Chương 126: Chapter 123 - Brandy

The prototype still was running badly enough to need attention and well enough to be interesting. Alric had been alone with it for most of the afternoon, which would have worried Seren if she had known. She did not know because Seren was at the new inn, issuing instructions to men moving barrels through corridors that had once held guests and would now hold wine until the city found another way to punish him for success.

The prototype still sat in Stromni's forge near the side hearth, warm copper catching the light in dull, tired patches. It was smaller than the one planned for the still house, though "smaller" had begun to feel like an insult to ordinary tools. The pot held enough wine to make mistakes expensive, the arm ran into the cooling coil, and a row of cups, tankards, and one suspiciously clean bowl waited along the bench. The smell was not what Alric had expected.

He had sampled the wine earlier, from the barrel they had chosen for the test. It was young. Not bad exactly, merely flat. Modern box wine had come to mind, which was not a compliment so much as an acceptance of it. It was drinkable. It would have served at a cheap gathering where no one wanted to think too hard. At least, those were Alric's standards. Alric had not expected greatness from it.

He had expected alcohol, volume, a useful experiment, and perhaps something rough enough to become useful after enough time in wood and enough optimism from a salesman. Instead, the forge smelled of grapes. Not fresh grapes or wine either. Something warmer and deeper. The sweetness had changed. The spirit coming off the still carried fruit, heat, and a clean edge that made him stand too still each time he leaned close. He adjusted the heating stone with the tongs, moving it back half a slot.

The still responded after a delay, because the prototype enjoyed reminding him that theory was only theory until copper thought otherwise.

"Don't start now," he muttered. The still dripped. Clear spirit gathered in the cup beneath the outlet, one drop at a time, innocent and steady. The forge door opened. Stromni entered with the sound of boots, tools, and a man who had never believed in arriving gently. He stopped just inside, sniffed once, and looked at the still.

"Exploded?" Alric shook his head, but he couldn't hold back a scoff either. Stromni came closer. His beard was tied back, his sleeves rolled, and his hands carried the marks of copper work. He looked at the cup, then at Alric, then leaned over the bench and smelled the air again. His expression changed. It was not a dramatic change. Stromni did not do dramatic unless hammers were involved. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth lost the shape it had been holding.

"That's the wine?"

"Yes."

"Thought ya said it was rough."

"It is, by my standards though. I need you to taste it too." Stromni looked at the still.

"It smells less rough now."

"That is what concerns me."

"Aye." Stromni stepped closer to the first cups.

"Where are we?"

"Past the worst of the heads. Early hearts, I think. I was only doing a stripping run." Stromni gave him a sideways look.

"I was," Alric said.

"Still know what it was doing?" Stromni reached for the nearest cup. Alric caught his wrist. The dwarf froze, then looked down at the hand holding him. Alric let go.

"Not that one." Stromni grunted.

"Poison?"

"More like punishment."

"Aye. Then which one?" Alric picked up the fifth cup. He smelled it first, more from habit than need. The alcohol was strong enough to push back, but beneath it was fruit. Young, yes, raw. Too clear and too eager. He passed it to Stromni. The dwarf did not drink immediately. He sniffed. Once. Twice. Then took a small sip. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Stromni looked into the cup. Alric watched him.

"Well?" he asked. Stromni swallowed properly, then breathed out through his nose.

"That's damned good," he said. Alric took the cup back and tasted. The heat came first. It was young spirit and had no manners about it. It hadn't been watered down yet either. Then came the grape, still rough but distinct, followed by a clean warmth that did not scrape the tongue the way cheap spirits did. It was unfinished, unaged, and entirely too willing to be drunk. He stared into the cup. Stromni reached for it again. Alric passed it over without looking. The dwarf took another sip. Smaller this time.

More thoughtful.

"That's trouble," Stromni said. Alric let out a slow breath.

"Yes."

"It should bite more."

"It should."

"It should taste cheaper."

"I know."

"It should make a man question his morning after the first swallow."

"It might still do that." Alric leaned against the bench. The still dripped on. Clear spirit. Drop by drop. It was patient, polite, and ruinous.

"I don't understand why it's this clean," Alric said. Stromni glanced at him.

"Because ya made it clean."

"I mean this clean. The wine was young."

"Aye. But the grapes were good. The still is good." Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Alric gave him a look. Stromni lifted his chin.

"It is."

"Yes, but this was not supposed to be a finished drink."

"It is drinkable." Alric nodded. They both stood in silence a while longer. The forge settled around them. A coal shifted in the hearth. Somewhere outside, someone shouted and received an answer. The ordinary sounds of the city continued, unaware that a cup on Stromni's bench had just become another problem. Stromni moved along the line of cups, smelling each in turn. He had learned the cuts faster than Alric expected.

Or perhaps he had always known how to judge spirit and merely lacked Alric's strange names for the parts that wanted to blind a man or ruin a cask. He stopped two cups later.

"This one." Alric tasted it. It was better. Not smoother but fuller. The grape sat deeper in it, the burn cleaner, the finish long enough that Alric found himself thinking of barrels immediately. Oak would change it. Time would round it. A little water would open it. A proper cask would make it dangerous. Stromni saw something in his face and sighed.

"Ya made a drink."

"That is usually the point."

"No," Stromni said.

"Beer was the point. Whisky was the point. This?" He lifted the cup slightly.

"This was supposed ta be an answer to barrels being in the way."

"It is."

"No, lad. It's a question with a price, a big price." Alric closed his eyes briefly. The pride came first anyway. It arrived before he could stop it. Warm, stupid, honest pride. He had taken young wine no one sensible would have praised, run it through a prototype still, made careful cuts, trusted the process, and found something real on the other side. Good work produced good drink. That mattered. It had always mattered, even when the good drink then attracted priests, guilds, kings, and too many men with ledgers.

For a moment, he let himself have it. Then dread followed. Because he knew the shape now. Beer had been beer until it became public order, religious evidence, tavern dependency, and a royal concern. Wine had been wine until taverns wanted it, the temple noticed it, and the walls vanished behind barrels. Now brandy had arrived, clear and bright and far too easy to drink. Alric opened his eyes.

"I hate patterns," he said. Stromni snorted.

"Ya make them." Alric felt his gaze drop before he caught it.

"You know," Alric began, "I don't think I care anymore, Stromni. We're here to make good booze. I'm not going to apologize for doing well anymore." Stromni paused and nodded to that. They worked through the rest of the run. The hearts went into a clean cask. Not all of them. Alric refused to be greedy, mostly because the later cups reminded him what greed tasted like. Stromni supported this position after tasting one of the tails and declaring it fit only for a man who had wronged his ancestors.

The good portion was smaller than Alric wanted and larger than he had expected. That was often the worst kind of amount. Enough to matter. Stromni watched him water it down carefully.

"Need that floating thing again?"

"A hydrometer."

"Aye. That." Alric nodded with a shrug. Stromni leaned against the bench, arms folded.

"Dwarves make spirit this good." Alric looked up. The dwarf was watching the cask, not him.

"Better," Stromni added.

"Before ya start looking proud."

"I wasn't."

"Ya were thinking about it." Alric said nothing. Stromni continued.

"But not like this. Not this cheap. Not this fast. Not from wine ya were complaining about this morning. A dwarf can make fine spirit if he has proper grain, proper water, years, barrels, and someone rich enough ta pay for the waiting." He tapped the cask once with one knuckle.

"This? This is rude." Alric looked at the cask.

"Rude?"

"Aye. To the men doing it properly."

"That keeps happening."

"It does." Alric rubbed at his forehead.

"If the king tastes this, he will understand the brewery is not just beer. If he does not taste it, and finds out later, that looks like concealment."

"Aye." The still gave one last slow drip into the tail cup and then stopped. The sound of it ending felt too final. Alric sealed the cask. The brandy inside looked like nothing from the outside. Just another small cask in a world already full of casks. That was almost funny. The most dangerous things in his life had a habit of looking ordinary until someone important asked what they were worth. Stromni stepped back.

"That brandy," Stromni said, "that's dangerously good, lad." Alric looked at the cask again.

"I was trying to clear storage." Stromni grinned faintly.

"Aye," he said.

"Ya made politics instead, but ya right, lad. Bugger em, we do it good and let em complain." The palace balcony faced the city. It did not look like the kind of balcony built for romance, speeches, or dramatic gestures. The stone rail was too high for easy posing and too plain to flatter anyone leaning on it. It had been placed where it could see the river, the bridge, the market roads, the warehouse roofs, and the long spread of Avengard as it worked through the late afternoon. The king liked it for that reason.

It did not lie with grandeur. It showed him smoke, traffic, repairs, movement, and all the small signs by which a city confessed its health or tried to hide its fever. The queen stood beside him, hands resting lightly on the rail. For a time, neither of them spoke. The queen broke the silence.

"What is on your mind?" The king did not answer immediately.

"The brewer," he said. The queen's mouth moved slightly, before she nodded with a smirk.

"You as well?" the king asked.

"I have been thinking about him since he left."

"That is never comforting. Should I be worried? He didn't strike me as good-looking," the king said with a grin. The queen scoffed before turning back to the city. The king looked over the city.

"He does not fit. I can't put my finger on why."

"He is not court-trained, nor a noble." The queen's gaze remained on the lower city.

"He speaks badly at court, but not because he lacks education. That is what bothers me." The king waited.

"He misses titles. He bows late. He answers too directly. He fails at all the small things men raised near power learn before they are old enough to understand them." She paused.

"But when he speaks of other things, he is not clumsy." The king frowned into the distance.

"He understands function, leverage, waste, dependency. He thinks in process. He does not speak like a noble, but he also does not speak like a village brewer taught a useful trick by dwarves." The queen continued making gestures with her hands.

"That story about Dracken Hold."

"Close enough to dwarves to explain the spell. Far enough away that witnesses are impossible to contact. A family that sent him away, which removes relatives. A dwarven friend who can support the tale and is himself difficult to question." The queen turned slightly.

"It is either a poor lie that happens to cover everything, or a good lie designed to look poor." The king exhaled through his nose.

"I disliked both options before you arranged them so neatly."

"You asked what was on your mind."

"I did not ask you to improve it." She smiled faintly, then let it fade. The king rested both hands on the balcony rail. The stone was cool beneath his palms.

"He seems less ambitious than he should."

"That may be true."

"That bothers me more than ambition would. Ambitious men are easier. They want land, titles, marriages, contracts, court position, influence. They lean toward obvious rewards," the king said, letting out a deep breath.

"And if he does not?"

"Then I do not know where to place the hook." The queen looked down toward the lower city.

"Perhaps he is ambitious, just not in a way this palace is used to seeing." The king turned his head. She continued.

"He is not gathering swords. He is gathering usefulness." The words settled between them.

"Workers need him," the queen said.

"Taverns need him. Merchants are beginning to profit around him. The temple cannot easily oppose him. The magery may soon have an atelier under his name. A dwarf smith builds for him. A clever assistant organises him. Moreen trades with him. Margaret Isevel may teach under him." The king looked outward again.

"I thought he was building a faction. He isn't. A faction of commoners," she said.

"He is building dependency. That is more alarming."

"He already built dependency."

"That does not make it easier." The king watched the river. A barge moved slowly with the current, low in the water and steady. It did not look like power. It looked like work. The king had learned young that work, repeated long enough, became power whether anyone named it or not.

"A man who can make people richer, drunker, safer, and employed," he said, "is not harmless because he bows badly."

"No," the queen said.

"He is something new." The king did not like that either.

"Why did you ask about his marriage prospects?" the king asked after a moment.

"We have nothing on him. He will meet someone and then will need a favour. We have no other hold on him," the queen explained. The king nodded. He glanced back over the city, his thoughts turning to the people. There were nobles. Guildmasters. Priests. Merchants. Mages. Officers. Men with old names. Men with money. Men with swords. Men with gods standing behind them, and men pretending they did. The brewer did not sit neatly among any of them.

He had too much mana for a commoner, too much production for a brewer, too much public affection for a merchant, too little polish for a courtier, and too much ignorance of fear for a sensible man.

"Can we move against him?" the queen asked. The king looked at her.

"I am not suggesting it," she said.

"I am asking whether we could."

"Not cleanly and not easily."

"And if we do nothing?"

"He keeps becoming more useful." The queen nodded once. Wind moved along the balcony, tugging lightly at the queen's sleeve. Her expression remained composed.

"That maid of his, she needs to be watched too," she said.

"I noticed her. His clerk too. We need to watch all of them." The king looked toward the lower city again. Smoke rose from somewhere beyond the bridge. Thin grey lines, ordinary and harmless from this distance. A brewery was down there. A blessed brewery, a clean brewery, a brewery that had become a question of state because a man with too much mana had decided beer should be better.

"He may be an asset," the king said.

"He may be."

"Assets can be brought close." The king glanced at her. The queen did not look away from the city. Below, Avengard moved around its newest problem, most of it still unaware that anything had changed. The king stood silent for a long while. Then he said, "He needs to be watched. They all need to be watched." The queen's eyes remained on the lower city.

"No," she said softly.

"This needs to be understood." The king considered that. Below them, the city continued. Somewhere within it, the brewer was almost certainly making something worse by improving it.

"Yes," the king said at last.

"Before everyone else starts following."