Chương 66: Chapter 64 – Week 3

In the crafters' district, a tavernkeeper poured a very small measure from a cask. The liquid ran thinly down the inside of the cup before settling, as if it, too, was unsure about the situation. He took a sip, spat it out, and stood there considering it while the room remained otherwise still. It hadn't turned yet, but it was close. If he was going to brew again, it had to be today. He looked over the vat with a frown.

The surface barely moved when he disturbed it, heavy with what hadn't sold and with no interest in being encouraging. He had already sent the staff home early. The guild's answer had been to wait, to let it blow over, but he didn't believe it. The air in the room held the smell of grain and damp wood, unchanged no matter how long he stood there, which felt unhelpfully symbolic. If he brewed now, he would be throwing the previous beer away. If he didn't, he would have nothing for customers.

He was low on grain as well, which narrowed the list of good options to none. He rubbed his temples and looked down at the open vat. The scrape of wood against wood sounded louder than it should have as he began clearing it out, the noise of a decision being made without enthusiasm. If he had nothing to sell, he couldn't keep the doors open. Alric had just finished setting water for Hal when Seren approached, holding a letter.

Steam drifted lazily from the nearby stone, curling upward without urgency, as if it had no intention of getting involved. Alric raised a brow at the letter, then clenched his jaw.

"It's from the innkeepers. They're offering to mediate between us, them, and the tavernkeepers," Seren said, with a sad smile that suggested she already knew the answer.

"Tell them to get bent. Pressure works both ways," Alric said, waving a hand. Seren nodded. Alric watched her return to the office, the sound of her steps fading as she began drafting a response that would be remembered for its efficiency rather than its warmth.

"Mediation does not align with our current goals at this time." She showed the letter to Vale, who nodded and passed her the seal. Wax softened quickly in the warmth of the room, clearly more flexible than everyone involved in this price war. Alric's attention had returned to the boilers when a loud shout came from the front. The sound cut cleanly through the steady hiss of heat, which had been doing its job without complaint. He moved to the doors and glanced outside.

Pavise stood in the sunlight, admiring the warehouse in full armour, three escorts behind him and a broad smile on his face, as if this were a pleasant social call rather than an intrusion. Alric frowned and stepped outside. The brightness made the heat inside feel heavier by contrast, which was saying something.

"Last I checked, you didn't have an appointment, Pavise," Alric said.

"That's true. You didn't have one when you dropped the festival in my lap either," Pavise replied, smirking.

"I suppose that's fair." Alric paused, eyeing him. Pavise looked far too confident for someone intruding on a busy place.

"Do you need me to take my shirt off for an initial greeting too?" Alric asked, innocently. The adventurers behind Pavise scoffed. Alric smirked, and Pavise fought back a smile himself.

"No need. I see enough of that already." He shot a look at his escort, who were still grinning with the air of men who enjoyed their work.

"You here for the tour? Then follow me." Alric gestured them inside. The doorway swallowed Pavise's escorts one at a time. Alric noticed his staff glance up or gasp as Pavise bent to clear the frame, metal scraping faintly against wood, the building registering the encounter as politely as it could, but in the case of Pavise, definitely acknowledging.

"These are the boilers. One fills a barrel or six casks. It passes from here into them through these," Alric said, indicating the pipes as condensation beaded along the copper, which looked quietly pleased with itself.

"I see. And you're putting in a third?" Pavise asked, blinking and pointing to the open space at the back.

"It's coming later this week, but we won't be running it. The stones are expensive." Alric lifted one of the inert stones from the steamer. It was warm even at rest, as if remembering its purpose.

"These are giant salamander crystals?" Pavise asked, taking it and turning it over.

"You put mana in them and they heat up," Alric said. Pavise nodded slowly, the way one did when encountering a fact that would soon become a problem.

"We supply these to the magery. One big pot uses four?" Pavise asked, looking over the setup.

"That's right. It takes about a bell to make what we call wort. It cools, then becomes beer in a week to ten days," Alric said. Behind them, a cask creaked as it settled.

"We are the ones who get those stones." He said passing it back "But I can't sell stones to you. There's no rule saying I have to sell them to the magery immediately though. Would you want to borrow a few?" Pavise asked.

"I won't say no. With the third boiler we could push ninety to one hundred and eight casks a day. We're sitting at seventy-two now," Alric said. Pavise and his escort stared at him. The heat pressed in, unchanged, unimpressed by rank. This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Shall we take this to my office?" Alric asked. Pavise nodded, still watching the boilers as if they might say something else. Pavise still looked too confident for Alric's liking. An idea struck him. Vale was out on collections with an escort, so Alric chose a different kind of pressure. He grinned to himself as he led Pavise to a seat.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said. Alric returned carrying a chair, placed it in the corner, and gestured for Lessa to sit who had just followed him. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor, announcing themselves to no one in particular. Alric took his own seat. Seren joined them and sat to his left. Pavise blinked, his gaze drifting between Seren and Lessa. The room felt suddenly smaller, as rooms often did when expectations shifted.

Alric noticed Pavise's clerk standing a little straighter, as if posture might be useful armour. Alric caught Seren's eye and saw his own amusement reflected there. Lessa's charcoal began scratching across the page, the sound steady and unhurried, though no one had spoken and no permission had been requested.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" Alric asked, professionally.

"Uh. The festival," Pavise said, glancing at his clerk then at Lessa. Alric noticed Pavise posing without meaning to, the way some men did when confronted with an audience they hadn't planned for. Pavise shook his head slightly.

"Yes. The festival. I wanted to ask how much longer you intend to keep it running."

"Well, we're supplying a few independent taverns and an inn now. They aren't getting the same cost deal, so we're making a profit again," Alric said. Pavise and his clerk both went wide-eyed. Lessa's charcoal scratched faster, then settled back into its earlier rhythm, having captured whatever it needed. They tried to recover, but the clerk spoke first.

"You mean you can keep this up. Indefinitely?" he asked.

"I could. I don't think it will come to that," Alric said. Pavise nodded slowly.

"So when do you want it to stop?"

"I don't have an end date in mind. A lot depends on the guilds," Alric said.

"I see. I want to assign more security. At least for the carters on the main avenue and for your grain shipments," Pavise said.

"I won't turn it down. You're the security expert. I do need to pass those costs onto your end," Alric said.

"That's just it. We've made a small profit. I wanted to ask how to spend it. It's been adding up from rounding coppers," Pavise said, sitting straighter. His gaze drifted to Lessa. She looked up at him briefly, then returned to the page, clearly satisfied. Alric heard Seren snort and had to suppress his own. The room's warmth suddenly felt more noticeable, as if the boilers were listening. He bit his lip, uncomfortably aware of how unsettling sustained attention could be.

"Alright. That makes sense. I'll leave that to you. If there's anything left after, host a giveaway or hire more security," Alric said, standing and offering his hand. Later, Alric found himself studying Lessa's drawing of the guild master. The charcoal lines were confident, already fixed on the page. It was better than he had expected, which made him faintly suspicious of his own expectations. At the Tavernkeepers' Guild hall, the guild master faced a crowd of roughly thirty members.

The room smelled of old ale and wet wool, neither of which encouraged calm thought.

"You all need to calm down. The brewer supplying the adventurers can't keep this up forever," he said. That only made it worse. Boots scuffed the floor as men shifted their weight, and the noise pressed inward as if the walls were listening and taking notes. They had pounded on his door to force the meeting.

"That don't help none," one man said loudly.

"We've got ale about to turn. Do we brew again or do we wait?"

"Aye. Do we let staff go?" another called.

"And food? Mine's already turned," someone shouted from the back. The guild master blinked, mouth opening, then closing again. The silence that followed felt heavier than the shouting, largely because it contained the same question. He had nothing to give them. At the Innkeepers' Guild office, the guild master read Alric's letter and let out a long breath. The paper crackled softly as he folded it, as if it, too, would rather be elsewhere.

"Send a missive. Tell the members to focus on food and accommodation," he said. Once the clerks had gone and the door shut, the room settled into the kind of quiet that did not offer solutions. He put his face into his hands and stayed there. The city's day off turned the square outside the Adventurers' Guild into something dense and restless.

People packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies brushing without apology, voices layering until they stopped being individual shouts and became a constant, rolling pressure that suggested enthusiasm rather than organisation. Beer moved faster than coin. Tankards knocked together as they were passed overhead. Someone laughed hard enough to stumble backward into a stranger, and neither of them cared, which was taken as a sign that the day was going well. Near the fighting pit, betting was shouted rather than recorded.

Numbers were yelled, contradicted, then yelled again. Coin flashed briefly and vanished into palms slick with sweat. Fighters and unruly drinkers were shoved, carried, and sometimes dragged into the ring. Often with claps on the back or curses in the ear, boots skidding across churned dirt. After a bout the losers were hauled out by the guards with practiced impatience, some laughing, some bleeding, some arguing until they were dragged clear of the crowd and forgotten.

The guards, however, watched the fights with as much intensity as anyone else, often cheering louder and with fewer excuses. The current champion hadn't moved all afternoon. He stood off to one side with his arms folded, waiting while others tried their luck and failed. Each time a fighter was tossed aside, the noise swelled again, anticipation stacking on itself like unpaid bets. Now and then, order broke entirely. A missed call. A bad shove. A drunk with more confidence than sense.

When it did, Pavise stepped in without ceremony. Sometimes with a word. Sometimes with a hand on a shoulder. Once, with a clean, efficient strike that ended the problem and sent the crowd roaring its approval, which suggested the crowd was flexible on the subject of fairness. The priest was there, impossible to miss. Seven wins had made him a fixture rather than a curiosity. People parted around him without quite realising they were doing it. Some nodded. Some stared.

He drank slowly, as if pacing himself against the day rather than the crowd, which was wise. Pavise handed him a beer without comment. The priest accepted it with a quiet nod.

"Wanted to ask," Pavise said, taking a sip from his own tankard.

"When I got in the ring with you, you didn't fight back. Why?"

"I'd already beaten seven," the priest said.

"I was beyond exhausted. If I'd pushed it, I'd have walked away with fewer teeth." Pavise raised his tankard.

"No hard feelings?"

"None. It was an honour to take one from Siege-Breaker Pavise," the priest said, clinking their cups together. Inside the building, a raised lounge overlooked the ring, a safer space with less shoving that had been reserved for ladies joining the festivities. Laughter drifted down from it in waves, separate from the roar below and considerably better timed. When the next carters' train arrived, three carts in a row and rattling under the weight, the square erupted. The sound hit like a wave.

The carters grinned as they rolled through it, faces flushed, shoulders loose, the expressions of men who had arrived at the correct place at the correct time. Carrying beer. This time, they weren't just tolerated. They were welcomed. And the noise didn't fade.