It really was a pitiable sight. The kid didn't look older than seventeen or eighteen. Tristan had been a naïve schoolboy at that age. And yet here the kid was, in a strange country where he did not speak the language, offering work for a bed for the night. The other man's comment still rang in his ears. He really did have that kind of face, and Tristan couldn't unsee the vulnerability and danger.

Yet concern for the boy battled with concern for himself, a nagging voice in the back of his head wondering: How do I wash my hands of this one. He had already drawn more attention to himself than he normally did. And far more than he was comfortable with.

A performer too. He could read between the lines. What had he gotten himself into? He needed to distance himself from this kid and his situation as fast as possible.

"Yer drink!" shouted the barman before Tristan could answer the young man. "Ask 'im what 'e's having or tell 'im to go somewhere else!"

He looked at the barman confused, lost as to how to handle the situation. "The same."

Bad idea. Bad. But what could he do? He could just hand the kid the drink, pay for it, and then walk away.

He looked at the kid. "Have you tried the papers?" he evaded the request.