Chương 90: Chapter 87 – Divine retreat

The first tavernkeeper came in smelling like damp wood and a touch of sweat. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, stamped his boots twice out of habit rather than effect, and dropped onto the bench opposite the second tavernkeeper without so much as a greeting.

"You heard, or you still serving piss and calling it ale?" he said. The second tavernkeeper didn't look up immediately. He was scraping something stubborn out of a tankard with a thumbnail that had seen better decades.

"If this is about your ale running out again," he said, "that's not news, that's how ya run ya bar."

"It ain't my fault," the first snapped.

"Man sends me three casks, they're gone in four nights. Folk lining up like it's a shrine." He leaned in, lowering his voice slightly, though not enough to suggest actual secrecy.

"Temple backed off." That got a look.

"Backed off how?" the second asked.

"Came out, all proper-like, said there's no veeoleetion of some such." He spat to the side, missing a bucket by a wide margin.

"That's it?" the second repeated.

"Aye, that's it," he said with a smirk. The second tavernkeeper grunted, setting the tankard down.

"And," he said, "I hear they won't take it as offering."

"They won't," said the first.

"Told their lot not to touch it. Claim the gods gave it ta us, don't want it back." The second leaned back, scratching at his beard.

"That don't sit right."

"Nothing about this sits right," said the first.

"I can't keep the stuff in stock. Had a man offer to pay double if I held a cask for him."

"Did you?"

"I did," said the first.

"Then three other bastards offered more." The second gave a short, appreciative grunt.

"Good problems," he said.

"Not if you can't get more," the first shot back.

"I've got regulars drinking something else. You know how dangerous that is?" The second nodded grimly. Men switching drinks rarely stopped at the drink. He picked up the tankard again, inspected it, then decided it was clean enough.

"So," he said, "temple says it's not wrong…"

"Aye," the first said, rubbing his nose.

"…but won't bless it."

"Aye." The rubbing grew more vigorous.

"…and won't say why."

"That's the bit I don't like," said the first, pointing at him.

"That's priests keeping something back." He decided his nose was clean enough. The second snorted.

"They always keep something back."

"Yeah, but usually they tell you what they're keeping back," said the first.

"This? This is just…" He waved a hand vaguely.

"Nothing." The second spat this time, more deliberately, hitting the floorboards with a wet smack.

"That's worse," he said.

"Aye, means they're worried," he said. The first shifted slightly.

"Worried about what?"

"If I knew that," said the second, "I'd be the one getting offerings." The first huffed.

"Well, whatever it is, I just want more of it. Man's ruining the rest of us."

"How's that?"

"Folk taste that stuff," he said, jerking a thumb vaguely in the direction of the brewery, "and suddenly everything else tastes like it came out of a ditch." The second nodded again.

"Aye. Had a man complain yesterday. Said my ale 'went off'." He paused.

"It hadn't." The first let out a low whistle.

"Never does, his stuff. Carter says it keeps for a month if the cask's good." They both sat there for a moment, the weight of that settling in.

"So what does that make him, then?" the first asked. The second didn't hesitate this time.

"Not trouble," he said.

"No?"

"No," the second said, reaching for a different tankard containing leftovers.

"Trouble you can throw out." This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. He took a drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"This?" he said.

"This you've got to live with." The first nodded slowly.

"Aye," he said.

"That's worse." Father Tarrow was informed of his new assignment in a small room that had been designed, either intentionally or by long habit, to make conversations feel like reprimands. He stood opposite a senior priest whose expression suggested he had spent many years perfecting disappointed expressions. The one he was wearing now would have won prizes.

"You understand," the priest was saying, "that your… habits have made you something of a stain upon the cloth." Tarrow glanced down at his robes. They were, as far as he could tell, clean.

"I've always thought the cloth could use a bit of colour," he said. The priest did not react to this, which suggested he had heard similar attempts before and filed them under "further evidence."

"You were sent here," the priest continued, "to bring distinction to your family name. Not to acquire one in fighting pits."

"It was a ring," said Tarrow mildly.

"There were rules."

"There were bets," said the priest. Tarrow did not deny this. In fairness, it had been the best few weeks of his life. He missed the Adventurers' Festival since it had ended. The Adventurers' Festival had drawn competitors from across the city, most of them larger, louder, and significantly more confident than they had any right to be. Tarrow had found the experience educational. So had they. They had learned, and learned quickly, to respect the cloth in a whole new way.

"Your record," the priest said, as though reading from something deeply unfortunate, "includes brawling, disorderly conduct…" Father Tarrow's concentration waned. He'd heard this before.

"Is there a point?" he asked bluntly, having had enough of this conversation.

"Your… enthusiasm has made you difficult to place within the temple structure," the senior priest said delicately. There was a pause, during which Tarrow suspected the man was deciding how to phrase something unpleasant in a way that sounded like a favour.

"You are being reassigned."

"Where?" he asked, bracing for bad news.

"To the big brewery in the warehouse district." Tarrow brightened immediately.

"That sounds promising."

"You are not being sent there to enjoy yourself," the priest said sharply.

"You are to observe. You are to report. You are not to interfere."

"What am I observing?" Tarrow asked, his expression smug.

"A problem," said the priest. Tarrow waited. The priest sighed, as though the concept had become tiresome.

"A brewer whose product has attracted… attention. You will monitor the situation and provide regular reports. Nothing more."

"Right," said Tarrow.

"And this is because I am…"

"A stain upon the cloth," the priest said firmly.

"Well," he said, nodding, "if I must stain something, I'm glad it's not another set of robes." The priest closed his eyes briefly.

"You will leave immediately." Tarrow did not need to be told twice. The brewery was louder than the temple, warmer than the temple, and smelled considerably better. Tarrow approved of it immediately. He stepped up to the doorway without ceremony, pausing only long enough to watch, through the doorway, a descending barrel be guided into place. He let out a low whistle as he watched the staff go through the motions. The one he assumed to be in charge glanced at him briefly.

"Jase, get the boss, it's another priest," he said to one of the men about to put gloves on. The man nodded and headed off.

"Boss'll be here in a moment. You mind waiting?" Father Tarrow shook his head, just looking at the boiler arrangement in wonder. It was not long before the man approached.

"Uh... I'm Alric, sometimes called the brewer. Do I need to bow?" he said, his gaze taking in Father Tarrow searchingly. Alric did not look like a man of particular importance, which Tarrow had always found to be a promising sign.

"Father Tarrow," he said, by way of introduction.

"I've been told to watch you." Alric blinked as his eyebrows tried to meet his hair line, his head moving backwards slightly.

"That's… direct."

"I find it saves time," said Tarrow. Alric considered him for a moment, then nodded.

"Fair enough. I'm Alric. I make beer."

"You sure? You make enough?" said Tarrow, pointing to the boilers. Alric gave a slight scoff. There was a pause, during which neither man seemed especially inclined to perform the usual social rituals expected of them.

"You made the beer for the adventurers, right?" Father Tarrow asked.

"Still do, but yes, that and the cider. Doesn't seem to be a secret anymore," Alric explained with a slight grin.

"Loved that festival. Had the best time. Was there nearly every day." He said this with a grin, watching the staff put heating stones into the boilers.

"Wait? Weren't you the priest that won a bunch of the fights?" Alric asked.

"I heard you landed one on Pavise. Did you have to jump?" Father Tarrow blinked. His opinion of Alric just went through the roof.

"Aye, that was me. The one he gave me back for it is one I'll never forget, though," he said with a deeply smug grin.

"Well, if you're gonna watch us, may as well come inside then," Alric said, tilting his head.

"Can you explain… all this to me?" he asked, making a sweeping gesture to the whole brewery.

"You mean… I'm not sure what you mean," Alric said.

"Like, talk me through making the beer then," Father Tarrow requested.

"We've taken so many priests through this all, what's one more. I'll show you through," Alric said with a grin that matched the one worn by Father Tarrow. The tour had concluded with both of them in the cellar.

"This is so much bigger than I imagined," he said with another sweeping gesture.

"Well, we're going to scale up to nine boilers soon. When the copper arrives that is. The wines are there to buy us time with the taverns we can't get beer to," Alric explained.

"You make the best beer and so much of it. It's as clean as the temple too," Tarrow said, looking at a nearby barrel.

"Did you try the winter lager?" Alric asked, which got Tarrow shaking his head.

"Think you should. I have some in my item box," Alric explained, heading for the nearby table. He produced the cask and poured out two tankards before putting the cask away. He had noticed that cold things stayed cold in the item box. They clinked, then both sipped.

"Ahh, it's even cold, hermph," was all he said as he took a deeper pull. Alric just grinned, sipping his.

"Mind if I ask you a few things?" Alric asked. Somehow, Father Tarrow just seemed more real to talk to.

"Hmm... if you have more o' this beer? I might tell you the things I didn't tell the temple," he said, looking for a nearby cask to sit on. Alric leaned against the table.

"Well, what made you be a priest?" Alric decided to go for the background first.

"Fourth son o' a merchant. Da didn't think I would inherit. Said it was good for the family name and all that," he said, nursing the lager, often sipping with his eyes closed.

"I see... I think. What can a priest... do? Like in spells and such, I mean," Alric asked.

"Well, it's mostly healing. Why every city puts up with temples," he explained, draining the last of his tankard. Alric extended a hand and Tarrow didn't hesitate to get a refill.

"What can you heal? Like, uh..." Alric finished pouring, unsure how to frame it.

"Many things. Mend small bone breaks, some plagues. Temple charges an arm and a leg, though. Well… they call it a donation," he said, accepting the tankard and sipping slower.

"So, say someone gets a... uh... cut on their leg that goes bad?" Alric probed, trying to understand what kinds of infections.

"That can be done. Depends how bad, though. Oftentimes, it doesn't work. Couldn't tell you why, though," Tarrow explained. Alric's mind went into overdrive as he considered different viruses, bacteria, and parasites. He then stopped, realizing he could take his time with this.

"What about if beer makes someone sick? Even yourself?" Alric asked.

"Oh, that's old hat. Even I can do that," Tarrow said, waving his hand somewhat dismissively. Alric, however, was wearing a predatory grin, matched only by the one he had worn when he found out that only he could brew beer in winter.