After the Downfall by Harry Turtledove

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.”
    Aderno audibly ground his teeth. Hasso kicked him in the ankle under the table. He said, “The goddess does not hate me.” There, at least, he could be positive. Then he asked, “What is better than to serve the king?”
    “Anything short of an arrow in the ass,” Scanno answered. That was plenty for the last Grenye at the table, who got out while the getting was good. Scanno went on, “I mean, look at me.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I serve myself, nobody else. I’m better off than your shadow here any day of the month, ‘cause I’m free.”
    “Your so-called freedom is a recommendation for slavery,” Aderno said icily.
    “Hush,” Hasso told him. The wizard looked not only affronted but alarmed. Was he wondering whether Hasso was about to join the forces of drunken lawlessness? It looked that way to the German. He’d succeeded in surprising Scanno, too. “What’s with you?” the renegade said. “You look like a Lenello, but you sure don’t act like one.”
    “Is better to act like Grenye?” Hasso asked. That made Aderno perk up, deciding Hasso likely was on King Bottero’s side after all.
    And Scanno, drunk and hoping he’d found a friend, wasn’t on his guard. “You’re cursed well right it is,”
    he said. “Would I be here if it wasn’t?” He drained the mug Hasso had bought him. Hasso signaled to the tapman, who carried over another one. Scanno would have a head that pounded like a drop-forging plant when he came down from this bender, but that was his worry.
    He seemed to think the fresh beer had got there of its own accord. “What do you have against your own folk?” Hasso asked him.
    “Waddaya think?” Scanno said. Since Hasso had no idea, he kept quiet and waited. Scanno got to his feet and staggered over to a corner, his gait like a ship at full sail on a rough sea. After easing himself, he lurched back. For a wonder, he remembered where he’d been going before the interruption: “Ever watch a twelve-year-old steal a ripe pear from a kid half his size?”
    “I know what you mean,” Hasso said. And he did. The image held a lot of truth. Aderno looked as if he were about to burst. Hasso kicked him under the table again. Aderno’s idea of gathering intelligence was tearing what you wanted to know out of whoever had it. Teasing it out seemed beyond his mental horizon.
    “Well, that’s what we’re doing