Gryphons in Greenden

You and Erric approach a small, mouse-haired boy shining shoes and boots in front of the tavern. He sings out in a small voice, "Boots an' shoes, shinier'n Phil can, only 3 pennies a pair!" as they come close, and you pity the boy.

"Take your boots off," you tell Erric as you reach down to pull off your own.

"What, and stand in the mud in my socks?"

You remember how at the end of the day it seems so much less likely that you'll make another few pennies, and that late customers are a source of excitement, an extra few pennies to show your mother. "Take them off, Erric. Give them to the boy to shine."

Erric rolls his eyes and yanks his boots off, tossing them down at the boy's feet. "Make it worth my pennies, boy," he yawns as you stand your boots up neatly for the boy.

"You highwaymen?" the boy asks as he goes to work on Erric's left boot.

"No," you reply.

"Well. You ain't Reds," the boy asserts as he moves his oilcloth up and down the boot shaft. To the small boy in his small world, men with swords are either Reds or highwaymen.

"We're sellswords," Erric chimes in grandly, mockingly. "One teensy step above highwaymen, boy, so you keep a respectful tongue."

"You polish a lot of soldiers' boots, son?" you ask kindly, sensing an opening to question the boy.

"Yes, sir. Most of the Reds 'round 'ere know I do a sight better'n that layabout Phil. Your boots are pretty close, but you ain't no Red," he repeats, eyeing your rough clothing as he moves to Erric's other boot.

"So you know most of the local garrison, then?"

"Aye, they're a lazy lot but they tip good if you can catch 'em before they go into the whorehouse," the boy intoned sagely.

"Any unfamiliar Reds around here lately?" you ask casually.

The boy shrugs and starts on your boots.
Erric gets your attention while the boy is looking down and quietly punches a fist into his left hand. You shake your head and give him a warning glare. Violence has always been Erric's answer. You'll handle this.

The boy finishes both pairs of boots and you dig into your pocket for the six pennies and grab a silver along with them, shaking them out into the boy's outstretched hands. The boy can feel the weight of the silver in his palm - you see it in his eyes as soon as the coins hit - and his eyes widen in appreciation at the extravagant tip.

"There were some."

"Some what?" you ask, knowing you'll have some information now.

"Some Reds what weren't from 'round 'ere. They were at the tavern inn and they were sore terrible tippers."
You smile as you pull your boots back on. "Thanks, son. You ought to be able to go home now. You've made enough for today."

The boy nods happily and packs up his things. "You're right, mister. Thanks very much!"

As the boy is scampering off toward the other end of town, Erric is wiping shoe polish off his fingers onto his breeches. "Boots aren't even dry and you give him a tip that big."

"Erric, have you even been listening?"

The dark-haired man grins. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Mychael, I've been listening. Little snotnose didn't tell us much we didn't know. So the Reds were in Tunboro, Mychael. We knew that."

"We know where they stayed. We should head there now."

"We should talk to more people, buddy."

"No whores, Erric."

"Did I say whores?" Erric asks innocently with a leering grin.

You shake your head.
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