Alric woke up excited. Today was brew day. He would finally brew some beer. He fully expected it to fail, but failure, properly examined, tended to be far more educational than success, which had a habit of taking all the credit and none of the notes.

  He began by collecting his tools. He got a pot, some of the herbs he’d had bought at an apothecary, another pot, and the heating stone. This should definitely be done outside, he thought, preferably somewhere the consequences could escape. He opened the warehouse doors facing the well to air the place out where he would be working, in what he hoped was a pre-emptive act rather than a necessary one.

  Picking a spot in the shade, he filled a bucket with water from the well and poured it into the pot. It was still slightly cloudy, but he had expected that. Water, he had learned, was rarely as enthusiastic about clarity as people were. He added grain, unsure whether to risk the heating stone landing on the bottom of the pot, and immediately saw the problem.

  This was going to become porridge fast. The sort of porridge that stared back at you and asked what you thought you were doing. He frowned. This was already a failure. He moved to the drainage ditch that ran beside the main thoroughfare and poured it out, where it joined a long tradition of regrettable decisions. Returning, he rinsed the pot with the dirty water, because it seemed impolite to waste it twice, then decided to try a method he had heard described.

  A large teabag full of grain. That made sense. He looked at the large bag of malt. It was far too much, but it would take at least two pot loads of water to fill a cask. He could reboil it, and it would even out. Possibly. Brewing, after all, was mostly applied optimism. This might teach him something, or nothing. It was an experiment either way. He threw most of the juniper into the bag and tied it tight, giving it a suspicious look in case it planned to escape.

  He lowered the grain bag into the pot, then added the heating stone. The water quickly began to boil, as water tended to do when sufficiently encouraged. Satisfied, he went to fetch a cask and placed it nearby.

  Now he had to wait. He knew the process would take at least an hour. Waiting, he reflected, was brewing’s way of reminding people that patience was not optional, merely unavoidable.

  He glanced toward the well when a thought struck him. He moved the bucket and rope aside and peered down. It was not very far, maybe seven feet. He stretched out a hand, trying to absorb the water directly into his item box. Nothing. He tried again with the bucket of water, and that worked. Hmm. The universe, it seemed, had rules, but they were written in very small print.

  Alric returned to the warehouse, transferred a barrel into his inventory, and went back outside. It was a barrel he was convinced did not like him. Standing beside the well, he concentrated, placing the barrel just above the opening. It appeared and immediately fell in with a loud splash, as if making its feelings perfectly clear.

  He went to inspect it. The barrel floated on its side. Not what he needed. He tried to pull it back into his item box. The range made it difficult, but it worked. Huh. The barrel, chastened, said nothing.

  Back in the warehouse, he set the barrel on its side and examined the spot where it had struck the well. A small scratch. Not much. This could work, assuming the barrel did not develop new opinions.

  He looked at the top of the barrel. He was about to fuss over tools when he remembered what he already had in his inventory.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  The hero’s sword.

  Alric held out his hand and pulled it free. The “sword” landed with a heavy thunk, digging into the ground, as if relieved to be somewhere it could lie down. He inspected the stupid thing again. It was easily six feet long, the blade nearly a foot wide above the hilt before tapering to a point. Just looking at it made his arms feel tired, which suggested it was doing its job even while resting.

  Still, he grabbed the hilt with both hands and tried to lift it. He failed. Instead, he dragged it along the ground, the tip cutting a shallow furrow in the earth, which would no doubt confuse archaeologists later.

  He positioned it like a wheelbarrow, shifting his body, pushing and pulling until the tip lined up with the barrel’s top. He pressed down on the hilt, hoping to lever the tip upward. It only drove the sword deeper into the soil, apparently eager to return to its natural state.

  With a sigh, he tightened his grip and heaved. This time he managed to lift it and shove it forward. His shoulders already felt ready to file a complaint, but the blade slid cleanly into the barrel’s top. Deciding that was enough heroism for one day, Alric yanked the sword free and returned it to his item box before it could get any ideas.

  He moved to the hole he had made, got a firm grip, and pried the top free, earning three splinters for his trouble. Satisfied, he inspected the inside, then stored the barrel away.

  Back at the well, he dropped what he now considered the topless sacrifice barrel inside. It tipped over and began filling quickly. Just before it vanished beneath the water, he pulled it into his item box. He set it down nearby and noted with satisfaction that it was full, and not leaking, which counted as success for the moment.

  He returned to the wort. His arms were already burning from the effort. He removed the heating stone and then lifted out the grain bag, storing both. The liquid left behind was much cleaner, which made it immediately suspicious.

  Bootsteps approached. He looked up to see Stromni coming toward him, carrying a funnel and several liquid seals. Alric grinned at the timing. Stromni opened his mouth, but Alric raised a hand.

  “Don’t say it. You always make me wait at your store. Now you wait.” He pointed toward a patch of shade.

  Stromni grinned and moved off, clearly enjoying this reversal of a cosmic order he had never questioned.

  Alric immediately regretted it. Stromni was carrying the funnel he needed. He tried to look casual as he approached, then snatched it and ran off in mock triumph, which lasted right up until reality caught up.

  He set the funnel in place. It tilted awkwardly. He frowned. He could have asked Stromni to make a stand to hold it upright. Instead, he pressed on, because asking for help after making a point was clearly against some unspoken rule. He lifted the pot, awkwardly circling the cask to line it up with the constantly shifting funnel.

  Stromni began chuckling as Alric tried to pour. Wort splashed everywhere, discovering new and interesting places to be. The chuckles turned into knee-slapping laughter. Eventually, Alric managed to empty the pot while Stromni leaned against the wall, still laughing, possibly for reasons beyond the beer.

  Unperturbed, Alric leaned back and put on his best imitation. “What do you need, lad?” he asked.

  Stromni, still chuckling, handed over four fresh liquid seals and a set of tongs. Out of habit, Alric clicked the tongs once, satisfied, because tools that did not click properly could not be trusted.

  Wiping a tear from his eye, Stromni asked, “You making an ale?”

  “Oh no. This will be undrinkable.” Alric gestured at the small cask, which looked quietly confident about its future.

  Stromni blinked, looking from the equipment to the mess. “Why do it then, lad?”

  “Because I’ll learn something. I think the water here is bad, really bad. I need to understand the problem before I can fix it. Think of it like bad iron ore. You test it to see what went wrong.” Stromni nodded. That made sense. Problems, at least, were honest.

  “Well then,” Stromni said, waving as he left. “I’ve got other clients to see. When you make a beer worth drinking, you let me know.”

  Despite himself, Alric grinned. This felt like his university days, brewing with friends and drinking together, back when mistakes were shared and consequences were negotiable.

  He finished the second boil. The grain still had some give when he tested it. Far too much grain. Whatever was happening in that cask was going to be very strong. He took it inside with trepidation, added an ale yeast from his divine gift and placed a liquid seal on top, using wax to hold it in place, because if nothing else, he wanted it contained.