That was now the eighth tavern that turned him down before he could even speak. Alric paused and looked at the building that housed it, as if the structure itself might feel some sense of responsibility for what had just occurred.

  The owner had simply shaken his head when Alric approached, held out a hand, and said, “Leave.” That was all. No explanation. No negotiation. No dramatic flourish. Just the sort of dismissal normally reserved for stray dogs and unpopular opinions. This was even one that had bought his beer before, albeit decanted into another cask.

  All he had wanted was to find out how it went. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He wouldn’t have complained about another sale, but the response had been so immediate that something else was clearly influencing it.

  As before, this route brought him to the adventurers’ guild. He went around to the tavern section, feeling a bit nervous. The barman saw him and his face split into a wide grin.

  “Ay! You’re back! I owe you some coin,” he said, leaning on the counter with the relaxed confidence of a man whose problems were usually solved by alcohol or violence, and often both.

  Alric smiled and matched the posture.

  “Oh? How much coin?” he asked, inspecting his nails with exaggerated casualness, as though this were all terribly routine and he did this sort of thing several times a day. The barman laughed.

  “Well, it’s all sold. Happened last night. So I’m to buy the same amount again. Also, I’d suggest you come by every two days for the same amount.” He lifted the counter flap to let Alric reach the back, a gesture that conveyed both trust and the unspoken understanding that nothing exciting ever happened back there.

  “Well that’s good. Why not just take more, then?” Alric asked as he began collecting his empty casks.

  “The boss doesn’t want too much strong beer around, if you get my meaning. Also, it’s something political.” He lowered his voice slightly, which did absolutely nothing to prevent anyone from hearing. “So I want three strong and five normal ale.”

  “Alright. These are the strong, these are the normal,” Alric said, pointing them out. Seeing them together made him realise he needed a stamp to start marking his casks.

  “Right then. Here’s your coin. Let’s see.” The barman began counting, using an abacus with the air of a man determined to arrive at the correct number eventually, even if it took several tries. Eventually he handed the stack over. Alric had already worked out the total in his head, but saying so felt rude, like correcting a priest mid-sermon.

  “Here you go, friend.”

  “Much obliged. See you in two days,” Alric said, unable to keep a smug grin from his face. The barman winked and showed him out, which Alric took as a sign of continued goodwill and not, as it sometimes meant elsewhere, a warning.

  Alric was about to head home when a thought struck him. He went deeper into the city to try a tavern he hadn’t visited before. It didn’t take long. He leaned on the counter.

  “What’ll it be? I’ve got ale,” the barman said with a practiced smile.

  “I’ve got ale too, and strong ale. Sell it by the cask. Interested?” Alric asked.

  “Ah. Heard about you. Not for me, thanks.” The man’s smile faded into a slight scowl. Alric nodded and left.

  He tried one more. The exchange was much the same, until the last tavern keeper let something slip. “You’re the one selling the foreign beer? That ain’t for us.” He turned away and gave Alric no further attention.

  Alric left and found himself near the river. It seemed a good place to think. Rivers had a reputation for being impartial listeners, though rarely helpful ones.

  Something about this didn’t add up. Tavern keepers he had never met knew of him, but clearly didn’t know him. Those who did were almost aggressive in their rejections. Someone was working against him, that much was clear.

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  “Who, or what?” he asked the river, which rudely ignored him.

  He sighed. He needed to speak to Moreen anyway. Merchants had informants, networks, and a fondness for information, particularly when it could be turned into leverage. He set off toward Merchants’ Row, taking a terrible route by heading toward the boundary wall and looping back in a wide dogleg, the sort of path usually chosen by people avoiding someone or something.

  He reached Moreen and Sons without trouble, aside from a runaway horse that everyone avoided by instinct. It charged down a busy road and somehow hit no one, which suggested it had a better understanding of city navigation than most pedestrians.

  A clerk led him to a waiting room, though the name suggested more comfort than it offered. There was nothing to do. Alric stared out the window until a loud voice just behind him made him jump.

  “Miss me?” it said near his ear. Alric startled, and Moreen laughed.

  “Good to see you, Moreen. Not so close, though,” Alric said, stepping back.

  “And you. This is an unexpected surprise. If you’re here to complain, we have a clerk for that. He’s hard of hearing, so you have to shout, which generally makes you feel better anyway.” Moreen gestured vaguely toward the building, as though clerks were something one kept in drawers.

  Alric laughed. “Nothing like that. Heard anything interesting about tavern keepers?”

  Moreen considered it, then shook his head.

  “Anything about foreign beer?” That earned a reaction.

  “Oh yes. Apparently some fellow is going around the city selling foreign beer. Says local beer makes you sick, that beer shouldn’t be sour. Also claims he stole his casks from the temple, or something like that. A strangely specific rumour for you to be interested in,” Moreen said, watching him closely.

  Alric glanced out the window. Now it was making sense. Which, he had learned, was usually the most irritating stage of understanding.

  “I’m the one selling beer that isn’t sour. As for stealing from the temple, if they have a few I might try it. Casks are damn expensive, you know,” he said, turning his attention back to Moreen, who laughed.

  “I didn’t realise you were making beer. Seems a tough market. You’re fighting a lot of tradition, you know,” Moreen said, settling more comfortably.

  “And perceptions, it seems.” Alric sat down.

  He glanced at the window; it was clear he wouldn’t be selling beer to taverns for a long time.

  “Tell me something.” He let out a long sigh. “Would you buy vinegar in bulk?”

  Moreen considered this. “Define bulk?” he asked, giving Alric a long look.

  “Shouldn’t you? You’re the client,” Alric replied, managing a grin he didn’t feel.

  “Well then. I’d say anything less than ten barrels wouldn’t be worth my time. Twenty would be better for a market test,” Moreen said.

  Alric ran the numbers in his head. A barrel in the morning, another in the afternoon. A month to ferment. Longer to improve. It wasn’t ideal. It also wasn’t optional.

  “I can do twenty. It will take a bit, though. You’ll have an average product in about six weeks, a better one in eight. You’ll need to provide the barrels,” he explained. Moreen blinked.

  “Alright. I can’t give you a price until I’ve sat down with the ledgers. I’ll pay a bit more if you don’t sell to anyone else,” Moreen said, thinking it over.

  They shook on it before Moreen added, “Is there anything else you can sell in bulk? I can only deal with merchants in the city, you know. Well, some other guilds too. It’s a serious pain, but rules are rules. New bulk products don’t come around every day.”

  Moreen studied Alric, who shook his head.

  “Vinegar isn’t the business I want to run, honestly,” Alric said, looking away.

  “Why not? It travels well, keeps for ages…” Moreen trailed off at Alric’s expression and shrugged.

  “Another thing. I need to triple the apple order. Same as last time. Only the sweetest, when they’re sweetest,” Alric said, setting a stack of silver coins on the table.

  Some time later, Alric sat with papers from Moreen’s business spread before him. He glared at the numbers as if that might change them. The adventurers’ guild was keeping them afloat. Just. It covered costs, but they weren’t moving forward, which was a special kind of progress that involved a lot of standing still.

  He compared the beer and vinegar totals. Beer brought in roughly 2.4 times his material costs. Vinegar made about 1.6. It wasn’t much, but it was progress, even if small. Changing perceptions was going to take time.

  He let out a long sigh.

  This would also mean changes to the warehouse. He stood and looked around. Mara and Hal had been cleaning and making the improvements they had suggested. The malting section now had netting and reinforced sheets. It would technically allow him to malt in layers, something he hadn’t considered, and he made a mental note to pretend he had.

  He moved to the fermentation area. The beer on the shelves would, for the most part, be going to the adventurers’ guild now. He had his casks back. He might try to see if they would buy some hopped beer, but he wasn’t certain. He glanced at the three casks set aside for tasting. He still didn’t know how that would turn out. It felt like a gamble.

  Either way, he would need space to ferment twenty barrels. They would have to lie on their sides, bungs open. He could line them between the walls and the shelving, though he would need some timber to brace them properly.

  Progress, however small, was still progress. Besides, this would buy him time to train the staff. Small mistakes wouldn’t matter at this stage. He needed to see the positive.

  He called Mara and Hal over and began explaining the plan.