"You look rumpled." The bartender said, putting down an earthenware mug like the one left in the alley.

The young man snatched up the mug, swaying the thick cap of foam, and sucked greedily. After draining half of it, he finally looked up from the drink and belched heartily. He wiped the foam from his lips with his sleeve and closed his eyes blissfully.

"Thank you." He said, when the unpleasant taste of vomit had disappeared from his mouth. "Yes, it's been a fun week."

Behind them, the diners were drinking and laughing, some of them eating fat chunks of meat, but most of them were holding large mugs. The young man looked around the room and noticed that there were no glass dishes in it at all.

This is strange, he thought, massaging his head. However, a musket is also a rare thing. I don't think I'm at fucking home.

The bartender rolled another foaming mug to the big bearded man at the other end of the bar and returned to the young man.

"It's not exactly my way, kid," the bartender said. "But you look weird. I hope you have something to pay for your beer."

The young man nodded to himself. Just like at home, money rules.

He hastened to finish his drink, anticipating that he would not get a second cup, and when he had finished, he smiled guiltily.

"Just don't kick me out, okay?" He looked at the bartender. "I've had a really difficult week, and I've just been attacked by three thieves. I'm afraid they took the last of my coins."

The bartender raised an eyebrow.

"I see, your're not convinced." The young man nodded and looked around again. "You won't be surprised by a heartwarming story. I'll work for you for a month for food and lodging. What do you say?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow again and turned to the old man who had ordered a beer. He picked up a mug from somewhere under the bar and went to the wall behind him, where a potbellied barrel lay. Turning on the tap, he filled a mug and handed it to the old man.

"I don't need a footman." The bartender said in a heavy voice. "What can you do?"

Perfect, the young man breathed inwardly. Let's deal without fighting. I don't wanna break any ribs just for a beer.

He folded his hands confidently and smiled now without the slightest hint of guilt.

"I ran a place like this at home, so I can help you pimp this place up."

"Pimp it up?" The bartender misunderstood.

Oh, man, they don't catch slang over here.

"To make more money," The young man explained. "I noticed that everyone here drinks beer only. Do you serve whiskey in this place? Rum, maybe? I'm not talking about cocktails."

"Whiskey?" The bartender raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"A strong drink, brewed from malt. There is a single malt, someone cooks from several varieties."

"D'you mean a malt brew?" The bartender looked at him with studying glance. "I could tell you were not from around here, but your accent is weird. Well, tell me how to pimp this place up."

Yes, my friend, the young man beamed to himself. You've never fallen this low. Well, you can't sleep outside.

"Any idiot can tell you," He said, smiling confidently. "I'm willing to take full responsibility for that, as long as you're serving drinks as usual. But first I'd like to get some sleep, because a week of drinking is fucked up. What do you say?"

"What's your name?" The bartender delayed the response.

"Back at home, my name was Kirill."

"I'll call you Cyril," The bartender extended his hand. "People's names are simple here, as their manner."

What, just like that? Kirill was surprised. Manager for a bed and no questions asked?

The bartender stiffened, as if hearing the young man's confusion, but he didn't remove his hand. He stared at the candidate for partner. The bartender was tall, with a greasy apron over a large belly, and a face that was more grim than friendly. However, the meat in his kitchen was really chopped by himself.

"Again, the manners are simple here. But if you fool me, I'll rip your belly open and throw you in a gutter. I hope your whiskey makes me rich. Your room is on the second floor, third on the right, and a toilet at the far end."

"Can I wash here?" Kirill asked.

"The bathhouse is down the street. They, probably, need a footman."

"Well, thank you," Kirill said, and shook the bartender's hand. "Will you give me the key, or is the room unlocked?"

The bartender took a key from under the bar and handed it to Cyril, who hurried to take a leak before going to bed. He was just approaching the battered wooden door when someone grabbed his sleeve. Cyril turned and saw that he was being held by a plain-looking man in a loose robe, but with an open face. The stranger pretended to look the other way, but turned his face slightly to show that he was not.

"I hear you can't pay. I have a job, interested?"

The stranger's soft voice was lost in the common laughter, but for some reason Cyril heard it clearly, as if it were being whispered in his ear.

"Won't you mind if I take a leak first?" He asked, trying to break the stranger's grip.

"Don't worry about it," The stranger whispered. "I'm short-handed, that's all."

Cyril looked at him and felt a chill.

Suspicious devil, he thought and pulled harder with his hand, pulling away from the grip, and pushed open the creaking door. Oh, what a fucking stink!