Mara looked at Alric with a resigned expression and shrugged.
“We have a week’s worth left. After this, that’s it.” She said, pointing up at the grain bag she had just hung to germinate.
The boiler had created many problems, but a warm, wet, humid environment would always be perfect for getting grain to germinate. Unfortunately, the boiler was very good at being warm, wet, and humid, and less interested in being anything else. There was some grain already in the germination section, but all it amounted to was two weeks of boiling. After that came three weeks’ worth of fermenting. Then they were done.
“Do you want to ask the taverns you see, maybe? They should have grain,” Hal suggested.
Alric considered this. It was true. They would either have grain set aside for spring, or grain they had planned to use toward the end of autumn, before he had started supplying them. Alric nodded. There was nothing to lose.
“I’ll ask. That’s about it,” he said with a sigh. The staff nodded.
Seren sat at her desk counting coins, frustration plain in her posture. The snow was simply too heavy now for the handcart. Even walking had become difficult, as the city had reached the stage of winter where the ground existed mostly as something to hold compacted ice. Thankfully today was an easier run. The docks were nearby, so it would not be a long walk, only a cold one.
“Alright. Guess it’s time then. Let’s get the boiler going. I’ll be buying another magic stone today as well, for the one from the steamer,” he said, glancing at the steamer that was currently idle. Thankfully they had two, though his experiments had cost them.
It was routine now. Breaking the ice on the well each morning was its own trial, often requiring Henry and Stephen to drop the chain repeatedly while pouring boiling water from the steamer to force a gap. Alric set the boiler and left.
He began walking the beat, keeping his cloak tight, breath frosting in the dark. It was still early. Many taverns now asked him to knock on back doors to bring the beer inside. The lager, he noted, tasted particularly good in this weather, which felt unfair to everyone involved.
At the first stop he knocked at the rear room. He breathed into his hands as the door opened.
“Ah, just who I needed. Your cask’s here,” the man said, pointing beside the door.
Alric used the item box to bring out another and set it down.
“Good to see you. I wanted to ask, do you have any extra grain to sell?” Alric asked as the man shuffled toward the cask.
“Ah. I couldn’t do that, guv. I’d be helping my competition,” the man said, grunting as he lifted.
“I see. Well, I’ll be out of beer in five weeks, just so you know,” Alric said, awkwardly. He had not expected such a blunt refusal.
“Well, you kept me open this long. Not many sit-downs, but plenty passing through for a quick tankard. I’m grateful for that,” the man said, nodding as he carried the cask inside.
“Alright. I’ll be seeing you then,” Alric replied. The words felt heavy.
He retrieved the empty cask and closed the door as the man wrestled with the full one.
Further along his route, several taverns he had supplied were simply closed. No signs, no notices. Alric assumed patrons could no longer reach them, or that there was nothing left worth selling.
Those that were open all gave the same answer. Gratitude, apology, refusal. Some spoke from principle. Others from something closer to fear. All refused without exception. Alric clicked his tongue and turned back.
The snow made navigation difficult. Side streets were impassable now, forcing him onto the main roads, where the city pretended things were still normal. As he approached, he noticed that his warehouse was one of the few buildings without a thick layer of snow clinging to its walls, steam having politely discouraged it.
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He entered through the staff door, stamping snow from his boots and cloak. The floor was muddy from the season, heat, and constant movement. Work on the new warehouse flooring was already underway, alterations progressing despite the cold, which suggested optimism and stubbornness.
“No one would sell grain,” he said as he moved inside.
He went through the motions of starting the boiler, partly for the warmth. The staff were ready, and he set it quickly. It would take time to heat, so he moved to the steamer instead, holding his hands out as though it were a small, obedient sun.
“A lot of taverns are closed, by the way. I don’t know if that’s permanent,” he added.
“So we can trade longer?” Seren asked.
“I’m going to start selling doubles to anyone who wants them,” Alric said, shaking his head. “I’m heading to Moreen now to see if he can get us grain, but I think we need to shut down for a while. When was the last day off we had?”
Seren looked ready to protest, but Alric shook his head. The steamy air softened their posture, but the wear showed clearly on Mara and Hal, the sort that accumulated quietly and only became obvious once named.
“Alright, Mister Alric,” Seren said with a resigned sigh.
“I’m off then. I’ll warm up at Moreen’s and finish the last taverns I need to see today,” he said, gathering the lager. He remembered the gift cask this time.
He left with it tucked away.
Five weeks, on paper, seemed manageable. On the street, in the snow, it already felt optimistic.
The road to Merchants’ Row was clear, whether for nobles reaching the bridge or merchants keeping trade alive, he did not know. He headed to Moreen and Sons.
Inside, the clerk looked ready to speak before recognising him. “Welcome to Moreen and Sons. Do you need to speak to Moreen?” Alric nodded.
He hung his cloak on a nearby hook and moved toward the hearth, grateful for the warmth and the fact that it did so without spitting out copious amounts of steam.
“Oh, Alric, so good to see you. It has been far too long,” Moreen said, emerging from the staff door, as though introduced by the building itself.
Moreen’s clothing was thicker, more layered, more colourful than before. Even his hat rose tall and stiff, almost theatrical.
“Good to see you too. You’re looking… warm,” Alric said, trying not to squint.
“Oh, this? Just something I threw together. Now then, what do you need, Alric? A job, I hope?” Moreen said playfully.
Alric smiled and shook his head. “Can you get grain? And I mean now.”
Moreen glanced around and gestured to the clerk, who nodded and left, having learned when not to hear things.
“I could get you grain,” Moreen said. “It would cost three times the usual price, and the bags would have some… interesting stamps.”
It took Alric a moment to understand. He shook his head, he’d like grain but not enough to deal with stolen grain.
“You are na?ve,” Moreen said mildly. “But fine. There’s no proper way to move grain in winter. Roads decide that. In spring, yes. There are granaries for this. It will still cost more.”
“I want a contract then,” Alric said. “Two wagonloads a week, with room to increase if needed.”
Moreen blinked. “That’s a lot of grain.”
Alric nodded. “I’ll also want apples. A lot of them. And eventually grapes. I don’t have wine customers yet, but I’m thinking in barrels.”
Moreen considered. “Some nobles might be interested, but wine sells slowly, its not fashionable to drink it unless it comes from your own land.”
Alric nodded, that would make sense among nobles, thinking back to his old world and how people consumed wine with meals, it might just be a matter of availability and time to spark a change.
“Then we’ll talk grapes later,” Alric said. “Just know I’ll want them.” He would also have the cellar which could store large barrels for years without issue.
Barrels stirred a thought. “How’s the vinegar doing?”
Moreen tilted his head. “Slow. Winter isn’t kind to it. Earlier in the year, before harvest, it would have moved faster. Still, it’s good vinegar.”
With that, business concluded. Moreen promised a drafted contract for steady grain supply, barley primarily, with some maize if available. He was pleased to receive a cask of the better lager, and equally irritated that he had no sensible way to sell it, which made Alric feel marginally better.
Alric left and turned toward the Nob Bridge. The guards stood with small fires burning beside them. As he approached, one straightened and saluted, which made the hairs on Alric’s neck stand.
“Keeping warm, Mister Alric?” the guard asked.
Alric nodded, too surprised to reply, and continued across the bridge. They did not stop him. The ease of it unsettled him, like a door that opened before he reached for the handle.
He pushed the thought aside and began planning training for Mara and Hal, thinking ahead to new products once spring came.
Sometime later, a guard sergeant stood before an aged man with a neatly trimmed white beard. The man worked through a massive book while the sergeant waited near the doorway, having learned not to lean on anything in this room.
“You said his name was Alric? No house?” the man asked.
“That’s right. He used an item box in front of my men. He’s passed through several times without trouble. Went to the magic shop and left,” the sergeant said.
The old man ran a finger slowly down the page, as though giving the ink time to reconsider its life choices.
“Sergeant,” he said, glancing up, “do you know how hard it is to find something that isn’t there?”
“I… sir?”
“I’ll need to check this register first. Then provincial records. Then guild registrations beyond our borders. This won’t be quick, and it won’t be a priority. Expect months.”
“Could I have a note saying this was reported?” the sergeant asked.
The man sighed, pulled a sheet toward him, dated it, pressed a seal, and handed it over.
Who's your favourite member of the inn staff (The White Dove)?
