Alric was feeling just a little smug.

  Alright. A lot smug.

  He was lying in his new washtub, currently full of warm, filtered water, floating in it and treating it like his own personal, if shallow, pool in the middle of the warehouse.

  The washtub was technically for apples and apple juice later, and for cleaning equipment besides. He was testing it. Clearly. It needed to be tested, and Alric was taking this as a personal, hands-on inspection of its quality. He had wasted no time, of course. The tub had arrived that morning from the carpenter, and delaying the use of a new object never improved one’s understanding of it.

  Filling it had been simple enough. He dropped the well barrel into the well, pulled the bung, and let it drain straight into the tub. He even filtered the water on the way, to test how long the filter was holding up. Of course. After that, it was just a matter of tossing in the heating stones. He needed to know how the tub handled heat under normal conditions, even if those conditions involved him sitting in it.

  He drifted lazily in the water, grinning to himself. Nearby, his four pots were boiling wort. He was making the strong beer Stromni had suggested was his best so far.

  He looked over to the distributor barrel. It stood on a raised platform the carpenter had dropped off yesterday, higher than the casks below it, with room to spare. Six copper pipes Stromni had made ran from the barrel into the waiting casks, filling all six at once. No funnels. No careful pouring from pot to pot. He emptied the wort pots into the barrel, and gravity took responsibility for the rest.

  Marvellous.

  He had stuffed boiled cloth around the pipe fittings, but it did little to stop the system from leaking. An acceptable loss, if it meant not burning his hands. He had learned that systems which behaved predictably, even badly, were far easier to work with than systems that behaved perfectly right up until they didn’t.

  Alric studied the setup, trying to reach a decision.

  One large pot, or more magic stones and several small ones.

  At present, he could fill twelve casks a day. It took just over twenty four pot loads to do it between the four pots. He glanced at the six sealed casks on nearby shelves, quietly becoming ale. Yesterday’s output, but only for half a day’s work.

  “Increasing throughput.” He mumbled to himself looking at the barrel.

  He considered the system again. Four more magic stones would double his capacity, but that meant another four gold. Instead, he thought about a large copper boiler, one with a hook along the side for a grain bag, large enough to fill the distributor barrel and all six casks in a single boil. The real question was how long it would take to boil using the stones. He rubbed his chin.

  If it took two hours, that would put his production at thirty casks a day.

  His thoughts were interrupted by movement at the open door. Something rushed past at speed. A chicken, running flat out. Three dogs thundered after it, and behind them came a pack of children, yelling with enthusiasm and very little concern for where they were going.

  Alric watched the scene and came to two conclusions. Only the fastest and loudest chickens survived in this world, and dogs travelled in packs because they were afraid of children.

  He turned back to his calculations.

  Cooling, he decided, was going to be his never ending nemesis. If he wanted this to run fast, that would be it. The wort had to cool before he added yeast. Right now, he was adding yeast directly to the casks. It worked, but it made him uneasy. He could let a large pot cool on its own, but that would take hours. He would get maybe twelve casks out of it in the morning and afternoon combined. That was before accounting for whatever the city felt like contributing to the cooling wort while it waited.

  He brought his thoughts back to the large boiler. The advantage of the larger design was that he could simply add another later. One on the opposite side, or even at the back.

  None of that was an immediate problem.

  He did not even have ninety casks. He had nineteen. More were trickling in as the coopers finished them, and there was nothing he could do to make that happen faster. For now, his only option was to wait. And when he did make a sale, he would absolutely have to get the cask back.

  He glanced at his most immediate problem. His ever dwindling supply of aromatic herbs. Juniper. Bog myrtle. Yarrow. The apothecary had run out, forcing him to consider his alternatives.

  His first option was to hire an herbalist, or something like one. He suspected that would be expensive, and neither Moreen nor Stromni knew of anyone in the city. Moreen had also warned that there was likely a guild somewhere with a rule somewhere that would make it difficult, costly, or illegal.

  He hated the alternatives.

  Either he sent the children from the inn and surrounding streets into the woods to gather for him, or he hired adventurers. Adventurers seemed the cleaner option until he remembered yesterday’s visit from the guild. Low rankers, he had learned, were children.

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  He let out a long, tired sigh. It was promptly interrupted by a group of children being chased past the door by an adult, the children laughing and the adult shouting.

  He finished the sigh once his thoughts were no longer being trampled.

  At last, he settled on going to speak to Berrin. If he was going to make a decision he regretted, he wanted the facts first.

  He then noticed that his washtub had muddied the packed earth floor, and that he now had no clean way to dry his feet before wrapping them. To preserve his clean state, he leaned back in the tub, lifted his feet out awkwardly, wrapped them as best he could, pulled on his boots, and dressed while half reclined. The fact that he didn’t drown was something he considered a quiet victory.

  He cursed the floor when he was finally done, but the floor did not seem to care.

  He poured the four pots into the distributor barrel. That would do it.

  It was midday. He could start the next six casks if he wanted, but if he waited much longer, Berrin would be too busy. He frowned, locked up the warehouse, grabbed the cask he and Stromni used for tasting, the strongest he had and headed for the White Dove Inn.

  Opening the door, he was greeted by Ruth’s ever-cheerful voice.

  “Alric! You finally came for a visit!” she said, beaming. “You missed the stew, didn’t you?”

  “Something like that,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Good to see you. How’ve you been keeping? Busy?”

  Ruth considered this for a moment, then did an awkward little wobble, tilting her hand side to side. So-so.

  “And you?” she asked, eyes sparkling. “You been doing mage stuff?”

  Alric grinned. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been doing some alchemy. Is your dad busy? I need to talk to him about something.”

  He leaned in as if the walls might be listening. Ruth straightened at once and gave a solemn nod.

  “I’ll go check. You can wait in the dining room. He’ll find you there.”

  She hopped down from her stool and disappeared through the back. Alric headed into the dining room and let himself sit, choosing a bench that felt familiar.

  He didn’t miss the food, and he certainly didn’t miss the ale, but the room had a weight to it he hadn’t expected. This place had kept him safe when he arrived. That counted for something.

  It wasn’t long before Berrin emerged from the staff door, dusting flour from his hands. He came over with the practical air of a man who had already been busy for hours. Alric nodded, pulled the cask out with his item box, and poured a tankard. He set it down, then stood and shook Berrin’s hand properly.

  Berrin sat, curious, and took a long sniff. He frowned, took a sip, and spat.

  “Hoo—” He blinked and took another sip, slower this time. “That’s strong. Different, though. Needs more sour. But…” He took a third sip, looking at it.

  Alric smiled. “You shared your ale with me. Thought I’d return the favour.”

  Berrin looked mildly flattered in spite of himself. He drank again, studying the cup as if it might explain itself.

  Alric tapped the merchant pendant on his chest. “Before I ask you something—this is just so you know where I stand. I’m not here to compete with you. I only plan to sell to inns and taverns. I’m not taking customers from your tables.”

  Berrin nodded, still watching him, intrigued now in a more careful way.

  “You mentioned the guilds,” Alric said. “The innkeepers’ and tavernkeepers’ lot. They sell the beer herbs?”

  Berrin grunted. “They’ll sell dried stuff. Doesn’t have the punch. Not like fresh.” He took another sip. “The fresh herbs keeps your beer longer, too.”

  Alric nodded. “Right. So. I’ve drained the apothecary. They’ve got nothing left. That leaves me guilds who won’t sell to a non-member, or… kids.” He hesitated. “Adventurers too. But those are kids as well.”

  Berrin stared at him a moment, not quite seeing the question yet. “And?”

  Alric forced it out. “I don’t feel right putting children to work for me.”

  Berrin’s gaze sharpened—then softened when Alric lifted a hand quickly.

  “I’m not judging anyone. It doesn’t feel right to me. And if someone else’s kid got hurt doing work for me, I’d never forgive myself.”

  Berrin leaned back, exhaled through his nose, and looked at the ceiling as if the answer had been there the whole time.

  “Alric,” he said at last, “this is coming from a dad, which I’m guessing you ain’t. I don’t worry about my kids getting hurt messing about at the edge of the woods scratching in bushes. I worry about carts horses, drunks and nobles.”

  He shrugged “Bored kids do stupid things.”

  Alric blinked.

  “I know I did a lot of stupid things growin up,” Berrin went on, thoughtful now. “Few kids got hurt growing up, sure. But the serious hurts, weren’t from the woods.”

  He took a breath and nodded to himself. “You don’t know the city well yet. There’s farmland right up to the woodland edge. People work those fields all day. If there was something in those trees worth fearing, they’d know. Most of the city sends their kids out there. Mushrooms, greens, whatever rounds out a soup. Depends on the season. Been that way as long as I can remember.”

  He looked down at Alric’s beer again, expression unreadable, then drank it.

  Alric waited, then asked, “What about adventurers collecting the herbs?”

  Berrin considered it. “Guild’ll send greenhorns in small groups. They’ll go deeper, too. Still kids. Same age. More desperate, if I’m being honest. It’ll cost you more and you’ll probably get less. Tyke and Ruth know what I’m always looking for—they check, make sure you don’t get rubbish.”

  Alric scratched at the table with a fingernail, eyes down.

  Berrin leaned forward a touch. “Look. I can see this is eating you. Half the time I sent my kids out, it was as much for their friends as anything. Times are always tight. Two small coppers buys dinner for a family o’ three, if they’re already cutting it fine.” He paused, watching Alric. “If you want it to sit better, pay a bit extra, send a bigger group. And I’ll have Ruth go with them.”

  Alric exhaled slowly. He hated this. He really, really hated this.

  “How much?” he asked, jaw tight.

  “Ten kids is your best bet,” Berrin said. “More than that and it’s just chaos. Two large gets you the kids. Throw in another large and I’ll have Ruth go. The extra goes to flour or bread, or wherever it needs to go. I’ll see ta it”

  Alric nodded once. “Alright. Four large.” He spoke before he could talk himself out of it. “Get flour. Whatever. I feel worse imagining them walking in the woods with empty bellies.”

  He used his item box under the table and produced a stack of large coppers, eight in total, two trips. Berrin took them without ceremony.

  “I can see you don’t like this,” Berrin said quietly. “But the apothecary did the same thing. They all do. I can see ya only seein how the city works now” He stood and offered Alric a tired, reassuring smile. “I’ll get the coin into a belly that needs it. I’ve got cooking to do. I’ll send them out day after tamorrow.”

  Alric stood too, nodded once, and shook his hand.

  On the way back, Alric walked along the boundary avenue toward the warehouse, clicked his tongue irritably, and kicked a small stone ahead of him.

  He glanced across the river toward the Nob Bridge. He would have loved an easy person to blame for his feelings.

  But he wasn’t sure that would make them any less his.

  He clicked his tongue again and kept walking.