Chương 23: No Cause for Alarm Service

"What's the worse alternative to a storm? A tidal wave?"

"Ugh. I wish. That would be so much easier to deal with. No, I'm talking about pirates." That took a few seconds to sink in. Something wasn't adding up.

"How is a tidal wave easier to deal with than pirates?"

"They're both stinky, they make a mess, and they kill people. But pirates are mean about it." I wasn't sure if I completely believed her. Call it naivety, but pirates could at least be reasoned with or avoided altogether, right? We picked up our pace to finish errands. We didn't have much time to spare before the ship docked and sailors arrived in town, but I still managed to convince Wynnie to make an extra stop. At the wharf, we picked up a fresh catch of the day.

I had no idea what kind of fish it was, but it looked similar to tuna, and Wynnie assured me that people ate giant fillets of it cut into steaks. If we had time, we'd experiment. If we didn't, Wynnie could freeze it to preserve it until we did. We also picked up a cheap hunk of beef. It was riddled with fat and gristle, and the cut was nothing special. Still, it looked fresh, and the price was right.

Wynnie wanted to skip it, but I made my case that a bit of meat boiled low and slow for hours could turn a simple vegetable stew into a hearty, memorable meal.

"That's four copper we're not getting back," she grumbled.

"Oh, we'll get it back. We're about to charge six copper per night for a room." She scoffed.

"You can't be serious."

"I am serious. And don't call me Shirley." Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"What? I didn't call you Shirley." I replayed the conversation in my head. Dammit. She was right. And I'd been so excited to uncork that one, too. Who in this fantasy world wouldn't enjoy an already overused joke from a film that came out in 1980? Surely, there would be a next time. The two of us split up back at the inn, ready to split duties to cover twice the ground, as usual. I followed my choreographed steps to the juice, oleo saccharum, and punch-batching dance.

Wynnie disappeared into the kitchen and started cursing up a G-rated storm. Even now that she'd conquered fire, she still bumped into pots and pans surprisingly often. Back in the bar, I finished what prep work I could for cocktails. I set my place for everything, making sure that nothing I needed would be too far of a reach. I even prepared a few garnishes in advance, just in case things picked up quickly. Then I got to work on the sign. This time, it was real. Not just a hasty scrawl on paper.

I was excited, but I'd also been dreading this. My handwriting was atrocious. Usually, I compensated by writing in block letters. Not that it helped much. Bad handwriting is bad handwriting, no matter how hard the letters yell. On a small wooden placard that looked something akin to a desktop picture frame, I wrote as neatly as I could in leftover paint: Drink Menu: Punch………………. 3c Greyhound………… 2c Salty Dog…………... 2c Sour………………… 3c … Add egg white…… 1c Old Fashioned…….. 2c The sour was a new addition.

I wanted to see how people liked it before adding orgeat and more bitters to make it a Trinidad Sour. There was still no Corn 'n Oil yet, though I felt like we were close. And the ginger bug appeared ready to go, but it could wait until the expanded menu had a chance to shine. I almost wanted to add grog to the list, just to see who went for the cursed Renn Faire staple. I stepped back to make sure everything was legible. It was, if you squinted.

The hard part would be helping people understand what any of that meant. Everyone just ran around, raw-dogging their alcohol. Apparently, even punch was unheard of in this world. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Well, I could help to change that. It was our secret weapon. I was an isekai bartender, dammit. This is how I would become a hero. The door opened and a tall, blonde, bearded man walked in.

He wore an officious navy peacoat and heavy leather boots that squeaked with each step. A polished wooden pipe hung loosely from his lips, and he looked around the interior space with an appraising eye. Vaguely, he reminded me of Crispy Dan, the captain whose portrait we'd removed when redecorating. All he was missing were the bushy gray mutton chops.

"This will do." The man turned to look at someone out of sight on the porch behind him.

"Have the boatswain bring my duffel. I'll get us checked in." He crossed the room to me.

"How much for a room?" I'd told Wynnie we'd charge six, but the guy looked well-to-do. She'd shown a penchant for ruthless capitalism, anyway. This was an opportunity. If he didn't like the price, he could counter my offer. Haggling was part of fantasy life, right?

"Eight copper." His eyebrows rose. My breath caught in my throat.

"You running a discount or something?"

"Yep," I lied.

"But don't worry. We make all our profits through the bar anyway." He eyed my setup. A quick glance at my menu prompted the response I had expected. One quizzical brow rose, and he cleared his throat.

"I've never heard of any of these ales. New local brewery?" I shook my head.

"We don't do ales here. These are cocktails."

"What's that, slang for wine or something?"

"It's liquor. Liquor with stuff. Tastes good." That was my best explanation yet. I was getting better. He shrugged roughly.

"All right then, you got my attention. What's a Salty Dog?"

"It's just a Greyhound with a salted rim." A heavy beat extended between us, like a drummer forgot their cue during a rest. My reply had been reflexive. Of course this guy didn't know what a Greyhound was, either. And if there were no cocktails in this world, then the concept of a salted rim was probably unusual as well. The subtle snap and crackle of the fireplace promised a warm, comfortable night. The diffuse glow of hurricane lamps added to the ambiance. We looked like we were running a real inn.

Sometimes, the appearance of having one's shit together is enough to garner trust.

"All right then. I'll have one." The man approached the bar and slid two copper across the wooden bar top. He lounged against it with his elbow, watching every move I made intently. First, I wiped the entire rim of the tumbler with a fresh-cut half of lime. I dipped the rim in a large plate of sea salt, giving it an artistically asymmetrical coating. If you've ever been a bartender, then you've probably done the next part a thousand times. In your sleep.

With a big spoon from the kitchen, I dug into the bucket of ice. I filled the cup to the brim. Then, I poured in some moonshine, a bit of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, and then added more ice on top since it had settled with all the liquid. Before handing it to the man, I garnished it with a small wheel of lime. He took it in, inspecting it curiously. I thought he was going to make a comment, but clearly he was a man of action. Either that, or he didn't want to look like he didn't know what he was doing.

He took a sip, expertly managing to keep his mustache dry. He grunted.

"Interesting."

"This was one of my favorite highballs in this old, uh..." I was about to say pirate-themed bar, but I thought better of it. Instead, I found a better, more boring alternative.

"I invented it for thirsty sailors." He took another sip, then a third.

"That's a dangerous concoction there. It would be easy to make a man drink too much. If he weren't careful, he might not keep his wits about him."

"Yeah. I try to make sure nobody overindulges. It's a professional courtesy."

"Please see to it that none of my men drink more than two of these tonight. We can't let our guard down. I need everyone to be ready at the ring of a bell." I nodded. Then, because it felt right, I saluted. He looked at me strangely, so maybe it was the wrong salute or something. Whatever. Even though I was pretty sure he was the captain, he wasn't my captain. I could salute however I wanted.

"Just one more thing before the rest of the crew arrives." He leaned in close and waited for me to do the same.

"What's that?"

"How much does it cost for an alarm service?"

"To wake you up in the morning?" A humorless, gruff laugh escaped his throat.

"In the morning, sure. But I mean through the night. If they sound the alarm down at my ship, I need to be awake immediately." Well, that was a new wrinkle. I'd never heard of an alarm service before, and could only guess at what it meant. Still, if there was money to be made on it, and customer satisfaction to win, I was sure I was up for the task. I just had to ask Wynnie what this guy was talking about.

"Let me go check with the owner." The captain nodded, and I excused myself to the kitchen. Inside, Wynnie was still slaving over the stove. A giant iron pot full of stew simmered gently. Her bags of fresh loaves warmed on a stove plate nearby. She looked over at me and smiled with excitement as I approached.

"Drew, look! I got the fire to behave all on my own! Nothing's burning." She was beaming. Then, a flash of worry flickered behind her eyes.

"Yet."

"Nicely done. You're really getting the hang of this. And that smells incredible too."

"Thanks. So, what brings you in here?" I looked back out at the bar through the cracked-open door. The captain was sitting on a barstool, nursing his cocktail.

"He's asking how much it costs for alarm service." Her face went pale, and she stopped stirring the stew.

"Oh, drat. Oh, phooey. Oh, fiddlesticks." I winced inwardly. Obviously, a captain asking for some kind of alarm meant that something bad might happen. Something serious. But fiddlesticks serious? Now I knew there was trouble.

"Something wrong?"

"It might be nothing. Sometimes, sailors ask for alarm service in case of storms if they're holding really precious cargo, or if they suspect thieves in port." Her fingers worried at the hem of her dress sleeve, rubbing it thin. Her anxious gaze shot out to the captain before settling back on me.

"And if it's not that?" She bit her lip.

"Usually, they only ask if there are pirates nearby." Fiddlesticks indeed. Wynnie's fears had been well-founded. Suddenly, I wished it was just a tidal wave.