Alric let out a deep sigh. He knew he did this a lot. Still, he had gone out of his way to get up early, dressed and moving before the streets filled, all to avoid the queues. And there it was. In front of the Merchants Guild, a queue already stood at the door of a business that hadn’t even opened. The queue had the quiet confidence of being something that had been there since dawn and still be there at lunch. He let out a quiet sob and walked over to take his place at the back.

  With nothing else to do, he watched the road. Wagons pulled up to the narrow alleyways between the merchant houses and were unloaded there, piece by piece. What surprised him was the absence of any raised walkway. Such a simple thing would have made offloading faster. Instead, everything was done at street level. He supposed the volume wasn’t high enough to justify it, or that labour was simply cheap. There are many ways to speed up a process Alric knew, the Merchants preferred method seemed to be to have more people do it slowly.

  Eventually, the doors opened and the line began to shuffle forward. Inside, Alric scanned the room until he spotted the receptionist from before. She noticed him at the same time, shook her head, and pointed toward a longer queue branching off to the side. He sighed again and moved to join it. The line crept forward, slowly, until at last he reached the front.

  The clerk glanced at him. “Business?”

  “Uh. New member,” Alric said.

  The clerk nodded and pointed to a door on the right. “Go in there. Take a seat. Don’t touch anything.”

  Alric did as instructed, careful not to let his impatience show. The waiting room was plain, a tiled space with a long bench set in the centre. A wide doorway without a door led further in, and on one wall hung a painting of the guild’s own fa?ade. Alric frowned at it. He couldn’t see why anyone would want artwork depicting the building they had just walked into. He sighed, sat down, and waited.

  The perspective was wrong. He was no artist, but even he could tell. He tried to rein in his irritation when he noticed the floor beneath his boots. Stone, not wood. His interest piqued, and he looked more closely at the tiles, revising his first impression. They looked uniform at a glance, but they weren’t. The gaps varied, the stone edges were uneven, and a dark mortar filled the seams, though he couldn’t identify what it was made from. The tiles matched in the way that cousins match: broadly similar, and clearly related but not enough to be trusted in detail.

  Another man entered, much older than Alric, and sat without complaint, a leather binder held against his chest. Shortly after, a second man joined them, middle-aged, similarly prepared. They looked more ready for this than Alric felt. He closed his eyes briefly, wondering what he was getting himself into.

  “NEXT.” The guild it seemed spoke in many tongues, but shouting was clearly its favourite.

  Someone left through the passageway. Alric wasn’t sure who the call was meant for until he saw both men looking at him. With a quiet sigh, he stood and headed toward the opening. To his right was someone’s attempt at an arch. Beyond it sat a clerk who inspected him briefly, frowned at his boots, and gestured to the seat opposite.

  It was the first time his boots had not been met with approval. Alric moved to sit.

  “New merchant, yes? Name?” the clerk asked.

  “Uh, yes. Alric.”

  The clerk opened a leather binder, undid the string, and pulled out a stack of forms. He went through them in silence. When he found Alric’s form, he set it aside and returned the rest.

  He glanced at Alric again before retrieving a copper pendant set in something black. A length of black cord followed, placed beside it. Lastly, he pushed a form toward Alric along with a quill and ink.

  Alric tried to read the form. Almost immediately, his head began to ache as the text warped and the letters distorted.

  The clerk, apparently assuming illiteracy, snatched the form back. “Type of business you opening?” he asked, irritation plain in his voice.

  “Er. Brewery.”

  The clerk blinked. “What, like a tavern? You’ve come to the wrong guild.” He held the quill loosely, inspecting Alric with open disdain.

  “No. I plan to supply taverns.”

  The clerk sighed, already writing. It was clear he thought Alric was either foolish or doomed. “Taverns work just fine, you know.”

  “All right. Sign here. Just an X if you can’t make your name.” He flipped the page, revealing more dense legal text, and Alric’s headache flared worse than before.

  “Uh.” Alric picked up the quill, lifting it to check for ink.

  “It says you won’t break the law. After two years, you start paying taxes. Put your name there.” The clerk pointed at the bottom of the page.

  Alric signed, uneasy. The quill was awkward, unfamiliar, but he managed it and set it down. The clerk slid the form into another binder.

  “NEXT,” he shouted toward the door, the sharpness of it doing nothing to help Alric’s pounding head.

  “Wait, can I ask about the tax—”

  “First rule of being a merchant,” the clerk cut in, already turning away. “Nothing’s free.” He declared with satisfaction of repeating a lesson he’d once paid for “NEXT.”

  Alric took the pendant and left, his head throbbing.

  Upon reaching the entryway with the queues, he moved over to the receptionist he’d noticed as cute last time. She still was. She offered him a professional smile.

  “Uh. I need to buy some more paper. Twenty sheets?” he asked, placing two large coppers on the desk.

  She nodded and began counting out the sheets. “You need to put your pendant on, you know. It marks you as a merchant in the city,” she explained.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Alric nodded, his head hurting too much to argue. He threaded the black cord through the loop in the pendant, tied a knot, and slipped it over his head. He glanced back at the receptionist, half-hoping for a reaction, but she wasn’t looking at him. The paper was already stacked neatly on the counter.

  He gathered the sheets and turned to leave. He realized the pendant marked him in much the same way a bell marked a cow: useful information to everyone else.

  Outside, the sun felt suddenly blinding. The daylight hit him like an accusation. He grimaced and made his way toward Moreen and Sons, eager to have this finished.

  Upon entering, the shop clerk recognised him, offered a brief smile, and gestured for Alric to follow. Alric complied and was led into a different room, one with large tables and, thankfully, a bench. He sat. It took some time for the others to arrive, and for once he didn’t mind the wait. Moreen stepped into the room with a small flourish of his hat. His ensemble was different this time, but no less loud or tasteless to Alric. “Well. If it isn’t my favourite armour seller. Go on, produce the goods,” he said, gesturing to the nearby table.

  Alric didn’t bother standing. He simply raised his hand. It felt as though he had to push harder than before, but the armour was deposited onto the table all the same. Only then did Alric realise the distance. The table was a full four metres away.

  He glanced at the black cube, struck by the fact that he had never considered whether the item box had a range.

  “Ooof. Not even a greeting? Are we in a bad mood today?” Moreen asked, not looking at Alric as he examined the armour, laying out the pieces.

  “Yes. Sorry, that’s not your fault. The Merchants Guild is a pain. Good to see you, Moreen,” Alric said, grumpily.

  “That’s better. It’s good to see you too, Alric. As for the guild, it ruins about ten of my days a season, so don’t worry about it,” Moreen replied, still without glancing up. He studied the breastplate, then clapped his hands, clearly satisfied.

  A tired-looking staff member entered carrying a tray and set it down in front of Alric. On it sat small gold coins, arranged in two neat rows of seven. Alric frowned. Fourteen.

  “Didn’t we say fifteen for the armour?” he asked as Moreen took a seat.

  “Of course we did. But we paid for your membership, you know.”

  Alric grinned. Not a small grin, but a sharp one. His eyes widened as he looked at Moreen, who sensed something was off and shifted back slightly.

  “Funny, that. Because you see.” Alric summoned the note they had used to guarantee the sale. “This says you’ll buy it for fifteen, and I won’t sell it to anyone else for six months. It doesn’t say anything about guild memberships.” He fanned his face with the paper. “Even has your seal on it,” he added, smugly.

  Moreen was silent for a long moment, eyes on the paper.

  “You know,” he said at last, “I don’t even remember the last time someone got one up on me.” He took the note as Alric handed it over.

  “I’ll let it go. But then I need something from you. I need information.” Alric added the last carefully. He’d found leverage, and he meant to use it well.

  “Information?” Moreen frowned. “Alric, are you sure you don’t want to work for me?”

  Alric hesitated for a moment. There would be advantages but he didn't fancy his chances against a skilled merchant, he briefly remembered dealing with bosses and their various demands in his previous life.

  "I appreciate the offer but, I'd like to be my own boss." Alric said with a shrug. He almost added 'this time around' but caught himself in time.

  “All right. I know that feeling well, but we can't talk here.” Moreen flicked his wrist toward the surrounding staff. He turned to one of them. “Meryll, please bring the gold and… tea to the negotiation room.”

  As was his peculiar habit, he clapped his hands twice and stood. Alric followed, remembering the routine from before.

  They returned to the same room. Alric sat on the couch, more cautiously this time.

  “One of the hardest lessons for my staff to learn,” Moreen said, studying him, “is that if you lose a little coin but learn something valuable, you’ve gained. Kings, merchants, and some nobles understand that information is worth more than gold.” He paused. “I’m jealous you’ve learned that so young.” He added a bit coldly

  “Maybe,” Alric replied, “but gold is worth more to someone who’s hungry.”

  Moreen considered that, then shrugged.

  Alric opened his mouth to continue, but Moreen raised a finger. “Tea first, then talk. Got your tag? Hmm. Yes, very nice.”

  The tea arrived on two saucers. They were plain, unfinished, lacking even a polish. Alric frowned, studying the first piece of pottery he’d really noticed since arriving in the city. He shrugged and took a sip, only then realising Moreen was watching him closely. The staff member withdrew. Alric glanced down and noted that the tray of gold had arrived as well.

  “You are a strange one, Alric. So go on. What do you need to know?” Moreen asked, tilting his head with open curiosity. Alric noted that Moreen seemed to treat tea the same way a priest would treat holy water, a necessary step before doing anything truly serious.

  “First, what’s this about a tax exemption? The guild didn’t explain anything,” Alric said. It was the first thing that had struck him as odd. This place didn’t seem forgiving.

  “Ah, that.” Moreen leaned back slightly. “The city isn’t going to chase you for coppers. But after two years, they set your tax rate. Not by your ledgers, mind you, but by what they think you earn.” He watched Alric’s expression shift, then grinned. “So I hope you’re good at kissing arse.”

  Alric realised his mouth was hanging open as the implications sank in. Seeing him recover, Moreen tightened the screws. “Oh, and they assess you every two years after that. The gold coin for signing up mostly goes toward that tax.”

  Alric stared at the coins for a moment, then let out a long sigh. Reaching into his item box, he pulled out the list of questions he’d prepared. Moreen blinked as a page full of writing appeared in Alric’s hand.

  “All right, first, I need prices for wagon loads of—”

  “Wait, wait.” Moreen raised a hand, staring at the page. “Are those all questions for me? You were this prepared?”

  Alric nodded.

  “All right,” Moreen said more carefully. “Go on.”

  “I need prices for wagon loads of barley, wheat, apples, pears, and plums.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I’ll fetch last year’s ledger,” Moreen said at last. “You just finish your tea and don’t write anything else.” He stood, glanced once more at the list, and left.

  He returned not long after with a leather-bound book. After a few clarifying questions, he began pointing to entries. “A wagon load of either barley or wheat is a large silver.”

  Alric tried to compare that to retail prices but had no unit of measure to anchor it.

  “Apples are thirteen small silvers. Pears are twelve. Plums are a large silver.” Moreen glanced at Alric, uneasy, but Alric simply wrote it all down.

  “All right. Next question.” Alric took a fresh sheet. “Why is the crafters’ district packed, but so many buildings in the warehouse district are empty?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. There’s a strict no-fire rule in the warehouse district. There was a famine before I was born, and no one’s forgotten it.”

  That made sense to Alric. Fire, flour, oil. Things that should never meet.

  “And I rent a warehouse through?” He asked

  “Through the merchants guild, its considered part of the merchants district, even the docks” Moreen clarified.

  “But it’s not a ban on businesses?” he asked, glancing up.

  “No. I know a butcher working there. Space is cheap. He keeps his smokehouse in the crafters’ district.” Moreen looked away, then back again, wearing a faint, unsettling grin.

  “All right. You said it’s not your usual wheelhouse, but can I buy from you? Farm produce, I mean.”

  Moreen hesitated. “It’s not typical for us, but it shouldn’t be difficult.”

  “All right. I need three wagons of barley, two of wheat, three of apples, one pear, and one plums.”

  He handed Moreen the paper, and Moreen began writing.

  Some time later, Moreen stood looking out over the warehouse district. The view was calm. He sipped his tea, thinking back over the day’s conversation. There was something about Alric that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place it. Dangerous, perhaps. He made a mental note to keep a very close eye on him.

  Moreen had met many dangerous men. The truly scary however were the careful ones.

  The following day, Alric stepped out of a large building and turned to the official beside him. He looked back at the structure, a broad U-shaped construction built around its own well.

  “All right. I’ll take it.”

  The official nodded, and together they headed toward the Merchants Guild.

  Author’s Note – Upcoming Title Change

  Now that we’ve hit an early milestone, I want to flag a small but important change.

  I’ll be renaming the series this Sunday.

  The new title better reflects that sense of humour and the kind of journey Alric is actually on:

  Reincarnated as a Brewer (Against My Better Judgement)

  This book will be part of a broader series titled:

  Reincarnated Ordinary

  Nothing about the story itself is changing, just the name catching up with what the book already is.

  Thanks for reading, and for sticking with Alric while he keeps discovering that “simple ideas” rarely stay simple.