Chương 67: Chapter 65 – Week 4

By the fourth week, the festival had stopped feeling like an event. The Adventurers' Guild courtyard was still busy, still loud, still thick with the smell of beer and sweat, but the crowds no longer swelled as the day wore on. They arrived, drank, lingered, and left in steady waves, the way people did when something had settled into place and proved it was not about to do anything unexpected. Guards leaned against posts instead of standing rigid, watching more out of habit than concern.

Somewhere near the outer wall, a barrel was rolled and re-seated with a dull thud, the sort of sound that suggested competence rather than celebration. No one expected trouble anymore, only noise. The fighting pit ran on a loose rhythm. When someone got too drunk or too loud, they were pushed toward it amid laughter and shouted wagers. Most bouts ended quickly. A few bruises, a bloody nose, the sharp clarity that came from being knocked down in front of witnesses, which had a way of rearranging priorities.

The sand in the pit was kicked flat again between bouts, smoothed by boots and rakes that had done this often enough not to take it personally. It worked. People who came back from the pit drank more carefully afterward. Beer flowed without ceremony. Tankards were filled, emptied, and refilled again, barely remarked upon. What had once drawn crowds now held them only briefly. No one stopped to marvel at the taste. No one argued about strength.

A stack of rinsed cups steamed faintly near the wash trough, patiently waiting to be needed again. They drank because it was there, because it was good, and because the day was warm enough to justify another round. The festival continued, not because it was special anymore, but because it functioned, which in cities tended to be the highest praise available. Alric glanced down at a page where he had been recording numbers.

The paper was smudged where his thumb had rested too long, as if the figures might improve if pressed hard enough. No matter how he spun it, more boilers would solve nothing. The problem was mana. Between him and Battery, they got fourteen boils out of the station. He could charge it a second time in a day, but it would wipe him out, which was generally considered a poor long-term strategy. The best the third boiler would do was reduce their hours.

They ran five boils per boiler, and he'd charged the last one manually. Even those would feel draining, he knew. Ninety casks was their limit. The low hum of cooling metal carried faintly through the wall, sounding content with the arrangement. Stromni walked into the office, boots leaving damp marks on the stone, and Alric glanced up.

"Boiler's all up an' runnin' now, lad. Gonna get back ta work on the roof," Stromni said with a grin. The roof frame had been postponed in the rush to finish the third boiler, which had been postponed in favour of several other urgent things that had all insisted on being urgent at once. He rested one hand on the doorframe as if feeling the vibration through it.

"Ya been ta the festival?" Alric shook his head.

"Aye, well, ya should go if ya get a gap. Adventurers are doin' a proper job. Got this fightin' pit. Rowdy drunks get tossed in, guards haul 'em off after," Stromni said, clearly amused by the idea of order achieved through enthusiasm. Alric blinked, slightly alarmed, then smiled.

"I'm surprised the city's grumpiest dwarf didn't fancy a bout." Stromni snorted, glancing at his hands.

"Aye, well, if ya win enough, Pavise gets in and ends it. Didn't fancy catchin' a punch from the behemoth. Thought about it, though."

"Maybe on the last day, we'll go," Alric said.

"Staff too." Stromni nodded once, already turning back, the conversation filed away under Things That Might Happen If Everything Else Stopped Happening First. The guild master of the Tavernkeepers' Guild was going over his notes. The room smelled faintly of old ale and furniture oil, the scent of problems that had been sitting a long time. They had made numerous attempts to copy the brewer's methods. None had panned out.

He had even been prepared to accept the Innkeepers' mediation notice when it arrived, but the brewer had rejected it outright, which had felt less like an insult and more like a door closing without drama. Rumours had failed. Guards were recommending independents. His own members were becoming harder to reach. Someone in the hall outside laughed too loudly, and the sound irritated him more than it should have, as if cheerfulness itself were being uncooperative.

This had dragged on far longer than he had believed possible. He looked up at his clerk.

"Get me a few good boys. We can't ignore this anymore," he said, already tired of hearing his own voice say it. Carter teams ran in pairs for a reason. Two men to a cart, moving at a pace that kept the load steady and the road predictable. They had just left Alric's warehouse, heading uphill along the main avenue toward the gate, the kind of climb that never looked steep until your legs started to complain. The cart was full. Not overloaded. Just heavy enough to demand attention.

The harness creaked in time with their steps. Five men stepped out into the street ahead of them. They were tavern men, the sort who stood at doors with their arms folded and relied on bulk and reputation to do the work. Broad shoulders, thick necks, faces used to being obeyed in lamplight and noise. They didn't draw weapons. They didn't need to. This was meant to be simple, which was often how complicated things began. The carters didn't slow.

The cart's wheels clicked once as they crossed a patched seam in the stone, unimpressed. The carters weren't large men. No padded muscle, no dramatic presence. Just lean frames hardened by pulling weight all day, every day. Rope-scarred hands. Forearms like bundled wire. Men who worked the poorest routes in the city, where carts still had to move even when tempers snapped and guards didn't come. In those streets, a brawl wasn't a story. It was a delay, and delays were bad for business.

One of the tavern men grabbed for the side rail, expecting resistance. The carter twisted the cart sharply instead, letting the load shift and tear the grip away. Another lunged in close and took a shoulder straight into the ribs. No windup. No anger. Just practiced motion, as if they were adjusting cargo. Knees were taken. Balance vanished. Someone hit the stones hard enough to stay down, staring up in disbelief at how quickly things had become educational. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site?

This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. It was quiet, as fights went. No shouting. No cheering. The cart rolled half a pace forward before stopping again, as if waiting to see whether it was finished. A dock worker swore and stepped in, dragging a flailing arm clear of the wheel before it could be crushed. Another planted a boot and shoved a body back toward the curb, irritated more than alarmed. This wasn't entertainment. It was in the way, and the city disliked obstructions.

A few adventurers lounging nearby finally stirred. Pavise had stationed them there for exactly this sort of thing, though none looked particularly alert until the damage was already done. One rose, stretched, and took in the scene with a professional glance that suggested he had seen better fights and worse paperwork.

"That's enough," he said mildly. The tavern men didn't argue. They were breathing too hard for that. The adventurers moved in without haste. One hauled a groaning man to his feet and marched him toward the guards. Another waved the carters on, already helping push the cart back into motion.

"Keep it moving. We'll clean this up." The carters didn't thank them. They checked the straps, leaned back into the harness, and got the cart rolling again. Iron rims rang against stone as the load climbed the avenue, steady as ever. Behind them, the adventurers handed over bruised men and began the quiet work of explanations. A guard bent to retrieve a dropped cap and handed it back without comment, which somehow said more than words. Once the carters cleared the gate, one glanced at the other.

"We got lucky. They were stupid to try that without weapons." The other nodded.

"Next time they'll bring them," he said, leaning into the pull.

"With what we're earning, we should get our own," he added, as if discussing a sensible household purchase. Across the city, a tavernkeeper stared at his bar. He was one of the independents Alric supplied. Beer pooled across the floor beneath the taps, soaking into old wood that had seen worse and would see more. Two casks lay smashed. Only Alric's casks, he noted. Guild work, done with the subtlety of a statement. With a sigh, he started cleaning what he could.

A mop dragged uselessly through the spill, redistributing disappointment. The door opened.

"We ain't open," he said without looking up.

"Figured you wouldn't be," said Denner. The tavernkeeper looked up at the innkeeper. Denner gestured at the wreckage.

"Go tell the brewer. He'll try to help if he can. I'll deal with this," he said, already dealing with it. The tavernkeeper hesitated, then nodded.

"Ain't got much to lose. I'll be back." When he returned, Denner was finishing up. The broken casks had been propped on tables, one on each, their staves split wide enough to be obvious from the door, as if they were making a point.

"Don't move those yet. I've got an idea," Denner said.

"You work something out?" The man nodded.

"Two casks at cost. Two more after. Uh, thank you. Never thought an innkeeper would help me out." The sound of wheels cut him off as carters rolled up to the door.

"Pleasure," Denner said, smiling.

"Get those tapped." He stepped outside. The cart was still close, people already slowing to look, feet scuffing as they stopped, curiosity making small traffic problems.

"Citizens," Denner called.

"This is an independent tavern. He was attacked by the guilds. You don't have to believe me. You can see the beer being delivered. Go in. Look at the smashed casks. Tell anyone who'll listen. Most of all, help this man get back on his feet." Questions followed. Then people stayed. A bench scraped back. Someone laughed, surprised to be early, which was often how habits began. The tavernkeeper poured, bewildered. At this rate, he'd need the other two casks today, which had not been part of the morning's plan.

In the crafters' district, another tavernkeeper stood outside his door, staring at empty tables. The afternoon light slanted across them without stopping, as if even the sun had business elsewhere. He'd brewed beer and had no drinkers for days. This mess wasn't his doing. He gritted his teeth and swung a hammer into the guild emblem by his door. The metal rang once and cracked loose. The guild wouldn't even speak to him anymore, which made the decision feel oddly mutual.

"Ay," someone called.

"This one's leaving the guild." Cheers followed. The tavernkeeper turned, stunned. A few people exchanged glances, shrugged, and pushed past him to sit, having already decided where this was going.

"Got any stout?" one asked.

"Only sours. Fresh, though."

"For old times' sake?" the man said, glancing around the table. They nodded.

"Six, then." The tavernkeeper poured as they waved others over. Cups knocked together as they were set down. By the time he looked up again, the tables were filling.

"I'll get the other beers," he said as he handed out cups.

"I'll ask an independent how." The men nodded.

"We'll swing by in the week. Let folks know you gave up on the people who tried to start a famine," one said, with the calm certainty of someone who had already begun telling the story. In the third oldest tavern in the city, the oldest members sat on their couches, solemn and unmoving. A fire burned low at one end of the room, untended, as if it knew better than to interfere.

"We been kind. Didn't work. It's time ta let him see the bottom o' the river," the man with the cane said. Slow nods followed, the same ones they always gave when a line had been crossed. Someone shifted on the cushions, leather creaking in quiet agreement.

"Yes, you've all said this already," the guild master replied.

"I said I'd look into it. What else could we do?" The table stayed silent. The old man's gaze remained fixed on the wood in front of him, following a scratch he'd traced years ago, as if it might offer a better idea. Sometime later, the Tavernkeepers' Guild master stood speaking to two men in dark cloaks. Water dripped steadily from the eaves nearby, marking time with unhelpful regularity. He could not see their faces. He never did, and this had never improved matters.

"I don't know how else to tell you," the hooded man said. He drew a hand from his cloak and began counting on his fingers.

"The guards are watching you all like hawks. The brewer is a powerful mage. He has the adventurers behind him. They guard his warehouse. He doesn't leave. And honestly…" The man closed his hand.

"We don't want the whole city's ire. You cocked this up. This one's on you. Figure it out. If you have nothing else, we're done here." He turned and left. His companion fell into step beside him, their footsteps fading into the street. Interlude IV – Quiet costs The inn did not close with ceremony. There was no crowd. No farewell drinks. No final song sung too loudly by people who would forget it by morning. The sign stayed up. The tables were wiped down.

The hearth was cleaned out the way it always was, careful and thorough. The man who bought it counted out the coin twice, then once more for his own peace of mind. He slid the coin across the table and waited. The innkeeper picked it up. It felt heavier than it should have. He turned it over in his palm, then placed a key carefully into the other man's hand. They nodded to each other, a transaction completed without complaint. That was how these things were done now. Outside, a wagon waited.

His wife had already loaded what they could carry. Not everything. Just the important things. Clothes, tools, the good blankets. The rest had been sold, traded, or left behind for whoever came next. The city had taught them not to expect permanence. Their daughter climbed up first, excitement making her movements clumsy. She perched on the bench, legs swinging, eyes bright.

"Where are we going?" she asked. The innkeeper hesitated.

"Not sure yet," he said honestly.

"Somewhere quieter." His wife adjusted a strap on the wagon and did not look up.

"Somewhere without damned guilds," she added. The girl nodded as though that meant something important, even if she did not quite understand it. Any journey was an adventure if you were young enough and had not yet learned what leaving things behind actually cost. The carter clicked his tongue, and the wagon lurched forward.

"Is this an adventure?" she asked. Her father nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. As they rolled toward the gate, the wagon was forced to pause as two men pushed a handcart across the front. It creaked under the weight of stacked casks, bound in cloth and marked with fresh chalk. The smell reached them a moment later. The girl leaned out a little to watch it go.

"We adventurers now?" she asked her parents. Her parents did not answer. They passed through the city gate without incident. No one stopped them. No one asked questions. People left every day. No one remarked on it anymore. Outside the walls, the road stretched on, familiar and suddenly strange. Behind them, the city carried on. And somewhere inside it, the casks kept moving.