He sold wine, but he bought beer. Beer itself was a sort of currency in the British Empire: help someone forget their woes, and they might let him stay on the floor, or the stables. He usually had the money for a room these days, thank goodness, but he was always two stumbled steps away from depending on the kindness of strangers - if only for a time.

Speaking of strangers, the fellow next to him looked about ready to flood the place. Ropati flagged the bartender for another beer, despite his own being barely touched.

"This the first time that's happened?" he asked conversationally, posture somewhat stiffly formal for the environment.