True to his thoughts, Alric had decided to make his delivery early in the morning. The festival lasted three days and after what he saw yesterday, he figured the adventurers would not be upset to get a top up.

  He walked along the main avenue that ran alongside the wall. Not much had changed since the day before, at least not at a distance. The bunting still hung, the street sellers still had their boards, and the city still made its usual noises. It was only once he passed the gate and turned toward the adventurers’ guild that the changes began to gather in front of him, one small sign at a time, until they stopped being signs and became a state of affairs.

  A group of four people in normal clothes were headed upward towards the main avenue, they had arms around each other, large wide grins and all seemed to be singing very different songs and stumbling along happily. They stumbled happily, but with the careful attention of people who were not so much walking as negotiating.

  He made his way past that to come up to a small group of the city guard. They were huddled in a small group around a dying fire, leaning on their spears, they said nothing, deep bags under their eyes.

  One of their fellows sat with his back to the wall, clearly asleep, mouth slightly open. A second guard had draped a cloak over the sleeping man’s shoulders with the care of someone tucking in a child, which was a more damning report on the state of the street than any official proclamation.

  Alric kept his pace steady and his face neutral. Whatever the guards had done last night, they were still doing it now.

  The stone underfoot began to show more patches, dark and glossy in places where the street should have been dry. The air took on a familiar scent, like the inside of his brewery when cider production was in full swing. Sweet apple clung to everything, not fresh and bright but thickened, warmed, and worked over by time. Walking was getting more difficult as he navigated questionable puddles.

  A festival stall lay on its side, forgotten, its painted board pressed against the stone like a cheek against a cold floor. It was not smashed. That would have implied anger. It was simply… overturned, as if the stall had become too tired to remain standing. Alric stepped over it and noted that more and more people were setting up stalls the closer he got to the adventurers’ guild. Not setting up, exactly. Congregating. As though trade itself had developed a sense of direction and had decided where the drinking was.

  Some stalls were fully assembled, but the people meant to run them were asleep on the counters or nearby, trying to rest where they could. One man lay on a pile of straw meant for apple bobbing, his hat pulled down over his face, one hand still clutching a ladle.

  With the guild finally in sight, he saw people still drinking. One pair sat nearby against a wall, saying nothing just passing a cup back and forth between them. Another drinking with two hands, one holding a tankard and shuffling on one leg trying to bring the tankard to their lips.

  One man was clearly passed out. Alric stepped around him, and the man did not stir. Someone had taken the trouble to drag him out of the main path and tuck his cloak under his head.

  Stalls clustered thickly around the guild. A few citizens, drawn by curiosity or hunger, hovered at the edges, looking in with the cautious expression of people approaching a stray dog that might either accept a pat or remove a finger. Behind them, the guards watched with the dull patience of men waiting for the next problem.

  Deciding this was someone else’s problem, Alric moved toward the tavern entrance. People crowded around the tables, still drinking. Their laughter came in bursts and then stopped abruptly, as if their throats could no longer afford the expense.

  The barman spotted him and lifted the bar flap to let him through. Deep shadows sat under the man’s eyes. His hair had been smoothed back in an attempt at dignity, but there are only so many lies a comb can tell.

  The barman followed Alric without a word. He swayed slightly once they reached the cellar, not stumbling, just… leaning, as if the world had become a touch too wide and he needed to borrow a wall to cross it.

  Alric blinked astonished by how much cider had gone. Most of the beer was gone as well.

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  “Uh.. I’ll just put the cider down then.” Arlic said beginning to unload. The barman nodded. Alric frowned at the remaining beer wishing he’d brought more. The barman pulled out some paper and spoke in a voice far too hoarse.

  “Name’s Gil just so you know. That was, how much cider? Right. We should have enough for today and tomorrow then. We needed this.” He said with a yawn. He began writing down the additions for Alric before passing him the slip of paper.

  “I’m still going to be bringing cider in like two weeks from now? Might be a bit longer?” he asked looking at the barman side ways.

  “We wont have an issue selling it, trust me. Don’t worry about that.. Ugh.. That was amazing what you brought and did for us. I just.. I’m scared to lie down, I’ll never get up again.” He said swaying slightly.

  “Hang in there Gil, You’ll get through this. A short nap wouldn’t be the worst idea you know?” Alric probed gently.

  “You probably right. I’ll do it in the bar. If someone needs something, they’ll wake me. Lets go.” He said waving tiredly.

  Mara could not help the surge of pride she felt. Her brothers and sisters all wore the new cloaks Alric had bought them. It still felt strange to her. He had done it on a whim, it seemed, but cloaks like these meant something else entirely.

  They meant a warm winter.

  The peeling work had been labour for Alric, but the copper coins paid out for five people each day had added up quickly. Her family had already begun stockpiling extra firewood. There was a new stack by the door, and then another behind it, as if her father feared the wood might run away if not watched. That was what coin did. It turned fear into preparation. Mara felt a deep gratitude toward Alric, but there was no easy way to express it.

  “Let’s go see the festival, then,” she said. They nodded eagerly.

  Much of the festival felt the same as the day before, though she saw it differently through the children’s eyes. They asked questions about strange sights, their gazes lingered on the colourful bunting, and they laughed loudly when they all tried the apple-bobbing competition. The youngest came up spluttering and furious, certain that the apple had cheated, and her brother solemnly declared that apples could not be trusted.

  Mara privately agreed with him.

  They wandered past the games. There was a contest where people tried to throw rings over wooden pegs, and the pegs were carved like little apples. Mara watched a man miss five times in a row, then glare at the pegs as if they had moved. He paid again, missed again, and declared loudly that this was proof the gods were jealous.

  When it came time for a snack, the consensus was firm. No more apples. They chose skewers instead, meat glazed with something sweet that tried very hard to be honey and did not quite succeed. The children ate anyway, because children could make a meal out of disappointment if there was enough of it.

  They sat down against a wall near an alley. When a loud voice rose nearby, she and Hal stood to see what was happening. The tavern keepers’ guild were announcing the cider competition winners.

  A man in good clothing addressed a crowd that was clearly not listening. Only five people paid him any attention, and it was obvious they were the contestants.

  “You want to see the competition?” Mara asked her family. Her two brothers perked up first, followed by the three sisters. They stepped out of the alley and found space to watch, but they were alone.

  “This always drew a huge crowd,” Hal whispered urgently.

  She shrugged, unsure what to make of it.

  Snippets of conversation drifted past. “Adventurers got cider brewed by woodland fairies. Tastes innocent, but it plays tricks on you,” someone said, followed by laughter. Another gestured toward the competition and scoffed, “That cider’s for winter.” The judges continued regardless, eventually declaring a winner. No one cheered.

  Choosing prudence, Mara kept the family moving and steered them deliberately away from the adventurers’ guild. As they walked, she noticed taverns standing nearly empty. At one, the tavern owner sat on a chair near the entrance, staring out into the street.

  This drew a groan from the children, who wanted honeyed sweets instead. Mara ignored them with the calm authority of someone who had washed too many casks to be moved by complaints. She led them into an inn that was just as quiet.

  The innkeeper brought watered-down stew, bread, and sausages. What struck Mara was that he carried it out himself. He also set down watered fruit juice.

  The stew was bland, but her family ate eagerly. Mara passed most of hers along, and it was taken with enthusiasm. She contented herself with the hard bread and the sight of her sisters eating without hesitation.

  She reached for her tankard, then paused.

  Hal had not touched his either. He had been quiet for most of the day, watching streets and stalls the way a man watched weather. Mara glanced at him, and he gestured faintly at the cup, then shrugged.

  The meaning was clear. Neither of them trusted water unless Alric was involved.

  It was not even fear, not exactly. It was knowledge. Once you knew what bad water did, you could not pretend it was merely unpleasant. You could swallow it, if you had to, but you could not do it without thinking.

  Mara set her cup down untouched.

  It occurred to her then that she had not heard of anyone falling sick from any of their drinks. She glanced at Hal who seemed to be having a similar line of thinking. Her brother reached for his tankard without hesitation.

  She did not say it aloud. She only held the thought carefully, like a coal in her palm, and wondered who else might notice the same thing, and what they might decide it meant.