Chương 52: Chapter 50 – Tavern Keepers

Alric stood beside Stromni, watching the roof section lift, both of them deeply sceptical. The ropes tightened and complained as the beams rose, shaking loose a fine rain of dust that suggested the building was in dire need of better shampoo. Sunlight spilled through the widening gap, catching on a precarious barrel full of water suspended on rope, hope and poor judgement while it waited for the opening to finish. The barrel rotated slightly as it hung, it swayed with all the dignity it could muster which was none.

"I don't trust this at all," Alric said, shaking his head.

"Aye, I don't either," the dwarf replied, which in Stromni's case counted as an enthusiastic condemnation. The rest of the staff, except for Stephen, stood well back from the opening. This was less a formal instruction and more a shared understanding that gravity was very confident and did not need encouragement. Outside, the oxen at the well shifted their weight, leather harnesses creaking softly, patient in the way only large animals can be when someone else is about to make a mistake.

It was Stromni's second day on retainer. On the first, he had made quiet adjustments to equipment throughout the building, tightening what could be tightened and marking what could not with chalk and a look that suggested future arguments. Today, they were running the system with water only, testing movement and balance before committing anything more valuable than pride. The boilers sat beneath their platforms, dark and empty.

With the exception of Stephen, all the staff were arrayed behind Alric and the dwarf, boots planted, hands idle, eyes fixed on the barrel rather than the roof, which was widely considered the less predictable of the two. The roof reached its final position. For a breath, nothing happened. The building seemed to wait. Then the barrel began its slow descent. Hal took the guiding rope and began walking wide circles, boots scraping against damp stone as he steered the floating weight.

Outside, the temporary arm flexed under load and let out a low groan that suggested it would like to lie down for a while. Both Alric and Stromni stepped back, wincing in unison. Water sloshed heavily as the barrel touched down on its platform above the boiler pot. The rope slackened in stages, fibres settling with small, uneven pops. A collective breath went out across the room, as though the barrel had decided not to kill anyone. Yet.

"And we'd have to do this every bell?" Mara asked. Alric shrugged in the manner of a man who was technically responsible but spiritually distant. Stromni muttered something in dwarvish under his breath, which sounded like a comment on rope, wood, and the people who trusted either. Alric laughed.

"You can grumble all you like, as long as the work gets done." Despite himself, Stromni grinned.

"I like the work, ya know." He glanced sideways and jerked his head.

"Lad, ya got a fop ta deal with." Alric frowned and turned to where Stromni indicated. Inside the build stood a man in a blue cloak, slowly turning as he looked around the space. The cloth was spotless, the colour sharp and deliberate, untouched by dust or stone grit, which was impressive given the surrounding enthusiasm for both. His boots were clean, soles unscuffed, as though they had never met unfinished stone.

He moved with the measured confidence of someone accustomed to being indoors, taking in scaffolding, hoists, and open roof sections with professional interest rather than curiosity. His gaze lingered on joins and spans, not on the people working beneath them, in the way of someone who believed labour happened automatically if you looked at it correctly. Behind him, another barrel passed through the opening overhead. Rope rasped softly against wood as it moved, the sound passing close above his head.

He did not look up, which suggested either supreme confidence or a trusting relationship with fate. What Alric could not ignore was that the man was inside.

"Can I ask who you are, and why you are here so rudely?" Alric asked. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"I came to speak with the brewer," the man said dismissively, already stepping toward Stromni.

"Oh my, it is a pleasure to meet you, sir. Orris Feldane, of the Tavern Keepers' Guild." He bowed slightly, his cloak shifting without brushing the floor, which was either careful practice or a minor miracle. Alric stepped aside and made room for Stromni. Behind him, he could hear his staff fighting the urge to laugh, boots shifting, breath being held, dignity suffering quietly.

"Lad, ya got this wrong," Stromni said, pointing at Alric, his mouth twitching.

"He's the brewer." Stormni walked toward the staff, abandoning Orris to the warehouse, which immediately resumed moving around him.

"So," Alric said, the humour gone, "can I ask why you just marched into my building?"

"Ah, my apologies. The door was open and uh... you are just so young." Orris gestured upward, toward the roof where light still cut through and the boilers.

"I must say, the scale is impressive."

"Thanks. We're in the middle of something." Not in the least bit peturbed the Orris continued.

"Of course. I came to discuss licensing. Anyone supplying members of the guild requires a licence. We would like to offer you a special membership, allowing you to be a tavernkeeper without owning a tavern."

"I see. I must decline. I'm already in a guild, and they give me enough trouble." Alric lifted the merchant's pendant at his neck.

"Ah, that covers trade, not beer."

"I'm afraid without licensing, guild members cannot carry your product. We are, of course, far more numerous than the Innkeepers' Guild." Alric paused.

"Thanks, but no. Taverns serve locals, and locals have been resistant to what we sell, calling it foreign. Inns deal with travellers, and travellers are more receptive." He raised a hand as Orris opened his mouth.

"If I'm forced to pursue licensing, I'd rather supply inns. It's simpler, and they're easier to reach."

"Now, now, let's not do anything rash," Orris said, blinking rapidly, which gave the impression that his thoughts were briefly buffering.

"I'm not joining another guild. And for what it's worth, the Innkeepers were significantly nicer when they approached me." Colour rose in Orris's neck.

"Let's not be hasty. Let's think about this." He backed toward the entrance, careful not to step into a damp patch near the wall, which would have complicated matters socially. Alric sighed.

"I told the Innkeepers I'd think about it too." Orris turned and left. Light shifted as he passed beneath the open roof and out into the street, where the warehouse promptly stopped caring about him. Two men fell in beside him as he reached the road.

"How'd it go, boss?" one asked.

"We need a meeting. All members," Orris said, his voice tight, which suggested that several thoughts had just failed to reach a satisfying conclusion. Back in the warehouse, ropes were being reset and the arm checked for cracks, because gravity was nothing if not consistent. Alric turned to his staff. He raised his hands, then stopped, remembering Moreen's habit of clapping at people, and lowered them again with visible restraint.

"Alright. Let's finish the test. Move the next barrel." They nodded and returned to their positions without comment, comforted by the fact that whatever had just happened was no longer their problem. Stromni produced a drawing of the roof frame he wanted to build up. The paper was creased and darkened at the edges, weighed down at one corner by a wooden washer that had clearly been chosen for its moral authority. The structure it showed was heavy, braced, and impossible to miss from the street.

Alric studied it, eyes tracking the lines. Somewhere above them, wood knocked softly against wood as the rigging was adjusted. Everyone turned to look in the direction of the new noise.

"Do it," he said.

"Now that you've shown me, I'd have to remember it if someone got hurt." Stromni grinned.

"I like the problems ya bring, lad. Don't regret this job at all."

"Happy staff is all that matters," Alric said dryly.

"Oy, I'm on retainer, not your lackey," Stromni said, shaking the paper. Laughter rippled through the group.

"But aye, with how fast you lot move water, anything less will get someone killed." By afternoon, steam drifted lazily from the warehouse roof, thin at first, then steady enough to be seen from the street, the building quietly announcing that it was doing something important. That evening, a man in purple with a red sash sat across from a man dressed in black. The room was narrow and well kept, its shutters closed despite the hour, as though daylight might overhear.

A single oil lamp burned between them, its flame steady, the air warm but faintly stale. The man in purple sat upright, hands folded carefully on the table. His clothing was immaculate, the colour deep and intentional, the sash marking rank rather than celebration. He had the expression of someone who was used to welcoming strangers for a living and resented how little that helped here.

"I'm a litigator for the Merchants' Guild," the man in black said.

"You know we don't interfere with artisans."

"I know. But he needs to be classed as a crafter. He's like a carpenter. Takes raw material and sells the result. Beer is no different." The litigator leaned back, chair legs scraping once against the floor.

"Three problems. First, he already operates as a merchant, if we did this he could sell direct to the public. Second, if he's reclassified, every inn and tavern must be as well. That means trade fees. Back pay. Twelve years' worth, in your case. And it would be your guild paying it. Third, beer prices rise across the city, and everyone knows who caused it. Do you want that?" He sounded bored by the end, as though this conversation had been a formality rather than a discussion.

The man in purple stared down at the table, fingers tightening against the wood. The lamp hissed softly, offering no advice. Some time after the litigator left, the room had gone still. The man in purple turned to his assistants.

"Call a meeting. All members."