Chương 137: Chapter 58 - Restraint

A man wearing a bright purple outfit with a red sash stood outside the adventurers' guild, frowning at the building. The stone beneath his boots was worn smooth by traffic, polished dull by years of passing feet that had never once stopped to admire it. He had sent representatives first. They had failed. So he had come himself, and he had failed as well. The adventurers' guild had been polite at first, then firm, and finally sharp in their refusals, a progression that suggested long practice.

He did not understand it. Their contract had stood for years, which in guild terms was close enough to eternity to count. He knew they had not always supplied the best beer, but that happened to everyone. Brewing was a craft, not a miracle. This response felt excessive. The final insult had been telling him not to trouble himself with meeting their beer needs until the contract expired. Three weeks remained. It felt petty, which was somehow worse than hostile.

"Oi, guv!" came a voice behind him. The guild master glanced around and saw a cart bearing down on him. The iron rims rattled against the stones as he stepped aside, the driver already shouting apologies that were swallowed by street noise and habit. He was preparing a weary sigh when something caught his eye. Casks. The cart was loaded with many of them. Not one or two. Not even a reasonable amount.

No, this was the kind of quantity that implied someone had made a series of very confident, very questionable decisions. He followed it just around the corner, where it pulled up beside the adventurers' tavern. The door stood open to spill heat and noise into the street, as tavern doors tended to do, and a cheer went up as two men began unloading, rolling the casks toward the back with the barkeep leading the way as if he had been expecting them.

He stepped closer and saw the mark of the warehouse brewer on the casks, the type of mark that could be wiped off. The smell of wet oak and old ale lingered around the cart, the sort of scent that promised effort rather than refinement. He clicked his tongue. The damn brewer was being a petulant child, refusing to meet with any of them. Rude. Opportunistic. He turned away, thinking of snakes, which at least had the decency to look dangerous. He hadn't gone far before he stopped mid-stride.

One boot shifted on uneven stone, just enough to break his rhythm. He stared down at his boots for a moment, then turned back toward the building. The adventurers sold the cider. That cider had come from somewhere, and only one man could supply it at that scale without drawing breath to apologise. The colour drained from his face as the pieces fell into place. The apple fiasco. The cider festival. None of it had been an accident, and the word coincidence quietly excused itself.

"He attacked us first!" the man in purple raged as he paced the room. His footsteps brushed the edge of the rug again and again, never quite stepping onto it. His older advisor's shoulders slumped.

"Of course he won't talk to us. He's already attacked. He thinks we're enemies," he continued, his face flushing as he walked, the words arriving faster than his sense could quite keep up. Before the older man could speak, he pressed on.

"Two inns closed. Everyone else had to sell vinegar just to keep their doors open," a sentence that carried the weight of ledgers and late nights. The fire crackled once as the room fell briefly quiet, as if acknowledging a point well made. When he finally paused, the elder spoke.

"You've only ever been reacting."

"I know," the guild master snapped, gesturing with one hand.

"The brewer has been ahead of you the entire time."

"I know," he said again, gesturing with the other.

"He's been leading us around like a pig for winter."

"I know."

"You understand what this means," the older man said quietly. The guild master's shoulders sagged, a movement that suggested both agreement and fatigue.

"Sit down." The couch creaked as he lowered himself onto it, offering a complaint of its own. He sat staring at his hands, flexing his fingers once before stilling them, as if checking they were still his. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"He's not taking you seriously. You have no other option. You need to get physical," the older man said, not unkindly, which somehow made it worse.

"I know," the guild master said again, softly.

"I understand how you feel, but you need to see this clearly. This is self defence," the older man said, using the tone reserved for difficult truths and fragile furniture. The guild master nodded.

"You don't need to kill him. Bodies raise questions. Attention brings complications. You only need to apply a little pressure to bring him back to the table, to talk," the older man said, his tone patient.

"Something he cannot ignore." The guild master nodded once more.

"Tomorrow night," he said at last.

"These things take time to arrange," as if comfort could be found in scheduling. It was the following day, in a tavern in the poor district, that a strange conversation was being had. Smoke hung low beneath the ceiling beams, shifting slowly each time the door opened, as though considering escape and deciding against it.

"Aye, guv. Good ta have proper sour beer. That other stuff, heard it said it makes your teeth soft, y'know. Heard a lad there can only eat soup now." He tilted his head toward the wealthier parts of the city, which had long been blamed for worse things. Across the tavern another man burst out laughing, spilling beer down his tunic. The bench scraped as he lurched, and he slapped a hand over his mouth as he swallowed both his drink and his mirth, neither of which seemed inclined to wait.

"What crap! The man who makes the beer that's not sour? I worked for him. Apple peeler, I was. Absolute monster about cleaning. That man makes his staff bathe every single day. Even peeling apples, you step away, he makes you wash your hands and your tool," he said with a snort, as though still mildly offended by the memory.

"If he was so bad, why was his cider the thing that stole the festival? That cider rocked the adventurers' guild!" Laughter followed, along with a spirited account of who won which fights at the festival. Apparently a priest had thrashed a carpenter, which was received with the thoughtful nods of men filing it away for later discussion and wisdom of never messing with the clergy. A mug tipped and was righted again without comment. The man who had started the conversation, however, was gone.

His tankard still sat near full, the foam thinning as it settled, left behind like an unfinished thought.

"Boss! Where's the boss?" The Tavern Keepers' Guild master sighed, set aside his paper, leaned back, and watched the door. The ink on the page had already dried where his hand had paused, which was unhelpful but unsurprising. True to form, the door swung inward.

"Boss! It was him. It was all him," the man said, bent over and gasping for breath, as though the words had chased him. The guild master waited. The man glanced up and saw at once that he was not being taken seriously enough, a realisation that arrived with a kind of panic.

"An apple peeler. In the poor district. Said he worked for the brewer. All the cider at the adventurers' guild. He made it all," he said, hands on his knees, presenting the facts in the order they had occurred to him. The guild master said nothing. The room seemed to narrow as his eyes grew wider and wider, furniture and certainty alike retreating. In the third-oldest tavern in the city there was a room sometimes called the retirement room.

Its walls were dark with smoke and old years, the table scarred by cups and knives, and memories best left undisturbed. And at that moment, they were angry. Well, not all of them. One man was napping, the fire having worked a precise and welcome magic on him. He slept peacefully, breathing slow and even, contributing nothing and somehow improving the atmosphere.

"This needs to go like Ol' Finnigan," one voice said. The effect was spoiled slightly by his elbow making alarming noises, which suggested experience rather than fragility. The room paused to breathe, as though they had all run a short distance.

"We been trying to talk to him while he's been stabbin' us. Twisting that knife the whole time," another voice said, the words sharpened by repetition.

"How many taverns did we lose because of the cider?" the man with the cane asked the guild master.

"Six," came the answer.

"Six taverns. Good, honest men. Closed because of the apple fiasco. That's six families sleeping hungry tonight." Heads bowed. Shoulders slumped. Someone poked at the fire, sending sparks briefly upward, which was not taken as a sign.

"Could we send them some mint? Is good for the skin," came from a smiling voice trying to be helpful. There was a long pause as some of the tension left the room.

"I say we just kill him and be done with it," said the man with the loudest joints, who had clearly been waiting his turn. The cane struck the floor.

"Oh, grow up. It's too early for that. You want to kill the golden goose? You kill him and all his staff go to the Innkeepers. They squeeze us out. We just have to bring the brewer here. He needs to listen," the cane man said, speaking with the calm authority of someone who had seen worse ideas tried properly. There was a long pause as shoulders lowered and settled. Joints clicked and popped as the tension eased, the room adjusting itself back toward equilibrium.

"Aye. We rough him up a bit. Bring him to the table," another voice said. The rest nodded slowly, agreement travelling the table like a shared ache.

"Alright. I want other options if this doesn't work. We'll send some boys tonight," the guild master said. More nods followed. In another season, one might have waited while the other acted. Instead, through the sort of ordinary misalignment that ends up shaping far more lives than intent ever does, both guilds chose the same night. Each would later insist on moderation, on necessity, on having done less than they might have. Timing, however, had already stripped them of that refuge.

From that point on, restraint could still be argued, but neither could fully deny having moved.