Chương 58: Chapter 56 – Perspectives.

"Boss. Boss, we need to talk." The breathless man barged in, the door swinging back against the wall and settling into a slow creak, as though it, too, had something urgent to say but needed a moment. The Tavern Keepers' Guild master glanced up, bored, until he recognised the runner. Then he had his full attention. A stack of tallies slid slightly as he shifted in his chair, suggesting that even the paperwork sensed a disturbance.

"He sent out… three teams… of carters… twelve casks… each," the man said between breaths. The guild master blinked.

"How? Do we know where they're going?" The runner shook his head, sweat dripping onto the stone floor, where it joined a number of other stains that had once been equally alarming.

"This is moving far faster than we thought. Sit. Catch your breath. We'll deal with this," the guild master said, already getting up and leaving. The runner nodded and dropped into a chair, the wood groaning under his weight in weary solidarity. Across the city, a similar report arrived at the Innkeepers' Guild. Outside, a cart rattled past, the sound briefly drowning out the room, which was just as well.

"But how? Wait." The guild master stood, retrieved a ledger, and flipped through it, the pages sticking slightly from old spills that had long since lost any claim to relevance.

"He only got grain three weeks ago. Find out where they're going. Now." The innkeeper beside him began scanning his own notes, realising with a tightening jaw that they hadn't yet spoken to their staff, a task which had seemed endlessly postponable right up until it wasn't.

"Master Stromni," the taller one began, bright colours straining at his seams, "we thought a man of your reputation might appreciate—""Stop," Stromni said, not looking up. He really hated being interrupted when working, and these two fops would continue until actively prevented. The hammer rang once more against iron, then fell silent. The forge heat pressed in as the fire shifted, embers settling with the quiet patience of things that would outlast everyone present.

"I know what you're here for, and I'm already annoyed ye think I'm stupid enough to listen."

"We're offering steadier work," the other said quickly.

"Warm meals. A room. Respect—" Stromni snorted.

"Respect?" He finally turned, eyes flat and tired, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.

"Ye don't respect me. Ye want me quiet."

"That's not fair—""It's exact." He stepped closer, wiping his hands on a rag that had once been cream-coloured. The rag stiffened as it cooled, apparently regretting its life choices.

"Ye want me hammerin' hinges and trivets so I don't make anything that scares ye."

"An inn needs quality work," one of them tried. Stromni laughed once. There was no humour in it, only the sound of a man recognising a bad argument.

"An inn needs things that don't fail quietly. I make things that fail loud, so folk live." They exchanged a look, boots shifting on ash-dusted stone that had heard better conversations.

"The brewer's got you fooled," the first said.

"He won't last." That did it. Stromni's voice dropped.

"That man brings me problems I've never seen." He jabbed a thumb toward the forge, where metal cooled in uneven stacks, each piece waiting its turn.

"He asks questions instead of tellin' me how clever he is."

"He pays me to think." He leaned in just enough to be uncomfortable, the smell of iron and sweat sharp between them.

"Ye offer me soup and a chair." A long, unpleasant pause. The fire cracked, unimpressed.

"Get out," Stromni said. They hesitated.

"Now," he added.

"Before I start rememberin' why folk say I'm miserable." After they left, Stromni muttered to himself, "Think I'm a bleedin' pet," and reached for the hammer again, which at least had the decency not to argue. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. In a different part of the city, three men stood at the edge of the warehouse district, the wind carrying the smell of wet wood and river mud, neither of which inspired confidence.

"There. It's her. You ready?" one asked the man in the most colourful outfit. He nodded and adjusted his clothes, tugging at a sleeve that refused to sit right, as though offended by the plan. He stepped forward and glanced at her, this was his first mistake. The world seemed to slow for a moment, Lessa's glance moved over the man questioningly, her hair moved in the wind, she blinked, the movement felt slow, intentional, she appeared to shine for a moment as she brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Fah…" was all the man managed to say after instantly becoming smitten. Lessa passed without slowing, her footsteps steady on the packed earth.

"At least you tried," one of them said, as the man stared down at his boots and the figure disappeared into the flow of traffic, the three men avoided making eye contact for a while after that, merely blushing at their boots. Two men stood near a small copper kettle. It was open, full of what only this city would describe as wort. Steam rose unevenly, and the surface bubbled with a wet, hollow sound that suggested disappointment. A third joined them, wiping his hands on his apron. Both men shook their heads.

"It's sour," they said together, as if rehearsed.

"But we're using copper. What's his trick?" the third demanded. He moved to a nearby desk covered in drawings copied from Alric's warehouse, the papers curling at the edges like reluctant participants.

"Does it have to be bigger?" The others shrugged, one nudging a stool aside with his foot.

"We don't know. We thought it was the copper. We poured one batch into a cask, but it went sour too." He pointed at a cask on a nearby shelf, its bung already darkened.

"We used fire. We don't have one of those stones."

"We need more time," the other two said. The Tavern Keepers guild master nodded grimly, listening to the kettle bubble on, producing nothing but certainty. The Innkeepers' Guild master pressed his hands to his forehead. The room smelled faintly of old ale and ink, a combination that usually encouraged optimism.

"We need more time. Which means we get our hands dirty. Get me Fleren." The colourful men nodded. A short while later, a man in a patched grey cloak entered, boots leaving damp marks on the floor. He was missing several teeth, though the grin suggested he considered this an advantage.

"You called?" he asked.

"I need you to foul the brewer's well," the guild master said, reluctantly.

"Oh?" Fleren said.

"What poison would you like?"

"No. No poison," the guild master said sharply, straightening in his chair.

"Just something that tastes foul. Smells foul. Slow him down." Fleren nodded slowly, the grin fading as he recalibrated his expectations.

"Tonight," the guild master added, with a tired sigh. The Tavern Keepers' leader spoke to two men with the look of professionals who got things done, often badly, but thoroughly. A shutter rattled in the wind behind them.

"We need time," he said.

"But I don't want blood in the streets." The two glanced at each other.

"We could damage equipment," one suggested, gesturing with a scarred hand that had clearly offered similar advice before.

"No. Too obvious." The leader opened a drawer, pulled out a stack of sketches, and flipped through them, the wood scraping softly in protest.

"Here. They've been using this to lift barrels. Loosen it. Mess with the fittings. Make it look like an accident." He passed over the drawing. The men studied it, then shrugged.

"Easy enough."

"Night work. Tonight," the leader said quietly, as if the night had been waiting for instructions.

"Mister Alric?" Hal knocked on the office door, waiting as the sound of writing stopped inside. Alric looked up.

"Need more water? Seems early."

"No. It's this." Hal stepped in, holding one of the filters, its cloth still damp. Alric turned it in his hands, frowned, then sniffed it.

"That's… new." He paused, setting it down.

"Does the boiler water smell like that?" Hal shook his head.

"All right. Repack more often for now. Just be careful. We did build the outside area to clean the water twice. I'll start using it then." Hal nodded and closed the door behind him, apparently satisfied that this fell within the category of problems that did not yet require panic. Stromni set the final iron rings onto the barrel dropper, the mechanism meant to lower barrels into place. The new frame resisted his weight without complaint, which Stromni considered high praise.

He glanced at the old swinging lifter beside it. The rope sagged slightly, frayed where hands had gripped it for years, and now seemed faintly ashamed. Stromni scoffed and went back to work, muttering curses about the rope harness Alric had made him wear, most of which the harness ignored. The Tavern Keepers' master spoke to four men gathered close, their voices low.

"We just need it to start somewhere. The poor quarter will do." They nodded, one of them rubbing his jaw as if already preparing for disagreement.

"You want us to say what?" one asked.

"That the new beer makes your teeth soft?" The master nodded, as though this was perfectly sensible.

"Mister Alric. You've got letters," Seren called, cheerfully, as she stepped into the office. Alric eyed them with suspicion. In his old life, messages like this had never meant good news. He sighed and held out his hand. The first was from the Tavern Keepers. An invitation to a meeting. He set it aside. The second was from the Innkeepers. A banquet invitation. That, at least, sounded more pleasant, which made it immediately suspicious in a different way. He looked up at Seren, frowning.

"Do I answer these?"

"Yes."

"On paper."

"Yes."

"And someone takes it."

"I send a messenger."

"I pay the messenger."

"Yes." Alric nodded slowly, absorbing the process like an unfamiliar workflow that had been operating perfectly well without him.

"I don't know how any of this works."

"I do," Seren said suppressing a sigh.

"I'll handle it."

"Good," Alric said at once.

"Turn them both down." She raised an eyebrow. He hesitated, then added, "Use the new seal." She nodded and moved to her desk. Alric returned to the ledger Vale had revised, running a finger down a column that remained stubbornly indifferent to social nuance. Seren wrote both replies, dripped wax onto the paper, and pressed the seal into it. The wax resisted, then settled. She held it a moment longer than necessary, then set the letters aside to cool.