Alric checked his list again. Of the eleven taverns he’d visited, seven had taken a cask, one had taken two, and the other three had asked him to return next week. This was, by local standards, a roaring success. By Alric’s standards, it was merely encouraging.

  He put the list away and glanced up at the sky. Snow drifted down in thin, uncommitted flakes, as if it hadn’t quite decided whether this was worth the effort. It had come early, which was exactly what he’d been waiting for. He was walking the docks now, watching the snow fall toward the river and immediately lose the argument to moving water.

  The docks would keep moving when the snow got serious. They always did. The roads were wider here, packed down by years of carts, boots, and things being dragged that would rather not be. People didn’t stop carrying things just because the weather turned, not when barges still needed unloading and goods still needed shifting and someone, somewhere, had already been paid to care.

  The taverns were easier to find than usual. Nearly all of them had outdoor fires burning, which made locating them less a matter of navigation and more a matter of following heat and smoke. He glanced up at the one he was approaching now. It was small, like the others. Functional. The sort of place that survived by not being noticed too much.

  Hal and Mara had helped a great deal with this. He had a real sales strategy now, which mostly consisted of turning up at exactly the right moment with exactly the right thing and not asking anyone to make decisions they didn’t want to think about.

  He stepped up to the bar. The barkeep glanced at his cloak before asking, “What’ll it be, friend?” with a grin that suggested the question was mostly habit. He stood with a tankard in hand and only a few customers, all of whom looked like they were considering the wisdom of staying warm somewhere else.

  “I could ask you the same thing, friend,” Alric said. “I’m the not-sour beer seller. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

  “Ah, that I have,” the man said. “People talk about the weird beer the Adventurers’ Guild sells. That you?”

  “That’s me. Was wondering if you’d want a cask,” Alric said, gesturing vaguely at the weather, which was doing its best to look persuasive.

  The barkeep considered this for a moment before shrugging.

  “Depends on the price. My customers aren’t paying much for a tankard these days.” He said waving a hand dismissively.

  “Then I have something just for you,” Alric said. “I’m going to use my item box and put two casks out here, if that’s alright.”

  The barman backed off slightly, as people tended to do when the laws of space were about to be bent, then gestured to the bar.

  Alric produced the casks. They landed with a satisfying clunk, which was new and faintly worrying. He made a note to think about it later. He held out a hand for a tankard, which the barman provided with the air of someone who had decided to see how this played out.

  “So,” Alric said, pouring from the stronger cask, “People have ideas about what beer is and isn’t, you don’t have to call it beer. You can just call it lager, if you like.”

  The barman nodded, sniffed, sipped, spat, and then stood quietly for a moment, as if waiting for the rest of the experience to catch up.

  “I can work with this,” he said finally. “It’s strong, though.”

  He downed what was left. Alric poured again, this time from the other cask.

  “The stronger one is two silver. The weaker is one,” Alric said. “Either way, I take a cask in exchange. A good one. If you don’t have one, you can buy the cask for an extra silver.”

  The barman considered this, which mostly involved staring at the casks as if hoping they would make the decision for him.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Alright. I’ll take the cheaper. Let me check my casks.”

  He returned shortly after with one that had clearly lived a full and interesting life but was still, in Alric’s judgement, capable of further service. The exchange was made. The stronger cask vanished, the watered beer stayed put, and the transaction completed itself without ceremony.

  “Want me to rack it for you?” Alric asked. “I’d need to use my item box. You can mark it first.”

  The man considered, then shook his head. Alric nodded. He’d seen this before.

  “Am I coming back next week for another?” Alric asked, offering his hand.

  The barkeep grinned and shook it.

  “Let’s see how it goes. But yes, come back next week.”

  “Be seeing you,” Alric said, and moved on. He walked a short distance before marking his list.

  “Right. Let’s see,” he muttered, setting off toward the next tavern.

  His thoughts drifted back to the warehouse. The boiler had introduced a number of problems he couldn’t ignore long-term. The most obvious was that it took three people to tilt it safely, and even then only if everyone involved was paying attention and no one sneezed at the wrong moment.

  The boiler had turned brewing into a sequence rather than a span. Without clocks, he was thinking in steps instead of time. Add here. Turn there. Pull now. It was less about minutes and more about where you were standing when something needed to happen, which felt faintly accusatory.

  The wheel was too heavy to manage cleanly when the pot was full. It also ran hotter than he had expected. He blamed most of that on the wooden frame. Proper stone housing would help. For now, they had settled on a chain attached to the reinforced housing beneath the heating stones. Hal and Henry pulled to start the tilt. Mara directed them through the first movement. As the pot drained, it became manageable. After that, Henry and Hal could control it with the wheel.

  Alric worried about all of this. The staff did not. If anything, Mara and Hal treated the boiler with something close to reverence. It was big, it was hot, and it did what it was told. From their perspective, this was excellent. The problems were merely side effects.

  The pot had no lid. Alric didn’t want pressure problems or explosions, so steam filled the space instead. Water ran down the walls. The rafters dripped. The air stayed clammy. The staff sighed contentedly in the warmth. Alric didn’t share the feeling, but it told him enough. All of this had to be addressed before spring.

  The venue was the core issue. The space was too small. Steam had nowhere to go. He would need some way to vent it properly, something that could be opened when the boiler ran. As it stood, the temperature rose and fell through the day, and fermentation would suffer for it.

  Even a year of this would invite structural problems. Hot, wet air in a wooden building would not end well. Winter bought him time, but not much of it.

  He put the thoughts aside as he reached the next tavern. The exchange was much the same. He marked the list again, then decided to loop back. Dropping off empty casks now would save trouble later, and trouble, he was learning, had a habit of charging interest.

  Snow still drifted through the streets, and people moved with more urgency because of it. By the next corner it had already thinned, crushed into wet patches and slush. This wasn’t winter yet, just the city being reminded it was coming.

  The warehouse greeted him with steam. A few heads lifted when he entered, then everyone returned to their work. Mara was sewing larger grain bags for the boiler. Hal was cleaning the boiler. Henry worked through the casks.

  Alric set down the empties beside Henry. He nodded and kept working. Two casks sat on the steamers, vapor escaping from the bung holes as fresh steam fed in. Alric checked them for leaks and found none.

  That led his thoughts to the steamers themselves. The magic stones were painfully expensive. The two stones had cost more than the boiler pot. It reminded him of his visit to the noble quarter, of the guard who had recognised him and sent for a sergeant. The man had asked his name and house, wished him a good day, and let him go.

  They hadn’t asked what he was buying. Just who he was.

  Alric returned his attention to the casks. He waited for Hal to finish so he could recharge the stones, set the water barrel, and head out again.

  He checked in with Seren, reviewed the sales, and watched her enter the numbers into another ledger. It all felt routine now.

  Once the boiler was running again, Alric stepped back outside. He felt tired.

  He glanced toward the crafters’ district. That would be tomorrow. Steam rose from the rooftops. He smiled despite himself. He still carried over sixty casks in his item box, with more than a hundred fermenting.

  Brewing wouldn’t stop in winter. Heat, grain, yeast. None of that cared about snow. Getting beer where it needed to go was another matter entirely.

  He was already noting more than who bought and who didn’t. Which streets stayed busy. Which alleys grew awkward with even a dusting of snow. A tavern that couldn’t be reached might as well not exist.

  He was finally selling beer. That part worked. The rest of it, where it went, how it moved, and how long the building itself would tolerate it, was becoming the real work.