Alric inspected the screw. It had a single turn cut cleanly, and the interior was correct. He nodded and handed it back to Stromni. It looked about halfway done. Alric felt a wash of relief. If he had to, he could use it as it was.

  Stromni leaned against the counter of his forge. Though he knew the work was sound, the confirmation mattered. His shoulders sagged a little.

  “Only you could do this, Stromni. I know it’s a pain,” Alric said, returning the heavy length of metal.

  “Aye. Reckon it’s another week from finished, lad. Glad it’s right. That’s the main thing,” Stromni replied, nodding.

  “I know you’re busy. I’m not rushing you,” Alric said. He set a sheet of paper on the counter. “I did want to ask about these.”

  The drawing showed a knife with a raised guard along the blade, clearly meant for peeling. “No hurry. Apple season’s only in three weeks,” Alric added.

  Stromni studied the sketch and grasped the idea at once. Dwarves had a great respect for tools that knew what they were for.

  “Aye. I’m expecting more iron soon. Can only work on this till then,” he said, tapping the screw. Alric nodded.

  “Want a beer?” Alric asked.

  Stromni rolled his eyes, grinning. “Not while grinding this thing. Your beer’s too strong for that. Still need to finish the old cask. Thanks though.” He hefted the screw and moved back toward the grinder.

  Alric watched him go. For all the dwarf’s complaints, it was clear he enjoyed working on something so far from the usual. It had problems that could be solved by thinking, which was a pleasant change from problems that could only be solved by hitting.

  “Be seeing you, Stromni,” Alric said as he left.

  Stromni nodded and did not look up as the grinder began humming, which in dwarf terms meant agreement, farewell, and mild affection all at once.

  Alric made for the adventurers’ guild next. He carried three casks of each beer from the recent tasting, what Stromni had called closer to dwarven brew than anything human, which was high praise from a dwarf and faintly alarming from anyone else.

  He had no idea whether the guild would care for something so premium. As far as he understood adventurers, they lived between feast and famine, often in the same week. Having a high-end drink on hand would signal success to anyone watching, and adventurers were very keen on anyone watching.

  At the guild tavern, the barman greeted him with the same wide grin. “Hail,” he said, lifting the counter.

  Alric ducked through. Their usual exchange passed easily enough before Alric stopped him.

  “Can we talk a moment?” Alric asked. The barman nodded.

  “I have what I’d call a premium product,” Alric said, watching the man’s face. “Three different beers. Care to try them? Same arrangement as before. Anything that doesn’t sell, I’ll buy back.”

  The barman gestured to an open table. Alric set down the three casks: hopped ale, stout, and bitters. He knew each was good and distinct.

  The barman filled a tankard from the first and tasted it.

  “Hm. That’s closer to dwarven brew than what we’re used to,” he said, staring at the ceiling. Alric noted he didn’t spit and counted that as a win. “Guild master loves dwarven booze. Give me a moment.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Before Alric could object, the barman was gone.

  Alric tried to look casual as the heavy footfalls approached. He remembered the massive man from before, and wished he had forgotten him instead. The barman returned looking pale, and the guild master followed him into the storeroom. He couldn’t quite straighten under the ceiling and glared at it instead, as if daring it to grow taller.

  The barman poured the ale. The guild master sniffed it, then tried to tilt the tankard sideways to drink beneath the beam. Failing that, he bent his knees and drank properly.

  Alric fought the hardest battle of his life. If he laughed, he was certain he would not be walking out.

  The guild master tasted, considered, and handed the tankard back without a word. The same was done for the stout, then the bitters. His expression never changed, which was impressive, given the size of his face.

  “This is very good beer,” he said at last, as if nothing more needed saying.

  He fixed Alric with a stare. “Have you sold this to anyone else?”

  Alric shook his head.

  “How much do you have?”

  “I have three of each. Nine in total,” Alric said.

  The guild master nodded and pointed at the bitters. “I want all of this, and one of the other two each. Don’t sell this one to anyone else this season.” He said tapping the tankard indicating the bitters.

  Alric swallowed and nodded. This seemed like the correct response.

  The guild master left, satisfied, leaving behind a sense that the room had become larger now that he was no longer in it.

  Alric bent over and finally breathed out. He saw the barman mirror the motion.

  “He attends a lot of city events,” the barman said, straightening. “Thinks the guild’s looked down on.”

  Alric nodded. That explained a great deal.

  They settled the details. The bitters were reserved. Two casks each of ale and stout would go on consignment. Alric left with a solid payout. Each cask fetched three small silver up front. The guild would sell at six small coppers a drink, working out to just over five small silver per cask.

  Halfway home, the thought struck him. He had broken his own rule about selling to individuals.

  No. He had sold to the adventurers’ guild, for guild use. That counted. Mostly.

  Besides, when he’d made that rule, he couldn’t have accounted for an eight-foot walking siege engine with a taste for bitters.

  -------------------------------

  The warehouse doors stood open, the air moving freely. The cats had settled well, save for one issue now plainly visible.

  They liked Hal.

  They liked no one else.

  Hal crouched near the boiling section, cats clustered around him. The rafters had been prepared with routes and resting spots. Dogs still roamed the area, but the cats would reach safety long before any could get close.

  Alric kept his irritation to himself and moved toward the fermentation area.

  Each vinegar barrel now wore what he thought of as an apron. A square of cloth, ties drawn snug beneath the barrel. Another quiet improvement from Mara. Neater, and useful, which was always the best kind of improvement.

  He sniffed each barrel. Nothing seemed amiss.

  At the germination area, he noticed netting hung from the rafters. Extra storage. Hal’s quiet contribution. Along with the fish they ate frequently and feeding the cats.

  Tsk.

  Then he saw it.

  Underwear.

  No. Not quite.

  He lifted the item. A deep bag made from bedsheet cloth, cinched with a drawstring. Mara approached as he picked up a smaller one.

  “Grain and herbs?” Alric asked, holding them up.

  She nodded.

  “This is better than anything I was doing,” he said, working the drawstring. Mara smiled broadly.

  Alric studied the bag, his thoughts still snagged on underwear, or small clothes as they were called here. Small clothes also meant socks, which led his mind down a familiar and unpleasant path involving foot wraps and despair.

  “Hang on,” he said. “This could work as a sock.”

  He turned to Mara. “If I got you cotton, could you make a long thin one? For feet.”

  She blinked. “I think so, Mister Alric.”

  Alric nodded, still inspecting the bag. Death to the foot wraps that felt like walking on loose stones. He did not notice the sideways look Mara gave him, which was probably for the best.

  Hal wandered over, a cat trailing him. Alric resisted the urge to scowl.

  “The adventurers’ guild took the premium beer,” Alric said. “Until apples arrive, things slow down. About three weeks.”

  He gestured toward the malted wheat. “I’ve never brewed with wheat before. I’ll be testing it myself. Same hops, different amounts.”

  He looked at them both. “But there’s no point having you idle. I want each of you to make a beer from start to finish. Use what you like. I won’t help, except charging stones. Stromni and I will judge.”

  They exchanged looks, something sharp and eager passing between them, the sort of look that said work was about to become personal.

  Alric smiled, satisfied, and did not quite admit to himself that training was the only productive thing left to do.