“The word is you came through here three months ago. Is it true? And why didn’t you stop by for a visit? Distressed, I was, at the news.”
Gwendolyn shook her head. “I had no time for visits, Mishka. I was on a mission from—”
The old man held up his hand abruptly. ” ‘Nough said! I don’t want to know the details. ‘What you don’t know, the porkers can’t screw out of you,’ as they say.” He laughed. “Not that I’ve had to worry much about porkers since I retired and moved to the Mutt! But still, you never know.”
I looked around his shop, which had about it all the signs of a busy establishment.
“Doesn’t look like much of a retirement,” I said.
The old man peered at me, scowling. I’m afraid my Ozarine accent was just as thick as ever, even though I’d been speaking nothing but Groutch for weeks. I’m good at learning languages, and I’d become quite fluent in Groutch, but I just don’t have the ear for speaking without an accent.
Still scowling, Mishka darted a sharp look toward Gwendolyn.
“Relax, Mishka,” she said. “I’ll vouch for him.”
“He’s a sympathizer?” he asked.
Gwendolyn shrugged. “Yes and no. He’s not really involved in politics. He’s an artist.”
Mishka was still scowling. Gwendolyn scowled back.
“Impossible old man! I told you I’ll vouch for him.”
Mishka looked away. “Well, your word’s as good as gold, of course. But still, I just don’t understand why you’ve got him around.”
“It’s personal, Mishka.”
The old man suddenly grinned.
“Well! Well! That’s all different, then!” The next thing I knew, Mishka was vigorously pumping my hand.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” he prattled, “I’ve always said you were too intent on the cause, Gwendolyn. It’s not good for the soul, you know, never taking the time out to smell the roses and such, and shouldn’t I know?”
He continued his vigorous handshake.
“Pleased to meet you, young man. Very pleased, even if you are an Ozarine oppressor. My name’s Mishka, by the way. Mishka the bootmaker.”
“Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini.”
Gwendolyn interrupted. “He needs a new pair of shoes, Mishka. Proper Groutch boots, if you would.”
Mishka looked down at my feet, still shaking my hand.
“And will you look at those monstrosities!” he cried. “A wonder the man’s not a cripple! All the way from Goimr, you say you’ve come? In those things?”
I nodded. Mishka released my hand and began busying himself in stacks of leather, muttering about “mad dogs and Ozarines.”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, Sirrah Mishka, before you get started, I’m afraid I have very little money left. So if—”
I stopped, struck dumb by the ferocious glare the old man was bestowing on me. I looked to Gwendolyn for assistance.
“Money’s not the custom in the Mutt,” she said. “Quite disapprove of money, people here.” She looked at Mishka. “Oh, stop glaring, Mishka! The man’s new here—how’s he supposed to know? I assure you, he’s not a Consortium agent.”
The old man was still glaring. “A Consortium provocateur came through here not long ago, you know? Tried to give money to children, he did, the scurvy knave! Proper boys and girls, though, well brought up, so they turned him in and the General called out his dogs.” A wicked laugh followed. “Squealed like a pig, the rotten collaborator, when Fangwulf pulled him down. Didn’t get more than half a mile, he didn’t, even with the General’s usual generous head start.”
“You’ll have to make allowances for Mishka, Benvenuti,” said Gwendolyn. “When he said earlier that he was retired, he meant from the struggle. Old habits die hard, especially his.”
Mishka’s glare eased. “Well, I suppose so. Have to make allowances, I guess, for honest strangers, even plundering Ozarines.” His glare briefly returned. “But no more talk of money, d’you hear? I won’t have it! This is a respectable establishment!”
“By no means!” I exclaimed, fending off his glare with my hands. “But how—” Again, I looked to Gwendolyn for assistance.
“See if you can do him some service or other,” she said. “How about the sign over his door? Thing’s so weathered you can hardly read it. Can you make him a new one?”