had been crying his wares in the blond men’s tongue. Hearing the question, though, he looked elaborately blank. “What do you say?” he asked.

Patiently, Hasso repeated himself. The basket-seller shrugged a fancy shrug. “I don’t understand you.” He added something in a language that wasn’t Lenello and spread his hands as if in apology.

“He’s lying,” Aderno said from behind Hasso.

“Yes,” Hasso agreed, because the phrase for No kidding didn’t spring to mind.

“I can make him sweat.” Aderno sounded as if he looked forward to it.

“No,” Hasso said; Lenello could make him laconic. He turned back to the Grenye. “By the goddess, no harm to Scanno. Where can I find him?”

“By the goddess?” the man said, watching his eyes.

“By the goddess,” Hasso said again. “Her name is Velona when she dwells in a woman. I know the woman.”

“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?”

“My name is Hasso Pemsel.” And now you know as much as you did before. “I am from a different world. Magic. I am in King Bottero’s service now.”

That might have been the funniest thing Scanno ever heard. He laughed till tears ran down his cheeks and into his matted beard. “You came from another world and you couldn’t do any better’n joining up with Buttfart? The goddess must hate you bad, pal.”