Alric let out a deep sigh. The small copper was a question that, to borrow an idiom from his previous life, sat well above his pay grade. It bothered him all the same, which was annoying in its own right.

  He set it aside and took a fresh sheet, beginning to list everything he could potentially brew. Ingredients followed, added carefully, each one bringing with it the vague unease that he was forgetting something obvious. He flipped the page and began another list, this one for things he could distil, which grew more slowly and with less confidence.

  As he worked, patrons filtered into the dining room as evening settled in. Someone stacked firewood by the hearth with methodical care. A moment later, a man knelt to light it, coaxing the fire like it had to be convinced. When Alric finally leaned back and looked over his notes, one thing stood out clearly.

  Grain was absurdly versatile.

  He was still going back and forth over the list when a tray arrived, carried by a smiling Ruth along with his evening meal. He smiled back and pushed the long sheet aside as the tray landed on the table with a soft bump, mercifully missing the charcoal.

  “You gonna have ale again?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’ll have two. Just keep one for after, alright?” He set a large copper coin on the table, resisting the urge to watch it leave his possession too closely.

  She nodded and took it.

  Alric looked down and studied the meal. Flatbread first. He lifted one and found there were two, which immediately put him back on more familiar ground. It felt soft in his hands, warm enough to be reassuring. He smiled despite himself.

  Beside it sat a bowl of what he assumed was stew, and a thick hunk of yellow something he took to be cheese, largely because it was shaped like cheese and nothing else immediately came to mind.

  Something bumped his legs.

  Bewildered, he looked down to find a large dog lying beneath the table. It was difficult to describe. It was the sort of animal a veterinarian might label mixed, or perhaps versatile, depending on mood. It was not begging, not watching him particularly closely, merely present, as though it had always been there and found no reason to leave.

  After a moment, Alric returned his attention to the meal. Stew, bread, and cheese. Simple, but solid. Deciding to observe rather than write, he put the papers and charcoal back into his item box, freeing the table of any suggestion that thinking might continue during dinner.

  Ruth returned with his ale and six small coppers while he was scooping stew onto the flatbread. Everything was, once again, under-seasoned. The stew appeared to consist mostly of some root vegetable he could not identify, a scattering of grain, and small amounts of equally unidentified meat that had clearly passed through several hands without anyone asking too many questions.

  He noticed another patron receiving an ale from Ruth. The man thanked her, took a sip, and immediately spat it back out. A different dog darted forward, lapping it up where it hit the floor with professional enthusiasm. The scene made Alric pause, his shoulders hunching as if his spine were attempting to withdraw from the situation entirely.

  He waited for a reaction.

  There was none.

  The man calmly sipped his ale again after a moment, apparently satisfied. Alric swallowed, unsure what to make of this, and turned back to his meal feeling noticeably less hungry than before. He finished what he could, leaving behind a chunky piece of vegetable that resisted all reasonable attempts at chewing.

  He pushed the tray away and sat back, leaning against the wall, sipping the sour, slightly soapy-tasting ale. As he watched, he began to notice that every patron spat out their first sip when receiving a fresh one. The inn never quite filled, and most people sat alone rather than in groups, each occupying their own small pocket of silence. They all wore clothing similar to his own: trousers, tunic, boots, the uniform of people who expected their day to involve work and not much else.

  He finished his ale and set the wooden tankard down. His gaze met Ruth’s across the room. He tapped the empty tankard with a small smile. She returned it before disappearing into the back, the exchange apparently sufficient as conversation.

  It struck him, belatedly, that someone clearly underage was serving alcohol. None of his old rules seemed to apply anymore. Tyke, who could not yet be a teen, worked openly as his guide, and no one thought it strange. The world, it seemed, had decided certain concerns were optional.

  When his second ale arrived, he decided to ask.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Ruth, why does everyone spit out the first sip?”

  She blinked at him. “Oh. Everyone does that,” she said easily. “It’s in case it’s bad.”

  He nodded, filing that away alongside several other things he would have preferred not to think about.

  She reached for his tray, then paused. Lifting the bowl, she tipped it over. The chunk of vegetable he had left slid free and hit the floor with a wet plop. The dog at his feet darted forward, lapping it up with clear satisfaction.

  Alric stared.

  Ruth smiled at him and walked away.

  The dog moved on soon after, drifting toward another table, licking up whatever it could find. Alric remained where he was, watching the scene unfold, trying to decide at what point this had become normal.

  He turned his attention back to the room. A group of three men arrived, and Ruth was with them almost immediately. They ordered only ale. When the drinks arrived, each man took a sip, spat, then nodded to the others, the ritual completed without comment. Their clothes were heavier than most, more worn, and they spoke easily, laughing as they settled in and drank in small, careful sips.

  Alric had nearly finished his second ale when Ruth returned.

  “Your washbasin’s just outside your room,” she said. “If you don’t want it cold, you should go now.”

  Alric nodded, though she had already turned away. He took the last mouthful of his beer, set the tankard down, and stood.

  The inn was darker now as he made his way toward the stairs. Lanterns had been lit, but they only seemed to emphasize the lack of light rather than provide more of it. He reached his door and looked down.

  A wooden washbasin sat outside it, steam curling faintly from the surface. A small rag floated in the water. Beside it rested a stubby candle in a simple holder. He juggled all of it awkwardly while fumbling with the key, leaning sideways to keep the basin from sloshing, and eventually managed to get the door open without dropping anything important.

  Inside, he set the basin and candle down beside the bed, since the room still stubbornly refused to contain a table. He retrieved the flint and steel from his item box, squinted at them in the gloom, and almost immediately accepted that this was beyond him. He put them back.

  Instead, he carried the candle to the lantern mounted near the door.

  The lantern was an entire system unto itself, clearly oil-fed and thoughtfully enclosed. He found no obvious way to access the flame, aside from a small latch on the side. He lifted it. Pain followed shortly thereafter.

  He hissed softly, bringing his finger to his mouth as a small door swung open to reveal the flame. Using his unburned hand, he lit the candle, then nudged the lantern door closed with the edge of the holder. He returned to the room still sucking his finger and shut the door behind him, sliding the bolt into place.

  He had expected quiet. Instead, the city pressed in through the walls. Voices drifted up from below. The faint ring of metal echoed somewhere in the distance. Other sounds followed, indistinct but persistent, as though the city had no intention of fully sleeping.

  He looked around for somewhere to put the candle and noticed a small wall shelf he had somehow missed earlier. He placed it there. The light helped, technically, though the room remained what he would generously describe as gloomy romance.

  He sat on the bed and began with his boots. They resisted. A bit of wiggling and a quiet curse later, one came free. He looked down at what should have been his foot, but was better described as a compact lump of cloth. He removed the other boot and found the same arrangement waiting for him.

  Unsure what to make of this, he took off his trousers so he could properly examine what ought to have been socks.

  There was a small knot at the top. He untied it and began unwrapping. As the cloth came away, a smell replaced it. Not terrible, considering everything else he had endured that day, but certainly not something one would choose to encounter deliberately. Eventually his foot emerged, though Alric could not help feeling like a magician performing an increasingly implausible trick with an absurdly long strip of fabric. He held the cloth up to the candlelight, considered it, then let it fall into a heap before repeating the process on the other side.

  He removed his tunic and set it aside, then gave his underwear the same calm scrutiny. After a moment of fumbling, he found the knot. The construction was similar to the foot wraps, but more ambitious, featuring additional loops, angles, bends, and what appeared to be a complete lack of mercy. He studied it briefly. It was also long, though wider, and made of thinner cloth. He sighed, dropped it, and turned his attention to the basin.

  No soap.

  He lifted the rag from the water. A small piece of herb floated alongside it, lending the whole affair a faint herbal scent that suggested someone had at least tried. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, then began washing as best he could.

  His hair proved to be its own problem. He crouched, bent, and contorted until he found himself kneeling on the floor in a position that would have impressed a yoga instructor. Halfway through, he realised he should have started from the top. He rinsed his hair, then rewashed his knees.

  There was no towel.

  Dripping, he wiped down his tunic and trousers as well as he could and hung them on the pegs to dry. His socks and underwear he left soaking in the basin. The water was already losing heat.

  Bathing had only succeeded in redistributing the dust across the floor. He noted, without much enthusiasm, that by this world’s standards the room was likely considered clean enough for surgery.

  From his item box, a set of small clothes, three tightly rolled bundles of cloth. Fresh clothes. He stared at them.

  He started with the underwear. The process took several attempts. It pinched in places that should never pinch.

  Realising again that there was no pillow, he pulled up the inventory window. He spotted the cloak and recalled it, dismissing the window as it dropped onto the bed in a familiar heap. The hood landed facing him, empty and accusing. He lifted the garment and examined it. The cloth was thick, faintly oiled, dark green, and smelled like it expected rain. He tried it on, studied himself for a moment, and decided it was a little dramatic. Also, unfortunately, kind of good.

  He folded the cloak and placed it at the head of the bed.

  Satisfied, or at least resigned, he pulled back the blankets, climbed in, and settled. He attempted to think through the events of the day, but his thoughts failed to organise themselves. His body solved the problem instead. He fell asleep immediately.