Chapter 15 – Curbs

  Returning to the inn was uneventful, though Alric did note that Tyke moved with an extra spring in his step. Now, Alric was hunched over a piece of paper with drawings of three barrels. Drawing was a generous term.

  He realised that the names were just that, names. Not measurements. Not units. Just labels. No more standard than someone saying “about this.” He listed them anyway, writing dimensions around the sides like “about a metre,” immediately demonstrating that he had, despite himself, slipped into the local habit.

  He followed it with a deep sigh.

  He went back to the drawings and stopped pretending they were just sketches. He squared the sides of the largest one and wrote beside it.

  Roughly 0.8 to 1.0 metres high.

  Roughly half a metre across.

  He paused, then added a second line beneath it, working it through quickly and without ceremony.

  Call it somewhere between two hundred and ninety and three hundred litres.

  He circled the number once.

  He moved to the next drawing, smaller but still thick-walled, and repeated the process. Shorter, wider than the cask, heavy even on paper. He wrote the figure beside it, checked it against the first, then against the last.

  About one hundred and eighty litres.

  The last sketch barely needed the effort. He adjusted the height down, narrowed the body, and wrote the range almost from habit.

  Forty-five to fifty litres.

  He looked at the three numbers together.

  Three hundred broke cleanly. Six small batches. Reasonable to plan around. The cask fit a person’s reach and a person’s strength. The barrel did not, but it at least justified the work.

  The half-jack sat between them, touching neither.

  He drew a thick X straight through it, hard enough to tear the paper slightly, then pushed the page aside and redrew the remaining two larger.

  A broad man entered through the staff door carrying firewood. He flashed Alric a smile before moving off toward the hearth. Alric studied him as he walked.

  His shoulders sloped slightly forward. He was neither tall nor short, but solid, with weight settled comfortably around the middle in a way that suggested regular meals rather than indulgence. Alric’s mother would have called him hefty.

  His hair had begun to thin at the crown and was kept short. What remained had faded toward grey at the temples. His beard was kept short and practical, with the same peppering of grey running through it. His hands were large, scarred in small ways: old burns, nicks, and faint staining.

  His dress was plain. Rolled sleeves, sturdy trousers, boots worn. There was a faint smell of wood smoke about him. Alric thought he looked a bit like what one might consider a stereotypical friar. The man squatted to pack the fireplace, his shirt riding up just enough to put his dignity on display, demonstrating to Alric that no matter what world you went to, trousers never quite fit.

  The man stood and adjusted his trousers as though to reinforce Alric’s earlier point. He turned sideways, dusting his hands together, and moved toward him.

  “Take it you’re Alric? Tyke won’t shut up about seeing the old fort,” he said, with a smile and a snort.

  “You should have seen the guard’s face when Tyke came marching up,” he added with a grin.

  The man laughed and extended a hand. “Name’s Berrin.”

  They shook. “Alric. Take it you’re Tyke’s dad?”

  Berrin nodded.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions about your ale?” Alric asked.

  Berrin considered him for a moment. “You talk about booze like an old man,” he said, settling onto the bench opposite. His eyes flicked to the page of Alric’s barrel drawings, but he said nothing.

  “Where do you get your grain?” Alric asked, earning a smirk from the innkeeper.

  “That’s not something I’ll tell you. Not with that,” Berrin said, pointing at the barrels.

  Alric smirked and nodded in understanding, which drew a wider smile from Berrin.

  “Alright, there’s a…” Alric paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t want recipes. I just want to know what you’re using to flavour your beer.”

  Berrin took a moment before answering. “Don’t think it’s much of a secret. Everyone’s using it. You mean juniper, bog myrtle, and yarrow?”

  Alric nodded and reached for his charcoal, but the innkeeper interrupted him.

  “Why don’t I just show you? No questions, though. And no recipes,” Berrin said, one brow lifting.

  “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

  Berrin nodded as he stood. “You talk like an old man too, you know. You can’t be what, older than twenty summers?” he said, looking Alric up and down.

  “About that. My dad made me read a lot of books.”

  Berrin seemed indifferent to the explanation and shrugged, turning toward the staff door with Alric following.

  The back of the inn was confusing, a long passage broken by several sets of stairs. They stayed on the ground floor, turning into a workroom that opened out wider than Alric expected. This was clearly the inn’s brewery. Nothing was arranged neatly, but everything had its place. The room felt used, worked in, and quietly busy even while empty.

  An open vat sat near the centre, its surface dark and faintly active, and the air carried a soft, overripe sweetness that reminded Alric of bananas left too long in the sun. Alric recognised the smell immediately from his college days. He and his friends had skipped a few steps and produced a batch of beer that had been undrinkable by their standards.

  Berrin stepped up to the vat, moved his hand through the air toward his nose, and nodded approvingly. He then stretched upward, breaking off small pieces from several hanging herbs and passing them over.

  “Think these are what you’re looking for?” he asked.

  Alric sniffed each in turn. They were the flavours he had been noticing, the ones he thought of as off. To him they carried a faint soapiness, the sharp, clean edge of bathroom air freshener rather than anything meant to be drunk. He nodded.

  Alric’s attention shifted to the large hearth along one wall, a heavy pot suspended above it. He stepped closer, noting the ash built up beneath. He then pointed to a nearby cask lying on its side and looked at Berrin, who nodded. Alric lifted it with effort, surprised by its weight even while empty. It had a single opening where a tap would sit, currently plugged with a rounded wooden spike. He eased the spike loose and sniffed.

  The smell was stale and sharp, old sourness layered with damp wood and spent herbs. It caught at the back of his nose and lingered unpleasantly, like something that had soaked in too deeply to ever quite come out. Alric felt there was a hint there, but could not quite place it.

  “Could you tell me where you get your herbs?” he asked with a smile, seeing as grain was off limits.

  The innkeeper considered this for a moment before saying simply, “Guild sells them, but they’re expensive. Adventurers can get them for you, but I often send the kids for a copper. The woods aren’t far. Apothecary might as well” he added with a shrug.

  “Guild?” Alric asked, blinking.

  He nodded. “Innkeepers’ guild. Or the tavernkeepers’ guild, I suppose. Guilds hate each other and fight like two bulls,” he added, shrugging again.

  “This is it, though,” he said, gesturing to the space around them. Alric took it as the hint that they were done.

  “Alright. Thank you, truly,” Alric said.

  Berrin turned to leave. “If you want to eat, I’d best get the stew going. Be seeing you, Alric,” he added as he departed.

  Alric turned as well, heading back toward the dining room. He noticed more children along the way and managed not to get lost before reaching it. He sat down again, summoned a sheet of paper, and wrote problems at the top.

  The list grew ominously long very quickly. Alric was beginning to understand just how much modern systems had streamlined.

  Alric stared at the word problems for a long moment before taking a new sheet. He wrote problems again.

  Barrels.

  He paused, then added a second word beside it.

  Measurements.

  That felt better. Worse, but clearer. He tapped the charcoal against the page, leaving a faint smudge where it hesitated. Grain followed, then water, then heat. Each word sat on the page like a door he had opened without knowing what was behind it.

  He leaned back slightly and scanned the list. It was already branching in his head, each problem splitting into smaller ones. Barrels meant wood, labour, money. Grain meant fields, seasons, transport. Water meant wells, rivers and other problems he did not yet have words for.

  He exhaled through his nose.

  There were answers here, he was certain of it. People knew these things. Someone had to. The problem was that he had no idea who to ask, or how many of them would refuse before one answered. The innkeeper brewed. The cooper built. The guilds guarded doors he did not even know how to approach.

  He added another word at the bottom of the page and underlined it once.

  Supply.

  Alric stared at it. If he was going to understand any of this, really understand it, he would need someone who spoke in quantities, routes, and costs. Someone who thought in flows rather than traditions.

  Someone who sold things for a living.

  He closed his eyes briefly, then reached for another sheet of paper, he realised it was his last sheet but he needed a list of questions to ask Moreen.