Chương 138: Chapter 66 – Week 5

Above the city's third-oldest tavern was a small private sitting room, the sort with leather seats that were expensive once. Years of use have compressed them into shapes that are only comfortable to one person at a time, provided that person already knew which hollow is theirs. On a low table rested six old tankards, some full, some empty, none quite clean, on the principle that cleaning a tankard too thoroughly dulls the flavour and, if taken far enough, the point. A fire burnt low.

It has burned longer than some of the men in the room have been alive. The room smelled faintly of smoke, leather, old wool, and for some reason peppermint. It was hosting six men. All wearing the distinct blue that the tavernkeepers favored, when they move, the sounds of creaking knees and popping elbows fill the space. One man shifts his weight and pauses halfway, bracing himself on the arm of his chair as if negotiating terms with his own joints.

The fire settled a log and sent a brief pulse of warmth across the floor before returning to its steady burn. The eldest gripped his cane by the top third and shook it once to make his point.

"Back in my day, the guild was easy. Thirty honest men who could sit and talk. None of this three hundred shouty business. Had respect, we did." He set the cane down with finality, as though daring it to argue. Another nodded immediately.

"Can't control so many. Youngsters never listen." He waves a hand dismissively, narrowly missing his own tankard and staring at it afterward, affronted. The youngest of the group, the current Guild Master, exhaled.

"Next time we hold meetings by city district. That was a fiasco." He lifted his tankard just enough to judge its weight before drinking, then sighed again and drank anyway.

"Aye, makes sense," says one man who has lifted one leg with both hands to reposition it. The movement produced an unsettling series of clicks and pops, like a bag of kindling being handled without care. He nodded once when finished, satisfied.

"Well," said another, leaning forward, "before we get into all that, my wife says mint's good for the skin. Keeps it from cracking in winter. Says I should rub it in, mornings and nights." No one responds.

"You see," the man continued, encouraged by the silence, "she says dry skin lets sickness in. Says that's how it starts." The cane man cleared his throat.

"Beer used to be made by honest men, with grit and charcoal. I scooped it straight out the vat, and the drinker had a belly that could handle it. People have gone soft."

"Eh?" came from another. He squinted, then settled back, content to remain deaf, which in this room was often mistaken for wisdom.

"This foreign beer," the cane man said, spitting the word out.

"What's so special about it?" Beneath the table, an old dog opened one eye to inspect where the spit lands. It weighed the options with professional indifference and decided against involvement without lifting its head. The fire crackled once.

"They say it tastes dwarven," the Guild Master said.

"Strong. Not sour."

"Not sour?" said one.

"No local wants that." The peppermint man nodded at this, though it is unclear which part he agreed with.

"Sour dries the skin," he added helpfully.

"Eh? Locals don't know what they want," said the cane man. Several nodded. The deaf man nodded a few beats later, apparently in agreement with something else entirely.

"This just another phase?" asked the man whose joints have not yet finished making their presence known.

"Locals get sick of it. Come back to what they know." The Guild Master paused. Someone shifted, leather creased softly in protest. Two nods appeared before he speaks, and another follows after.

"Maybe," he said, "but we still can't ignore it." The mint man leaned forward again.

"You mix mint with fat, see. Helps it soak in."

"Back to that brewer, Why don't we deal with this like ol' Finnigan," the cane man said, settling back. Everyone remembers Finnigan. Knuckles cracked. Fingers curled. One man flexed his hand and winced, shaking it once before trying again more gently. Ash slid from the fire grate onto the stone with a faint hiss. Mint man inspected his hands for any noticeable skin improvements.

"It's too early for that," the Guild Master said.

"I sent Orrin to—""Eh? Feldane lad?" someone interrupted.

"Good stock." Nods followed, some immediate, some delayed, one apparently meant for the mint man, who looks pleased.

"Yes," the Guild Master said.

"As I was saying. I sent Orrin to speak to him. Says the man uses big copper pots to make beer."

"Then we steal his method," said the cane man.

"Some trick we don't know. Dwarven thing." One nodded at that. Another nodded later. The mint man nodded vigorously, then paused.

"Copper keeps smells out," he says.

"Mint does too."

"If we get his method," said another, "we can have guild members buy from us. Starve out the innkeepers." The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Agreement rippled unevenly. One nod cames with an alarming click that suggested the agreement may require ointment.

"Once we have it, we don't need him," the cane man continued.

"The boys made beer before. They'll make beer again. Better done by honest men."

"What's the law say?" asked someone. By now the deaf member had fallen asleep, his breathing settling into a slow rhythm that suggested deep trust in the furniture.

"We'll speak to the merchants' guild," the Guild Master said.

"He doesn't have a licence." Most nod. One did not. Licences were important, especially when spoken aloud.

"Laws were easier when you could explain them with a stick," the cane man muttered, turning the cane slightly in his hand.

"Well, the clerks will make us wait," the Guild Master said.

"Aye. Clerks," said the loud man.

"Fight with words, not honest fisticuffs." The mint man nodded.

"Words dry the mouth." The Guild Master closed his eyes for a moment.

"All right. We'll send people to watch. Figure out his trick. Then see what we need." The nods came in no particular order. One man nodded twice to be sure. The sleeping man snored. The fire settled again, and the room proceeded as if agreement has been achieved. In another section of the city, another meeting is being held. A normally comfortable inn hall is packed with too many benches and bodies. It was early morning, before the inns get busy.

The lamps burnt low and hissed, their heat gathering under the ceiling while murmuring voices filled the space. Berrin sat on one of the benches beside his friend Denner, owner of The Three Barrels. A bench leg scraped as someone shifted nearby. Denner leaned in and whispered, "Never seen so many members, you know," with the air of a man pleased by disaster. Berrin nodded.

"Only the winter brewer could pull this off," he says, careful not to name Alric, because names had a way of spreading.

"Can't say I blame them. People are afraid," Denner whispered back, sounding faintly impressed. A wave of silence pushed outward as a man in purple taps a staff against the table he stood upon. The sound carried farther than expected in the crowded room, suggesting the staff has been waiting for this moment.

"Let's begin by going over the previous agenda," the man said, accepting a sheet of paper. He rattled through what was agreed at the last meeting, each item landed with the weight of something no longer useful. Berrin and Denner exchanged looks and sighed.

"Can we just ratify and move on?" came a voice from the back, followed by shouted agreement from people who had already moved on.

"Very well. Then we move to the matter everyone wants to discuss. Some members were selling new beer through the winter," the man in purple said. Berrin glanced around. Some faces were smug. Others looked thinner than he remembers, which was rarely a coincidence.

"Oh, I did. And it was delicious," Denner said. Berrin blinked at him.

"My guests loved it. If the brewer had sold me more, I'd have bought every drop." He grinned, unashamed, as though honesty were a small personal indulgence. A murmur of disapproval spread through the room. Someone coughed sharply, then stopped, as if reminded where they are. Denner countered it cheerfully.

"Now, now. Don't be jealous." Berrin lowered his head, shaking it as he suppressed a laugh.

"By show of hands, how many of you bought beer from the winter brewer? You aren't in trouble," the guild master said, already sounding as though this reassurance has failed. Nearly half the room raised a hand. Berrin did as well. The benches creaked unevenly under the shift, as if surprised by the honesty.

"All right. What can you tell me about his beer?" the guild master asked, sighing.

"It's not sour," one called.

"It's a bit bitter," said another.

"Tastes dwarven," added a third, as though this were a diagnosis. Denner grinned.

"He told me he could only make that beer in winter. All that matters is it's delicious. Somehow he used a blizzard as an ingredient." He laughed, because the idea clearly amused him. The comment drew chuckles and alarm. Someone nearby muttered that it isn't natural, which is the usual complaint when something worked too well. The guild leader banged his staff on the table. The sound cut through the noise but did not silence it entirely, which seemed to bother him.

"This is serious. We cannot lose the brewer to the taverns. It would hurt us forever." He rubbed his face.

"We need something to work with." Berrin couldn't help thinking none of this will work. None of it benefited Alric. He seemed content to supply everyone and wants nothing to do with drama, which was rarely forgivable. A voice from the back said, "The man's obsessed with casks. Made me pay for my first one. Maybe we give him a gold cask as a gift?" Chuckles rippled through those who bought winter beer. Denner laughed openly. Even Berrin struggled to contain one, which only encouraged Denner.

"Didn't you say he was talking to carters?" came another voice. An alarmed one answered near Berrin.

"Carters?! Is he expecting bodies?" The room stilled for a moment, then resumed breathing, slightly faster than before.

"I saw him with the carters," the guild master said, "He was giving them drink. That's all." It did little to reassure anyone, which the silence made clear. Berrin realised then how little they know about Alric. He resolved to speak to his children later, quietly and gently. The situation felt quietly alarming, which was often how it begins.

"You know, outside inns, these people know nothing," Denner whispered. Berrin nodded.

"This will go nowhere." The meeting dissolved into one jealous group and another smug one, just as Berrin predicted, and just as everyone else seems surprised to discover. Some time later, the innkeepers' guild master sat in his favourite chair near the fire. His dog lay nearby, rising and falling with slow breaths that suggest deep trust. An older man sat opposite him. Both carried healthy bellies, the mark of regular meals and decisions made indoors. The guild master slumped.

The fire popped once, drawing the dog's ear up briefly.

"That's it. No one knows much, other than he loves casks," he said with a sigh.

"You're thinking about this all wrong, Reginald," the older man said, gesturing around the well-appointed room.

"Warmth. Comfort. Good food. Clean beds. Prestige." He inhaled, then continues.

"Where do you think people want to live? Here, or in some warehouse? If you can't move the brewer, move his staff." Reginald frowned.

"That sounds a bit dirty." The older man shook his head.

"It's recruitment. Inns do it all the time. Staff move between houses. You're not forcing anyone." He waved the concern aside and reached for his cup, which had been waiting patiently. Reginald sighed, watching as the fire settled back into its rhythm.

"All right. We'll talk to them."