Chương 68: Chapter 66 – Week 5

"Mister Alric, we have a problem," Seren said. Alric blinked and stood, heading through to the warehouse proper. The warehouse staff were bolting the door, the new bar scraping as it slid into place with the sound of something that very much intended to stay where it was put.

"There is a big gathering outside, just up the street," she said, pointing him toward a window. Alric moved over and opened it. By his estimate, roughly eighty people had gathered. Staff moved through the building, checking that every door was secured. Somewhere deeper inside, a latch rattled as it was tested and set again, clearly taking its duty seriously. Through the window, Alric saw the adventurers step forward, all of them with weapons drawn.

Guards were shouting, moving quickly around what Alric could only think of as a mob. Boots struck stone in uneven rhythms as more arrived from side streets, suggesting that word travelled faster when it involved the possibility of fire.

"Nothing to worry about, Mister Alric," one of the adventurers said as he came to the window.

"They were too slow. The guards will sort them out." He leaned against the wall, watching the gathering with casual indifference, as if this were an unusually noisy weather pattern. More guards were arriving, many with weapons already out, shouting orders at the crowd. The people outside milled uncertainly, the sound rising and falling as individuals tried to decide where to stand without standing anywhere too firmly.

"What are they doing? Who even are they?" Alric asked.

"No idea. Don't think the innkeepers could pull numbers like that. Reckon it's the tavern people," the adventurer said.

"They don't look armed. This would be a massacre." Alric nodded. Many in the crowd kept glancing toward his building, but even to him it was clear this wasn't going to work. The gathering began drifting toward the crafters' quarter, leaving scuffed footprints in the dust where they had stood, as if the street itself was relieved.

"Were the guards always this fast?" Alric asked. The adventurer shook his head.

"Fire spooked them, I reckon. Look, even some from the Nob Bridge." He pointed out guards carrying swords instead of polearms. The crowd dispersed quickly after that, though the guards kept shouting as they went, their voices echoing between the warehouses in case anyone had missed the point. Alric noticed several people glance back at the warehouse as they left.

"I'll get it unlocked," he said. The adventurer nodded. Alric moved to the door. The staff watched him anxiously, hands still resting on bars and braces, prepared to argue with the building itself if necessary.

"No need to worry. They're already dispersing," he said. Hal and Henry nodded and began wrestling with the new, thicker locking bar, the wood creaking as it came free with obvious reluctance.

"They're getting desperate," Vale said from nearby. Alric didn't need to look at him. He could hear the smugness in Vale's voice. The following day, guild colours began to disappear from the streets nearest the docks. A tavernkeeper removed his pin before opening and left it on the shelf behind the counter. Another turned his sign around rather than repaint it, the wood knocking softly as it settled into its new, less committed position.

A strip of cloth was cut from a sleeve and stuffed into a pocket, the stitching left uneven and obvious, as if speed had won an argument with pride. No announcements followed. No one spoke about it openly. Doors opened and closed as they always had, performing the small rituals of business without commentary. Names were passed along quietly instead. Sometimes over a counter, sometimes in doorways, sometimes by children sent ahead with a scrap of paper and a copper, who took the task very seriously.

Coins clinked once, then vanished into hands. The question was always the same, and it was never asked aloud. Denner's name came up more often than anywhere else. By midweek, Denner stopped asking where people were from. He wrote the names down, adjusted routes, and crossed others out. The charcoal nub shortened with each entry, steadily sacrificing itself to logistics. Guild marks appeared less often each day, and when they did, they were usually covered. No one argued. No one explained.

Bad beer meant ruin, and this beer did not turn. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. Alric was overseeing Hal's work when he heard a call from outside.

"Anyone home?" came the voice. Alric moved to the door. Standing just off the street was Denner, looking smug, sunlight catching the dust on his jacket as though it approved of him.

"Good to see you, Denner," Alric said, stepping out to meet him.

"And you, Alric. This where you've been holed up?" Denner asked, glancing around at the warehouse. A large frame stood above it now, unused while they were still running so hard, its shadow falling across the door like a promise made for later.

"Pretty much. It's roomy," Alric said with a grin. He noticed one of the adventurer guards watching the exchange. Almost on cue, Vale came to join them, boots stopping just short of the threshold, as if the doorway charged rent.

"So what do you need?" Alric asked.

"More broken casks?" Denner shook his head and dug into his jacket, pulling out a sheet of crinkled paper that had clearly been folded many times, possibly for reassurance. Alric took it, tried to read, and immediately felt a headache building. He passed it to Vale.

"So that's twenty-three who've struck their colours," Denner said, his grin returning.

"They'd like to ask for beer, if you have it." Alric and Vale both sagged slightly. The chaos was finally resolving, which felt suspiciously like relief.

"Did any of them give reasons?" Alric asked.

"We've been a bit starved for information." Denner paused to think, the paper crackling softly as he adjusted his grip.

"Most just couldn't risk brewing again. One bad batch and they'd be finished. The guilds haven't helped them at all." Alric nodded.

"Alright. Don't announce anything yet, then. I'll be bringing the markup back after next week. I need to give the adventurers some notice." Denner frowned.

"You'd stop now? Just when they're hurting?"

"Truth is, Denner, I couldn't supply them all even if I wanted to," Alric said with a shrug.

"Week ends in what, three days? This list will probably triple by then. I just want the guilds to leave me alone. That was all I ever wanted." He glanced back at the warehouse, where the sound of work had already resumed, stubborn and familiar.

"How did you get through all this?"

"I've done well," Denner said.

"Losing the beer margin hurt a little, but I started selling smaller portions of food that go well with it." He grinned and patted his belly, as if to underline the point with supporting evidence.

"Well, you've helped me a lot," Alric said.

"I feel like I owe you." Denner shook his head.

"You helped me. I helped you. I think most people hate their own guilds by now. I'm glad to be done with that. Berrin's waiting for this to grow a bit more before he does the same." Alric nodded. It was good to hear the White Dove was holding on.

"But enough of that," Denner said.

"We're standing in the sun. Give me the tour. I want to understand this place." Alric grinned and turned toward the door. Vale had already disappeared. He gestured for Denner to follow. Pavise leaned back and opened the letter he had just received from Alric. He read through it quickly, nodded once, and passed it to the clerk beside him. They were alone in the guild master's office, the room quiet except for the faint noise of the hall beyond the door, which sounded busy enough to justify ignoring it.

"This was a good run," Pavise said, stretching at length. The clerk finished reading the note, set it on the table, and nodded.

"Never imagined we'd host a festival, let alone that it would work this well." He stretched too, then stifled a yawn.

"I can't imagine how the other adventurers' guilds are going to feel about this." Pavise considered that, eyes drifting to the window where light fell across the desk and highlighted several things that really should have been filed. The biggest draw, as far as he was concerned, was that it would pull more adventurers into the city. Just the knowledge that they had hosted a successful festival would be enough to turn heads elsewhere.

"They'll be jealous. That's about it," Pavise said.

"They couldn't have pulled this off without the brewer backing it, and neither could anyone else." He smiled faintly.

"Still, he's coming on the last day. We'll need some way to thank him publicly. Next week will be a busy one." As he spoke, he rubbed his jaw without thinking. A livid bruise had bloomed there from one of the bouts. He'd given the priest a free one after stepping into the pit again, and he carried the reminder with a quiet measure of pride, the sort that did not require explanation.

"I'm looking forward to normal paperwork again," he added.

"Oi, guv!" the carter called to the two men in colourful clothing. They had stopped at a corner along the route, carts idling as the traces tightened in the patient way of animals that knew work would resume whether they liked it or not.

"We just want to talk," one of them said, raising a hand with a silver coin pinched between his fingers. The carter and his partner slowed, eyeing the pair with open scepticism as the load shifted behind them, unimpressed.

"How about this?" the man said, holding out two silvers.

"You take this and don't make the delivery," he added with a wink. The carters scoffed.

"Out the way, you damn fop," the lead carter said as he leaned back into the harness. Both men in bright clothes jumped aside. Once they were out of earshot, the carter glanced at his partner, breath settling back into rhythm.

"Really? A silver?" he said, shaking his head.

"A small one at that," his partner replied, and they both laughed, the sound carrying further than the offer ever would have.

"You know," the carter said as they approached the Adventurers' Guild, the noise ahead growing louder, "I really want a go in the pit."

"Well, it's a bit of a secret right now, but you might get your wish," his partner said.

"Eh? Can't work and fight the same day," the carter replied. The other man gestured for him to come closer and lowered his voice.

"This festival ends next week. We're asking the brewer to load us a bit heavier so we don't have to run routes on the last day. We all want a go in the pit." In the third-oldest tavern in the city, the guild master confronted the oldest members. Normally, six elders attended these meetings with him. Today there were only four. The others had sent word they were unwell, brief notes with no details, and none of them had missed a meeting before.

The room smelled of stale ale and damp wood, which had been present for all previous crises and showed no sign of leaving now.

"So that's it?" he asked.

"No ideas? Nothing?" A droplet of spit landed on the table. The four elders offered a handful of suggestions, but each was dismissed or had already been tried. The table absorbed the blows of their hands without protest, having heard worse. The guild master slammed his fists down.

"Damn it! We're bleeding members and we've got nothing?"