“Look, Aryn, I know what the quest says. I know the time limit. Right now, that quest is keeping greenhorns alive.” The guild master of the adventurers’ guild said, pointing to a slip of paper.

  “Sir, we’re going to run out of time. There’ll be fees and penalties,” Aryn replied.

  “I know. We’re nowhere close yet. When we’re a week out, I’ll send out massive groups if I must. We’ll get all of it. And if the greenhorns tell us the herb is changing somehow, I’ll move sooner. For now, though, it comes down to this.” He continued holding his fingers together.

  “Our new adventurers are scratching in hedgerows. They’re coming home with grass stains and getting full bellies. They’re not scratching around in dungeons and losing limbs. Just trust me for now, all right?” the enormous man concluded.

  Across from him, the receptionist who had taken the request frowned at the slip of paper, then nodded.

  It was weeks later when the barman entered.

  “Boss? Brewer’s back with something new. You wanted me to check with you?” the barman asked.

  The guild master remembered trying to drink a tankard while standing in the storeroom, his face pressed close to the ceiling along with the cup. He scowled at the memory.

  “Bring him up,” was all he said.

  That bitters he had bought. Everyone at that stupid city event had been bragging about dwarven beer, and they had been shocked when he told them he brought it. It had felt good to wipe the smugness from their faces for once.

  The thought dragged him back to his current predicament, and to the brewer.

  A long time ago, before the current guild master, the guild had hired its own brewers. They made beer on site and served adventurers directly, but one of them had produced a batch so bad that someone had nearly died.

  That had ended badly, as could be imagined. Make a group of armed people very sick and…

  After that, the tavern keepers’ guild had run a smear campaign, and no brewer would work for them. Too dangerous, they said.

  That had left the adventurers dealing with the innkeepers’ guild, who were honestly not much better. They put little effort into what they supplied to the adventurers’ guild. The adventurers were last, the bottom of the bucket. Every innkeeper served their own house first, and the guild got whatever remained. He could hardly blame them. The pay was flat, and the innkeepers’ guild had made it that way.

  Which led to his current problem.

  The only individual brave enough to brew anything for them was being led to his office, and he badly needed to win the man over somehow. Charm was not the guild master’s forte.

  Alric entered. The guild master gestured for him to sit and offered what he believed was his most winning smile. It only seemed to put the brewer more on edge.

  “Hail, brewer. You have something for me?” he said, and realised too late that it had come out as a scowl. Had the man introduced himself already? Had he forgotten the name? Damn it.

  “Uh. Hail. Yes. I have cider,” the brewer said.

  Ah. Drink. Familiar ground.

  The guild master gestured to the open space at the end of the table. He knew the man had an item box.

  “Let us see your cider, then, and judge it from there.” He winced inwardly. That had sounded like a threat.

  The brewer did not seem perturbed. Confidence, then. Interesting.

  The guild master leaned forward as a crisp apple scent filled the room. The brewer poured and passed him a tankard. He sniffed it, then took a deep sip.

  The first sip struck him like a favourable wind.

  The taste opened bright and clean, and suddenly he was not in his office at all. He was standing at the prow of a ship made of pale wood and polished brass, the deck alive beneath his boots, the sail snapping overhead with the scent of apples and sun. An invisible crew cheered at his back, ruddy-faced men hauling ropes, laughing as the vessel cut through a glittering cider sea.

  The flavour surged and shifted, crisp and sharp at first, then swelling into sweetness that rolled across his tongue like open water. There was bite to it, but no cruelty. It sang. It moved. It tasted of orchards at harvest, of barrels cracked open at dawn, of wind through branches heavy with fruit.

  He felt it rush through him, warm and buoyant, and for a heartbeat the world seemed larger, brighter, as though the horizon itself had drawn nearer. This was not a drink meant to sit quietly in the belly. This was a voyage, an expedition into appledom, bold and reckless, daring the drinker to stand and see where it might carry him.

  Bliss came first. Then rage rose to meet it.

  This was what the innkeepers had been keeping from them all along!

  He glared at the tankard and drank again. It was just as good, which only sharpened his anger. Day after day, adventurers drank absolute garbage while something like this could be made.

  “How much?” he asked, glaring at the cup.

  “Uh. It’s a bit expensive. Four silver for the cider, three silver for the cask. I return the cask money,” the brewer added with a tentative smile.

  “How much are you brewing?” the guild master asked. It took all his restraint not to crush the tankard in his hand.

  “Uh. I’ll probably end up with around a hundred and fifteen casks, just before winter,” Alric said nervously.

  “I see. If we offer four and a half silver for the cider per cask, then it’s exclusive,” the guild master said. “We need it faster than that. As much as possible before the festival.”

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

  The decision settled him. This was what they needed. He would snub the innkeepers. Let the city learn that the best cider was at the adventurers’ guild.

  The brewer nodded.

  “Uh, I don’t have enough casks to make it much faster than—” Alric mumbled.

  “Borrow ours,” the guild master said, draining the last of the tankard, the veins on his neck popping.

  “uhm.. Alright.. I’ll take a look then.. I have twelve casks of cider to sell now?” Alric said tentatively.

  The guild master became aware of his expression and corrected it. He turned what he believed was his most winning smile on the brewer.

  “The barman will take care of you for that. Thank you, brewer, and I hope to see you again soon,” he said, in what he hoped was a charming voice.

  The brewer left at once.

  The guild master scowled at his own lack of charm.

  It was not long after that when the barman returned with a full tankard of the new drink.

  “Barman,” the guild master said, gesturing to himself, “how do you win someone over when you look like I do?”

  “Eh? I dunno, boss,” the barman shrugged. “Maybe think of them like a woman you’re trying to woo?”

  The guild master considered this. It was not a terrible idea.

  He reached for the tankard and took a deep pull of the astounding drink.

  He became aware of the headache first.

  It was the kind that suggested his skull had been opened, inspected, and then reassembled slightly out of alignment. His mouth felt like it had been lined with wool. Dry, sour wool.

  He opened his eyes.

  The adventurers’ guild hall appeared to have hosted a siege, lost it, and then held a celebration about surviving.

  A table lay on its side in the centre of the room, one leg snapped clean through as if someone had attempted to wrestle it into submission and the table had briefly won. Benches were scattered everywhere, some stacked neatly against the wall as though order had been attempted, others simply abandoned mid-journey.

  He looked down.

  He was standing.

  He looked again.

  He was barefoot.

  This was immediately concerning.

  One of his boots was missing entirely. The other, he later discovered, had been placed on the chandelier and filled with coins. He did not yet know this.

  Behind the reception desk, three adventurers were sitting on the floor, manacled together at the wrist. One was asleep. One was staring intently at the desk, as if hoping it might explain itself. The third noticed the guild master watching and lifted a hand in greeting.

  The manacled adventurer gave a smile, before leaning forward and vomiting into a bucket placed between his knees.

  The guild master turned slowly, every movement negotiated in advance.

  His axe was embedded in the ceiling.

  Not lodged. Embedded. The blade had bitten deep into the beam above the second-floor railing, the haft vibrating faintly whenever someone upstairs shifted their weight. He stared at it for several seconds, waiting for a memory to surface. None did.

  Below it, a man hung upside down from the railing by a loop of rope, arms folded comfortably across his chest, snoring with evident satisfaction. He swayed gently, smiling in his sleep, like a festival banner celebrating poor decisions.

  Someone brushed past the guild master, nodded politely, and continued on their way while holding a shirt and nothing else, searching intently for their trousers.

  Near the hearth, an adventurer was curled up around the guild master’s breastplate, using it as a pillow. They had even tucked a bit of cloak underneath it, presumably for comfort.

  He closed his eyes.

  He opened them again.

  The hall remained.

  “Beer,” he said to no one in particular, “usually makes people sit down.”

  This had clearly done the opposite.

  He scanned the room again, taking in the dents in the walls, the scuffed stone floor, the chair hanging from a chandelier hook by its own belt, and the faint apple-sweet smell that clung to everything.

  No blood.

  No stillness that felt wrong.

  No one shouting for a healer.

  Not knowing was worse than knowing.

  He exhaled through his nose and, very quietly, where no one could hear him and where it did not feel like weakness, pressed two fingers to his brow.

  “Please,” he murmured, to no god in particular, “let everyone wake up.”

  That, at least, was a mercy.

  Then a full memory landed.

  Cider.

  Clear. Light. Crisp. Dangerous.

  Where beer made you sleepy and slow, this seemed to make you energetic and lively, which firmly made you believe you needed more.

  His mouth dried further at the thought, which seemed unfair.

  “This,” he decided, pressing a hand to his temple, “will need rules.”

  He looked once more at the devastation, at the sleeping, smiling idiots who trusted him to keep them alive, and felt a flicker of something between pride and dread.

  He moved toward the bar and gently nudged the barman’s boot with his foot.

  The barman did not respond.

  He nudged again, a little firmer.

  Still nothing.

  The guild master sighed, adjusted his balance, and prodded harder.

  The barman stirred, groaned, and cracked one eye open. He was still behind the bar, still upright on his stool, and entirely pinned in place by a heap of female adventurers draped over him like laundry left to dry. They were at least clothed, which the guild master took as a small but meaningful victory.

  “Mark the casks he brought,” the guild master said quietly.

  The barman blinked at him.

  “Those ones are dangerous.”

  The barman nodded solemnly, closed his eye again, and immediately began snoring.

  He turned back to the hall and surveyed it once more, slower this time, like a man conducting inventory after a fire. Sunlight streamed in through the front doors, illuminating dust motes, overturned furniture, and at least one helmet being used as a chamber pot. The angle of the light suggested it was late morning.

  Which meant they were, technically, open for business.

  He walked toward the doors with the intention of shutting them, only to stop halfway.

  One door was missing entirely.

  The other was hanging from its hinges at an angle that suggested it had been tested, lost, and then forgiven. Outside, more adventurers lay sprawled across the steps and street beyond, sleeping with the deep, untroubled confidence of people who had no idea they had embarrassed themselves yet.

  He closed his eyes again.

  This was going to take all day.

  They had gone through eight casks.

  Eight.

  Each cask held ninety tankards.

  He did the multiplication once, slowly. Then again, just to be certain he hadn’t miscounted.

  Seven hundred and twenty tankards.

  In one night!

  He stared at the number until it stopped being one and started being faces.

  That was when the humour drained out of it.

  His gaze drifted across the hall again—over the overturned tables, the sleeping bodies, the dented stone, the man still suspended upside down and smiling faintly in his sleep.

  He lowered his hand, straightened, and resumed breathing like a man who had decisions to make.

  If someone had died, he would find out soon enough.

  If they hadn’t… then this was a lesson.

  A dangerous one.

  He looked toward the stacked barrels at the far end of the hall, and felt his mouth dry all over again.

  There were over a hundred casks still coming!

  He pictured the stack of casks in his mind, then pictured this hall, then pictured the healer’s bill if this continued, and felt a headache begin behind his headache.

  “No,” he decided aloud. “Absolutely not.”

  He straightened, squared his shoulders, and began limping toward his office, stepping over a sleeping adventurer who had thoughtfully arranged their weapons in a neat pile beside their head.

  Water it down, then?

  He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it formed.

  That only meant twice the casks. Twice the hauling. Twice the mess. The taste would still be there, light and treacherous, and men would still drink it as though it were harmless. He would only be drowning the problem, not shrinking it.

  No. That was not control. That was delay.

  He had been lucky. No bodies. No screams. No healer calling his name in the night. He would not tempt that luck again by keeping this within his walls.

  The festival was coming regardless. A few days early would change little, except where the burden fell. If the city wanted cider, then the city could have it. Let the guards be present. Let the healers set their tables. Let the priests mutter and the guilds complain.

  Let it be loud. Let it be public.

  He would stockpile what he could, keep it sealed, and when the time came, he would open the gates and let the brewer’s cursed apple spirit loose where it belonged.

  Not here.

  Never again just here.

  If this was going to be a problem, then it would be everyone’s problem.

  He reached his office door and paused, one hand resting against the frame, already feeling the ache settling into his bones.

  Better a city embarrassed than a guild buried.

  Then he went inside to begin making it official.