Chương 97: Chapter 94 – The Quiet Meeting

The bathhouse common room had the sort of noise that did not belong to anything in particular. It was not loud or quiet, just a steady presence made up of shifting conversations, water poured into basins, the occasional scrape of wood against tile as someone adjusted a seat that had never quite settled into being comfortable. Steam drifted lazily along the upper beams. It was not a place where important things happened. Which made it ideal.

The two men sat opposite each other on a low bench that had seen better decades and worse occupants. Between them, a small table bore the marks of repeated use and no particular care, its surface uneven in a way that suggested it had been sanded down only when absolutely necessary and never again. A pair of cups rested there, half full or half empty depending on philosophy. This was one place neither of them would be monitored by their juniors, their security details waited outside.

They had even come from different entrances. They had not greeted each other. They had not used names. The Tavern Keepers' Guild master leaned back slightly, one hand resting on his knee, fingers tapping once against the fabric of a rough towel before going still again. He glanced toward the far wall, where a man was explaining something with unnecessary enthusiasm to someone who did not appear to benefit from it, then back again.

Someone else nearby was explaining something in detail that suggested he had only just understood it himself.

"You had a lot of gall asking to meet," the man opposite him said. Across from him, the Innkeepers' Guild master sat with his hands folded loosely, not in patience, not in restraint, simply in a position that did not interfere with anything else he might need to do. His gaze moved once across the room. The cups remained on the table between them remained untouched.

"I did. You know none of it matters now?" the Tavern Keeper asked. The Innkeeper looked to a corner of the room before he shrugged his shoulders.

"You were there twelve years ago?" the Tavern Keeper asked. That got him a nod. There had only been one guild twelve years ago. The Tavern Keepers' Guild. Fees had been pushed onto innkeepers for rooms and other services, often beyond what they were earning. Complaints were dismissed as lies. The innkeepers had split off. The two guilds had hated each other ever since. It had taken years to build that kind of resentment, which made it particularly efficient to discard.

"Well, I was not, but I know what happened. I also know it doesn't matter anymore. You know that too," the Tavern Keeper said, tilting his head. This got him a shrug from the Innkeeper. The Tavern Keeper shifted, leaning forward just enough to bring his elbows to the table. His fingers brushed the rim of the cup, rotating it a fraction without lifting it.

"They've got a priest now," he said.

"It's permanent. No one will drink anything else anymore." The Innkeeper inclined his head once. Steam drifted between them, softening the space without obscuring it. Somewhere behind them, water sloshed.

"They line up for it," the Tavern Keeper continued, his gaze still on the cup.

"Not even for the taste anymore." The Innkeeper's fingers shifted slightly, adjusting their position against each other.

"No," he said. A pause followed, not for emphasis, not for thought, simply because there was nowhere for the statement to go.

"No point talking about brewing," the Innkeeper said after a moment, not looking up.

"No," the Innkeeper repeated. A man passed behind them, trailing damp footprints that would dry... eventually or assist someone to meet the ground as a slipping hazard. Neither of them turned.

"They're still talking about it," the Tavern Keeper added, a faint shift at the corner of his mouth that might have been amusement, if it had been anything at all.

"Advisors." If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. The Innkeeper's gaze flicked once to the side, then back again.

"What are they saying?"

"Tradition. Loyalty. Weathering it." The words settled without resistance.

"Give it time." All of it sounded very convincing when nothing was at stake. The Innkeeper's fingers loosened slightly, then folded again.

"Same as mine. This isn't leaving, though. Give it time," he said, with a sneer. Time, as it turned out, was most useful to people who had already used it badly. The Tavern Keeper let out a short breath that did not quite reach laughter.

"They think this is a bad season." Another pause. Longer this time, though not by much.

"They're wrong," the Innkeeper said. He paused before adding, "It cost them nothing to say it." For a moment, neither of them spoke. Somewhere, a bench creaked. Someone shifted their weight. The sound of water being poured found its place among the others and remained there.

"It was never about the beer," the Tavern Keeper said, almost absently. The Innkeeper's eyes narrowed a fraction, not in disagreement, not in focus, simply in recognition.

"No need to be mad about it. We both wanted the brewer to sink each other," the Tavern Keeper said with a chuckle. They both smiled, briefly, "but it was never about the beer."

"It was the rooms," the Innkeeper added, his gaze lifting now, meeting the other man's briefly before drifting again.

"The tables. The traffic."

"Coin," the Innkeeper added, making a flicking gesture with his wrist. The Tavern Keeper's head tilted slightly.

"So we lost?" the Innkeeper asked the question out loud. The question lingered only long enough to confirm it was the wrong one. The Tavern Keeper shook his head.

"I don't think we mattered the moment his cider embarrassed everyone." The Innkeeper listened with a frown. Eventually he shrugged and nodded.

"You know our guilds are finished, right?" the Tavern Keeper said with a complicated expression. It was easier not to say it directly. Saying it would have required deciding who was responsible. The guilds, as a thing that existed in the future, were no longer part of the room. The Tavern Keeper leaned forward slightly, his elbows settling more firmly on the table now, his hands coming together in front of him, fingers interlacing briefly before separating again.

His gaze lifted, focusing more directly than it had before.

"Is this what you called me here to say?" the Innkeeper asked, avoiding the previous question.

"Listen," he said. The Innkeeper's attention did not sharpen, but it did not drift either.

"I have an idea." It did not sound like the sort of idea that improved anything. The words did not carry weight. Not yet.

"It needs coin," the Tavern Keeper continued, one hand lifting slightly. That narrowed it down. There was a long pause.

"I saw something," he added, his gaze flicking briefly toward the far wall, then back.

"In what the adventurer's guild did." He did not elaborate, which made it more convincing. The Innkeeper's expression did not change. He did not ask. The Tavern Keeper held his gaze for a moment longer, then let out a slow breath.

"You're the only one who understands the position I'm in." This was not flattery. It was a statement of available options. The Innkeeper considered this with a stillness that suggested the question had already been answered somewhere else. A single beat passed.

"How much," he asked.

"And what's my share?" The only question that mattered, and therefore the only one asked. The Tavern Keeper's shoulders loosened a fraction. They did not shake hands.

"Fifty-fifty. I need your skills anyway. I've started consolidating, but it's not enough. I also don't know how much yet, I wanted to talk to you first…" The cups remained where they were. It was only some time later that they both left. Not together. Not separately. No one noticed. They left without looking back, their absence making no more impression than their presence had. The steam drifted on. Berrin stood with his hands resting lightly on his opposite elbow. He was currently surveying his brewery room.

The arrangement of equipment and barrels and workbenches forming a pattern he had known well enough to navigate in the dark, which he had done more than once and not always by choice. It was quiet. Just quiet in a way that suggested a space that was busy once. Now it had a fine layer of dust on all the surfaces. Monica stood beside him, her arms folded loosely, her gaze following the same lines his did, though not necessarily for the same reasons.

The light from the shutters fell across the floor in angled strips, catching on metal edges and wooden surfaces alike. He shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking faintly under the adjustment, and exhaled slowly.

"We could make it a nursery," he said.

"Another room for the kids?" Monica's head tilted slightly, her gaze moving from the floor below to him, then back again.

"Bit early for that?" she said, her tone even.

"We may need it." Berrin's mouth pressed into a line that held for a moment before easing. He nodded once, though not in agreement.

"They've got a priest," he said, his eyes still on the floor, carrying a frown.

"No one will trust anything else. Alric really did it somehow…" That had not previously been part of brewing, but it was now considered a necessity. Monica did not respond immediately. She just looked at her husband out of the corner of her eye.

"He checks it," Berrin continued, his voice unchanged.

"Every cask." The words carried something that was not quite frustration. Not quite resignation.

"I don't think anyone's going to drink anything else. He even calls it the heresy table but this…" he said, gesturing to the brewery, "It's just wasted space now."

"You don't know that," she said. Monica's arms loosened slightly. Berrin let out a short breath, the sound barely audible.

"I can't afford a priest," he said. The statement hung there, uncomplicated. Below them, a barrel shifted slightly as it settled, the wood adjusting to its own weight with a soft, familiar sound. Monica watched it for a moment, then looked back at him.

"You never know what will happen," she said. He exhaled again, longer this time, his shoulders easing a fraction. He opened his mouth again to speak but was cut off before he began.

"Let's keep it for a year," Monica added, her voice steady.

"See where things are then."

"I can't see it changing," he said. Monica did not respond.

"But… alright," he added after a moment.

"A year, then."