Chương 73: Chapter 70 – Merchant Season

Moreen and Sons did not slow down for summer. If anything, it moved faster, with less tolerance for indecision, as if the season itself had a schedule and intended to keep it. The inner office was fuller than Alric remembered, clerks bent over tall desks with sleeves rolled and ink already drying on their fingers. Someone was arguing quietly over a delivery window, the sort of argument where both sides already knew the answer and were hoping volume might change it.

Someone else was counting coin with the distracted precision of a man who had already spent it three times in his head and disliked all three purchases. A runner slipped through the gaps between desks, paused to listen, then vanished again, apparently satisfied that nothing was on fire. Moreen himself was standing rather than sitting, jacket off, sleeves loose, one hand resting on the edge of a table while he spoke to a pair of merchants who looked faintly panicked.

He finished with a nod, accepted a sealed note without comment, and only then turned as Alric and Seren were shown in.

"Master Alric," Moreen said, not lifting his gaze from a ledger on the table, tracing values with his finger.

"I do wish you'd start making appointments." His eyes flicked to Seren, who threw Alric a look that suggested this lesson had been taught before and would be taught again. Alric felt Seren's gaze burn against his ear.

"I can wait," he said, already regretting the optimism of the statement.

"You'll have to. Tella, please show Master Alric to the waiting room. I'll prepare myself for whatever headache he has in store for me today," Moreen said, still not looking up.

"And the better tea. The best is reserved for those who make appointments." Sufficiently chastised, Alric followed the maid to the waiting room. The door shut behind them with a soft finality that implied the room had seen many such chastisements and expected more. The tea they were served was better than anything Alric had had so far, steam curling lazily from the cups as if in no hurry to be consumed.

Alric insisted Seren sit rather than stand behind him and drink as well, which she did with the air of someone adding this to a mental ledger. It didn't take long for Moreen to finish and join them.

"Good to see you, Moreen," Alric said, offering what he hoped was a winning smile and what Moreen received as a familiar symptom. Moreen's jacket was a crime committed with confidence. Cut close through the waist and flared just enough at the hips to suggest movement even when he stood still, it was dyed a deep, stubborn teal that refused to exist politely beside anything else in the room. Gold-thread piping traced the seams in deliberate excess, not enough to be ceremonial, too much to be accidental.

The lining flashed wine-red when he moved, heavy silk that caught the light and reminded anyone watching that the jacket had cost more than most people earned in a year. Rings crowded his fingers in calculated disorder, stones chosen for colour rather than clarity, as if brilliance were a matter of attitude. When he finally collapsed into the chair opposite them, the fabric settled with a faint whisper. The whole arrangement should have looked ridiculous. Somehow, infuriatingly, it didn't.

"And you, Alric," Moreen said, barely glancing at him as he reached for the cup.

"Tea first, then headaches." Tella reappeared silently to set it down, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew better than to interrupt a ritual. Moreen drank as if nothing else existed. Alric had to hold back a laugh and made the mistake of glancing at Seren, who was also very carefully not smiling.

"All right," Moreen said at last, setting the cup aside and releasing a long breath, as though bracing for weather.

"I'm ready."

"I need fruit," Alric said.

"Well, it exists. The quality varies, but that's not the issue," Moreen replied, sitting upright. The chair creaked faintly beneath him, as if offering commentary.

"We're heading into summer. Early fruit is already promised to nobles, preserves, and standing contracts. You always need so much, and I simply cannot get it for you."

"What about honey?" Alric asked. Moreen went still for a moment, the way a man did when deciding how much truth to give away at once.

"Politically charged. Also promised. Anything I could get would be through other merchants, and not in the quantities you'd want. Any of it will be expensive."

"I see. Then I'll ask you to get me whatever honey you can." Moreen nodded once and waited, already resigned. Alric could hear the soft scratch of Seren's charcoal as she took notes. He kept his eyes on Moreen. He still thought of him as a kind of predator, though one who preferred contracts to teeth.

"You do understand the amount of grain you go through has me scrambling around the countryside?" Moreen said at last.

"It's obscene." Alric winced inwardly, then reminded himself that Moreen was being well paid for the exercise.

"What about something like berries?" Alric asked, less hopeful. Moreen sneered.

"Rural peasant food. Surely you don't want…" He trailed off when Alric's face lit up.

"There aren't berry farms, Alric. I can't just send a wagon somewhere and fetch them."

"All right, but why not have merchants stay overnight in a village? Ask villagers to gather berries and pay them when leaving the next morning," Alric said.

"No middlemen. Minimal spoilage if it reaches me in two days. You know I'm good for the coin." Moreen was silent for a moment, eyes unfocused as he worked through it, the way merchants did when turning people into numbers and numbers into decisions.

"Yes, all right, but you always want things in absurd quantities. How much?" You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"I've been stockpiling barrels in the cellar. They're sitting empty. Let's say thirty barrels, give or take." Moreen's hand rose to his temples. He closed his eyes and began rubbing them, as though hoping to physically smooth the problem away.

"In wagonloads, please."

"Twenty wagonloads to start?" Alric asked, smiling, because optimism was free. Moreen sighed and rubbed his temples harder.

"You know my staff joke about this. Someone comes in asking for bulk and they ask whether it's brewer bulk or normal bulk."

"But surely I'm predictable."

"Predictably difficult to satisfy," Moreen said. He glanced at Alric through his fingers.

"Yes. I'll see if I can get your berries."

"Could we keep them separated?" Alric added.

"Strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries. Different containers." Moreen's eyes widened. Even Seren paused, charcoal hovering, as if the page itself needed a moment. Alric glanced at Seren's notes. Labour origin. Volume tracking. None of it had occurred to him yet, which in hindsight felt like it probably should have.

"One last thing," Alric said.

"Come autumn, I want grapes. As many as you can get. No apples this time. They caused nothing but trouble." He felt smaller as he said it, like a man apologising to the weather.

"Well," Moreen said, returning to his temples, "at least you warned me this time." Moreen watched them leave from the tall front window, one hand resting against his jaw as Alric and Seren disappeared into the press of the street. The glass vibrated faintly with passing wagons, a reminder that commerce did not pause for reflection. The noise swallowed them quickly. It always did. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, which was irritating in itself. Alric was a good client. Annoying. Demanding.

Logistically wild. But good. Anyone who could do basic arithmetic knew the truth of it. The brewer was making a fortune on beer, not in a flashy way, but in the slow, relentless manner that came from volume, reliability, and not poisoning customers, a surprisingly effective business model. If Alric wanted grapes, he thought, he would drown him in grapes. The idea lingered, irritating and obvious. He found himself smiling despite himself. There was envy in it, small and sharp, the kind he disliked acknowledging.

Alric did not need to navigate half the nonsense Moreen did. He built, and the city rearranged itself around the result, sometimes without being asked.

"Tella," Moreen said without turning.

"Yes, sir?"

"Pen. Paper." She placed them in his hand almost immediately. Moreen returned to his desk and sat, jacket flaring as he dropped into the chair. The silk settled as if it approved of decisive action. He wrote only a few lines. One of his better contacts. Discreet. Practical. Baron Isewald had fallen on hard times, and hard times made people flexible in ways comfort never did. A vineyard that could not afford patience was still a vineyard. If Alric wanted grapes, Moreen would make sure they were available.

All of them. He sealed the note, rang for a runner, and leaned back, already working ahead. A client like that was worth indulging. And watching. It was three days later when the first load of berries arrived. Alric was already stepping out of the warehouse when the wagon rolled up, wheels crunching softly over packed earth that had seen worse.

"Uh… are you the man who wanted berries?" the merchant asked. Alric nodded enthusiastically.

"That's me." The merchant's gaze dropped to Alric's boots, lingered, and rose again. He looked as though he might ask another question, then decided he did not want the answer.

"They're in the back. Just like you ordered. I think." After a brief scramble, Alric climbed up. The wagon was stacked with burlap sacks tied off with rough twine, bulging with uneven weight. Dark stains bled through the fabric where berries had burst, streaking the boards beneath in dull reds and purples. A few sacks sagged at the corners, stretched thin by careless packing, as though they had already given up arguing. The smell followed immediately.

Sweet and sharp, sun-warmed fruit with the faint sour edge of skins already breaking down. Not rot, not yet, but close enough to be impatient about it. Alric held out his hand. He had cleared space in his item box for this, though it had mostly been stockpiling barrels for some time. The familiar settling sensation followed as the sacks vanished one by one, leaving absence where there had been abundance.

"All right. Thanks. That'll be all," he said, hopping down. The merchant stared into the empty wagon for a moment, nodded once, and clicked his tongue. The wagon lurched forward and was gone, taking its questions with it. Alric walked back inside with an unmistakable lift to his step. The fruit press and washtub stood ready, wood still damp from cleaning, as if bracing themselves. Henry had just finished.

"Henry, I'll need two labourers for this. Dockside casual work," Alric said.

"That won't be difficult," Henry replied, already turning away, apparently confident that the docks produced labour the way fields produced weeds. Alric studied the setup. Pressing inside would be messy. He would not use casks. Those were for beer. These would go into barrels, and moving juice from tub to barrel indoors would be a nuisance best avoided.

"Anything I can help with?" Mara appeared at the corner, eyes already tracking the equipment. Seren and Lessa followed a moment later, as if responding to a signal only they could hear. Their sixth senses that their boss might be doing labour apparently on form this day.

"I'll manage with the labourers Henry's bringing," Alric said, glancing between them. He felt, faintly, accused, though of what he could not have said.

"I'd like to stay. Just to learn," Mara said. She smiled, then exchanged a look with Seren and Lessa. They nodded and left.

"We have plenty of brewing bags. Lessa is managing fine." Alric nodded. It seemed reasonable, which was often how trouble began.

"Well," he said, "first thing is moving all this outside." The feeling that he had agreed to something without quite understanding it settled in his chest. It was not long before the setup stood outside. Alric bent spare copper piping carefully into a crude siphon, working slowly to avoid kinks, because kinks had a way of becoming problems later. The press drained into the washtub.

From there, after pasteurising, the juice would flow directly into a waiting barrel set into a freshly dug hole that smelled of damp earth and effort.

"All right. Let's start," Alric said. The two labourers leaned into the screw. They began with strawberries. Almost immediately, pale red juice ran into the tub, rippling softly against the sides, a sound that suggested progress.

"This is just like cider?" Mara asked.

"We just don't chop it first?"

"That's right," Alric said.

"Once it's warm, I'll show you the rest." He gestured to the pipe, which did nothing in response.

"Mister Alric?" Vale's voice came from nearby. Alric looked up.

"Something wrong?" Vale shook his head.

"Just… what is this?"

"We're making berry wine. Same process as cider, mostly."

"Berry wine," Vale repeated, tasting the words as if unsure they belonged together.

"It should take some pressure off beer. It doesn't interfere with anything else."

"I see," Vale said slowly.

"And it can become vinegar?"

"Yes." Vale nodded and moved away. Alric caught a few indistinct words but let them go, trusting that whatever conclusions were being drawn would occur regardless. It was later in the day, they had just finished pasteurizing the strawberry juice and Alric has shown how the siphon worked. Mara finished testing the siphon and nodded.

"I think I have this, Mister Alric. I can oversee the rest." Seren stood nearby nodding politely.

"I have time," Alric said.

"Not really," Mara replied gently.

"Too many important people come through. You need to look the part."

"If you do have time," Seren added, "we should look into your wardrobe." Alric looked down at his hands. They were clean. The labourers' arms were stained to the elbows, red and purple like badges of service.