Alric stood inspecting the warehouse while it was in operation. The pot boiler was in full boil, and Hal had moved off after stirring. He was now working with Mara and Henry, scrubbing and sorting casks with the air of men who had accepted that hot water would be a recurring theme in their lives.

  The air felt clammy and sticky. Everything Alric touched was damp, his clothes clinging to his skin no matter how carefully he moved, as if the building itself was reluctant to let him leave. He was quietly grateful that his work took him out into the cold to make sales. On the subject of cold, the snow that had threatened when he visited Berrin the day before was now in full swing. It carried a quiet sense of determination, the kind that suggested it would keep going for at least a week and would not be taking questions.

  He and Seren had gone over the numbers carefully yesterday. He could take on about twenty-five more businesses. The easy math suggested he could support roughly twenty-four clients per day of boiler operation. After all, they only needed a cask a week each. The problem was not demand. Demand was enthusiastic and unhelpful. The problem was casks. They did not have enough to ferment quickly enough to support more. At the upper edge, he could manage perhaps one hundred and ninety clients at a time. He was already not far from that, which was both reassuring and faintly alarming.

  Why did it always feel like such a long walk, he wondered, sighing. He was supplying nearly everything nearby now, including the docks and the crafters’ quarter. Inns were next, but after that, he would be done. The poor district, as it was called, and the slums made up more than half the city, and he had not touched them at all. He did not think about that for long. Some thoughts required preparation.

  For his last round of new clients, he would approach inns. His first stop would be the Three Barrels. He would have to ask a guard where it was.

  With that in mind, he set off.

  Naturally, he did get directions from a guard. It cost him a small copper. He still managed to get lost twice before finding it. The sign was tiny and barely visible from the main road, as if the inn had decided that customers who truly wanted it would simply develop better eyesight. Alric entered slightly annoyed, then checked himself and put on a salesman’s smile, which he had learned to deploy like a tool rather than a feeling.

  “Welcome to the Three Barrels!” came a voice from a large man with a proper belly, the kind Alric did not often see. It spoke of regular, comfortable meals and a long-standing truce with butter. “What’ll it be, friend? A meal, a room, or…?”

  Alric blinked and cut him off. Mara had mentioned, quietly, that some inns did other business. Alric wanted nothing to do with that.

  “I’m sometimes called the not-sour beer man,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

  The innkeeper shook his head.

  “Pity,” Alric continued easily. “I was hoping you might want to buy some beer. You seem to be running quite a fine place here.”

  He was not joking. The wood was polished and well fitted, everything matched and seemed made for the space. That alone marked it as a higher-class establishment.

  The man tilted his head slightly, then smiled with faint smugness. “Alright, friend. Let’s try your beer. This way.” He gestured toward the dining room.

  The room was empty, so Alric placed the cask without causing alarm. The innkeeper came around from what was clearly the staff entrance.

  “This is our winter beer,” Alric said as he poured a taster. “It’s called lager. I say that, but really it’s a beer we can only make in winter, which makes me a bit sad.” He poured one for himself, drank without spitting, then handed the other over. This, he had learned, was important.

  The innkeeper sniffed it carefully, swirled it, and finally took a sip. He spat into the hearth, then paused. A moment later, his expression changed.

  “Oh, that’s good,” he said. “Some of my visitors mentioned something dwarven in town. Is this what they meant?” He pointed at the tankard.

  It occurred to Alric then that he had been an idiot all along. Taverns served locals. Inns served travellers. He had targeted taverns first and met resistance, then explained his success at the Adventurers’ Guild as travellers passing through. Inns had been doing that all along. He resisted the urge to sigh.

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  “Yes, that’s probably it,” he said. “No dwarves, though. Just sweat and grain.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “How much?” he asked, gesturing at the cask.

  “Normally two silver, plus a cask in exchange. This one’s new,” Alric said. “But I’ve heard the festival was hard on you. I’ll do five large coppers and a cask.”

  The innkeeper blinked. “I’ll take that. But how did you know about the apples?”

  “You entered the cider competition,” Alric said, careful not to mention Berrin. “Anyone who did is feeling it.”

  The innkeeper paused, then nodded. “I’m hoping it turns to vinegar. I won’t make much, but I won’t be closing my doors. Nearly all of us are doing the same. The beer will help. How long can you make it?”

  “All winter.”

  The innkeeper blinked again. To deal with the impression, Alric produced another cask from his item box and put it away again. The man jumped slightly, then nodded, as if this settled something important.

  “Well, I’ll fetch a cask. You’ll want this one back when it’s done.”

  When he returned carrying the empty cask, Alric pushed his luck. “Do you know of any other inns that could use a deal like this? Discount at first, normal after.”

  “I do,” the innkeeper said with a grin. “Will that get me another discount?”

  “Can I tell them you sent me?” Alric countered.

  The man laughed. “Alright. No more discounts. But yes, tell them I sent you.”

  Alric left unsure whether he should feel guilty, then remembered how many informal networks the city relied on and let it go.

  Alric headed back. He could have worked down the list, but chose not to. He could only take on so many more clients, and the numbers had begun to glare back at him in a way he did not care for. He went to drop off the cask and walked into the germination section, then stopped short.

  Wall to wall casks.

  The staff had organised them carefully. One wall held uncleaned casks, another those cleaned once, stacked and waiting, like a very specific sort of parade. Alric placed the returned cask near Henry and reached for another before Mara caught his arm.

  “No. This is too much,” Alric said, glancing at her. She shook her head.

  “Then we need more staff,” he said. “This is just… wow.”

  Alric looked again. There were comfortably over a hundred casks, and they all appeared to be waiting for him to do something foolish.

  “I can bunk up, boss. Not an issue. Better if you hire a man if we bunking, though,” Henry said, with the practical cheer of someone volunteering other people’s labour.

  Alric sighed. He had no choice.

  “Alright. I’ll take you up on that. But we need a bigger space before spring. Moving in winter feels like a bad idea.” He did not miss that Mara avoided his eyes, which usually meant she had already reached the same conclusion and moved on.

  He noticed, not for the first time, how particular his staff were about his duties. He moved to Seren and showed her the list. She glanced over it once.

  “Mister Alric, this will be all. We will run out of grain before the end of winter. You cannot visit more establishments than this. You will be at around one hundred and fifty places.”

  He opened his mouth to protest and stopped under her look.

  “Mister Alric, you will be walking through snow constantly. I have gone through the numbers. You are making a gold a week. With this many staff, that is already absurd. Do not break yourself for greed.”

  It clicked. A gold a week really was absurd, he hadn’t quite noticed. The boiler could push up to one hundred and eighty casks in a six-day week. Numbers, when arranged properly, had a way of becoming unarguable.

  “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll shift focus to venues. We’ll need a larger space if we ever add more boilers.” He gestured around the warehouse, which was beginning to feel full. “When does the grain run out?”

  “About two weeks before winter ends, unless you find more. With the snow…” She trailed off. “I suggest Mara and I come with you. You do want to stay in this district?”

  He nodded.

  The following morning, Alric walked behind the merchant guild’s agent with Seren and Mara. He could not help noticing the looks. Tongues clicking. Dark glances. Open scowls. All from men who seemed deeply concerned about something Alric had not yet identified.

  He checked his cloak, adjusted his pendant, stood a little straighter. It did not help.

  He glanced back at Seren and Mara. They were smiling, clearly enjoying his discomfort, which suggested this was not, in fact, a mystery.

  The first building was not much bigger than their current one and was dismissed immediately.

  The second smelled strongly of fish, in a way that felt permanent.

  The third was the right size, but the rafters bent like old knees, which suggested it would not enjoy further stress.

  The agent explained that those were the cheaper options and led them toward the river, where the warehouses were larger and, apparently, more honest about their intentions.

  They came to one that stood slightly apart. It was much larger than their current space, with two wings and a broad courtyard clearly meant for wagons to turn without trouble. The walls were stone, the roof wooden.

  Inside, the floor changed. Stone near the river. Packed earth opposite.

  There was also a cellar beneath the stone side, currently used as staff quarters. Alric found himself more interested in that than in anything else.

  “This will work,” he said. “We’ll need alterations. A lot of them.”

  Mara moved through the space, already tracing paths in her head. She did not seem impressed by the cellar.

  The agent nodded. “Alterations must go through us. We apply a small rent reduction during the work. Afterward, rent is adjusted.”

  Alric scowled. He would rent the building, pay for the work, and then pay more, which felt unnecessarily thorough.

  He clicked his tongue. He did not have a choice.

  “Alright. We’ll take it. Start the work now. We’ll move in spring.”

  “One gold per season,” the agent said, smiling. “I can reserve it for a week.”

  Alric nodded, still annoyed.