Berrin and Denner came to Alric’s new house shortly after breakfast, which Alric felt was already a suspicious time for visitors.
People who came before breakfast needed help. People who came after supper wanted favours. People who came just after breakfast had normally spent the whole night deciding that what they wanted sounded reasonable if said quickly enough.
The inn-turned-house itself had not yet become familiar. It was clean now, mostly, and the worst of the dust had been driven out with enough cloth, soap, and labour to make the walls seem vaguely offended. Furniture had been moved in. Then moved again. Then moved a third time after Seren had stood in the doorway with a list and informed everyone that people would, in fact, need to walk through rooms.
It still did not feel like home.
Alric opened the door himself and found Berrin standing on the step with Denner half a pace behind him.
That told him a lot.
“Morning,” Alric said.
“Morning,” Berrin replied.
Denner nodded. There was a pause. It was the kind of pause that had clearly been planned badly.
Alric looked from one to the other. “Did something catch fire?”
“No,” Berrin said quickly.
“Not yet,” Denner added with a grin.
Berrin shot him a look.
Alric sighed and leaned one shoulder against the frame. “Right. What is it?”
“The apples arrived,” Berrin said. “For the festival.”
“I remember apples being involved.”
“They’re good apples,” Denner said. “Most of them. Some bruising, but that’s expected. Nothing rotten, unless someone’s lying, which someone probably is.”
Berrin gave him another look. Denner ignored it with the ease of long practice.
“The festival is in three weeks,” Berrin continued.
“That seems a bit late?” Alric tilted his head.
“And the cider competition usually happens then.”
“Usually?” Alric asked.
Berrin shifted.
Denner looked away, which was never a good sign from a man who enjoyed saying uncomfortable things.
“We’ll get to that,” Berrin said. “First… well. We wanted to ask if you’d teach us.”
“Teach you?”
Berrin grimaced as though the words had weight. “Your cider.”
Alric stared at him.
Denner immediately raised both hands. “Not steal. Not steal it. Learn it. Properly. From you. With permission.”
“That does sound better,” Alric said.
Berrin nodded. “Everyone knows yours is different. Cleaner. Stronger too, maybe. Keeps better. Tastes better. And with the beer…” He trailed off.
“With the beer?” Alric asked.
“We can’t compete, not with the temple involved,” Denner said.
“That was not my fault.”
“No one said it was.”
Alric could respect the honesty, if nothing else.
He looked past them toward the street. Morning traffic moved in the distance, wagons already starting their day, workers carrying baskets, a woman shouting at a boy who had clearly decided that running was easier than listening. The city carried on, regardless of who had accidentally become a problem inside it.
Cider.
He could refuse. That was the obvious business choice. Keep the method. Keep the quality. Except that was not really what would happen.
If he refused, they would guess. Some would boil the apples wrong. Some would sour whole batches. Tavern keepers would resent him. Innkeepers would complain that he had ruined their festival by being good at something.
Also, they would not be able to keep the yeast alive properly through winter. Not without discipline, clean handling, storage, and more understanding than they could get in a single lesson. They could make better festival cider. They could not become his brewery.
And the beer was different now. The temple had not blessed the beer. Not exactly.
They had simply blessed the building that made it so thoroughly that people had put faith into it. Competition had become a difficult word.
Alric shrugged. “Fine.”
Both men stared at him.
“Fine?” Berrin asked.
“Anyone interested can meet me at the brewery tomorrow morning. I’ll show you the method. I’ll explain why the steps matter. If anyone skips the steps and ruins a batch, that’s their fault.”
Berrin’s relief was immediate. “Thank you.”
“Truly,” Denner said. “That’s generous.”
“It’s practical,” Alric said. “The beer is the beer. With the temple endorsement, accidental or not, I can’t see anyone competing there.”
Denner winced. “Aye. That glow didn’t hurt.”
“It hurt my sleep.”
“That’s different.”
“It was bright.”
Berrin coughed into his hand, mostly to hide a laugh.
Alric pointed between them. “Tell people tomorrow morning. Not tonight. Not at midnight. Not at supper. Morning.”
“Morning,” Berrin agreed.
“Outside the brewery,” Alric added. “I’m not bringing half the city into the brewing floor.”
“Half the city won’t come,” Denner said.
The next morning, forty people arrived.
Alric stood outside the brewery and stared at them.
There were innkeepers, tavern keepers, two men who looked like they owned drinking houses but did not want anyone using that word, several wives who clearly ran the actual businesses, and one old woman who had the calm expression of a person who had survived three husbands and many worse things than a brewer with instructions.
Berrin stood near the front, looking apologetic. Denner did not look apologetic at all. He looked proud of the turnout.
“You said anyone interested,” Denner said.
“I did,” Alric replied.
“That was dangerous.”
“I’m learning.”
The group was not loud. Loud crowds were simple. You waited until they tired themselves out. This crowd watched him with practical attention. They had come for a method, not a speech, and every single one of them knew that everyone else had come for the same reason.
Nobody wanted to be the one tavern serving bad cider at the festival because pride had got in the way.
Alric looked over the gathering, then pointed toward the yard beside the brewery. “We’re doing this out there, back yard. You don’t need to see the whole brewery to make cider, and I’m not fitting all of you inside.”
“Aye, fair,” someone said.
The brewery worked behind him. Steam lifted. Men moved casks. The smell of grain and heat sat in the air with the faint sweet bite of fermentation. The building had stopped glowing as much, though in shaded corners it still held a faint golden shimmer, as if divinity had got into the walls and set up picnics.
Alric had decided to ignore that until it became structural.
He had set out what he needed. Baskets of apples. A knife. A chopping board. The press. A clean cask. A few examples of things that should never be allowed near cider, including a dirty bung, a cracked cup, and one apple that had begun to turn soft in a way that suggested moral decline.
He picked up the rotten apple first.
“This is not flavour,” he said.
A few people chuckled.
“I mean it. Bad fruit does not improve in a cask. It gets worse. Then it teaches everything around it to get worse too. Cut out bruising. Throw away rot. If the apple smells wrong, it is wrong.”
The old woman nodded firmly. “Told my son that for years.”
A man beside her muttered something. She elbowed him without looking.
Alric continued. “Wash them. Properly. Not wave them near water. Wash. Peel or trim where needed. Chop them so the press can do its work. Press the juice. Then heat it.”
That got a murmur.
“How hot?” someone asked.
“Hot enough that you would not keep your finger in it,” Alric said. “Not boiling hard like stew. You are not trying to cook it into syrup. Unless you want a baked apple flavour.”
The group leaned back at that. Alric smiled.
“Why heat it?” Berrin asked, though from the expression on his face he already knew Alric wanted the question asked aloud.
“Because things… It’s always worked this way, trust me. It stops it getting too heavy,” Alric said to avoid explaining micro-organisms.
That caused the usual reaction. People looked at the apples. Then at the juice. Then at him.
A tavern keeper near the back folded his arms. “Sounds like temple talk.”
“No,” Alric said. “Temple talk has better robes.”
That got a laugh, even from the suspicious ones.
He picked up the clean cask bung. “Everything that touches the cider should be clean. The cask. The tools. Your hands. The bung. If you use a cask that held old sour drink and you don’t clean it properly, you are not making cider. You are continuing a mistake.”
Several people nodded at that with the grim recognition of men and women who had, at some point, continued a mistake and sold it by the cup anyway.
Then he showed them the liquid seal. He fitted it over the bung hole, then filled it with water.
“This is the part most of you will think is a trick,” he said.
“It is a trick,” someone said immediately.
Alric glanced at him. “It is a useful trick.”
The man considered that, then nodded.
“When cider ferments, it makes gas. That gas needs to leave. If it cannot leave, the cask can split or the seal can fail. But if you leave the cask open, air and dirt get in. This lets gas out.” He tapped the pipe. “The water stops air from coming back in.”
This was met with many looks of confusion. Alric decided to use Stromni’s description. “It means the cider can burp, but no one can fart in it.”
That got a chorus of nods and, of course, a few chuckles. One person had a fit of giggles. Alric gestured to the vessel. A few leaned closer.
“Stromni, the dwarf smith, made these for me, but he has other blacksmiths making them.”
That set off immediate murmuring. He raised a hand. The noise settled.
“This does not make bad apples good,” he said. “It does not make dirty casks clean. It does not fix impatience. It gives the cider a better chance. After that, it comes down to apples, care, and not doing something stupid because you got curious.”
“Curiosity ruins more drink than thieves,” the old woman said.
“Aye,” said Denner. “And thieves at least know they’re doing wrong.”
The lesson took longer than Alric expected.
They asked questions. Good ones, mostly. Some terrible ones. One man wanted to know if he could add honey, and Alric had to pause because the answer was yes, but also no, and also only if the man could be trusted not to turn a cask into a weapon.
They would need to seed the ciders with starter from Denner, who agreed to provide it. Alric had already decided this was a job for 1118. It was one of the most reliable yeast strains he knew of, back in his old life, he'd saved many stalled fermentations with it.
He gave them the simplest version.
Good fruit. Clean tools. Heat. Cool. Add starter. Seal. Wait.
Do not open it every day.
Do not stir it with something that had recently been used for soup.
Do not decide that if a little starter was good, half a bucket was better.
Do not put the cask in the sun because it looked cheerful there.
By the time they were done, several people were taking notes on scraps of slate or muttering the steps under their breath as though learning a prayer.
Alric was putting the pipe aside when he remembered something.
“What about the cider competition?”
The murmuring faded.
He looked around. “You still hold it, don’t you?”
Berrin and Denner exchanged a glance.
Apparently they had reached the part they had promised to get to and hoped he would forget.
“The guilds haven’t announced anything,” Berrin said.
“The festival is in three weeks,” Alric said.
“Aye.”
“It is late,” said the old woman.
Denner scratched at his jaw. “Guild leaders are at the arena most days now. Talking to fighters. Talking to nobles. Standing where people can see them. Not doing much guild work.”
A man at the back snorted. “They collect dues on time.”
“That they do,” someone else said.
“Best organised part of the guilds,” said another.
The group found that funnier than it probably was. Alric did not.
He looked over the faces gathered in front of him and understood, with a slow, unpleasant certainty, why so many had come. This was not merely about cider. Not entirely. The old structures were still standing, but people had begun walking around them.
The tavern keepers had come to him because he answered questions and his methods worked.
That was flattering in the same way a cart rolling downhill was convenient until someone remembered he was standing at the bottom.
“So no competition?” Alric asked.
“Not unless someone else hosts it,” Berrin said.
Several people looked at Alric. Alric stared back.
“No,” he said.
“We didn’t ask,” Denner said.
“You were thinking loudly.”
Denner smiled.
The group began to break apart after that. They left in clusters, already arguing about apple varieties, casks, seals, who had clean enough equipment, and whether heating the juice would change the taste. The old woman stayed long enough to pick up the rotten apple, inspect it, and then hand it to the man beside her.
“Show your brother,” she said. “This is what he calls usable.”
The man accepted it with the dead expression of someone who had just been given homework.
Eventually they were gone.
Alric stood in the yard beside the demonstration cask and watched the last of them disappear down the road.
Henry came up beside him, wiping his hands on a cloth. “That go well?”
“I think so.”
“That’s good.”
Alric nodded slowly. Then the thought arrived fully.
“I just taught forty people how to make strong cider.”
Henry stopped wiping his hands. Both men looked toward the city.
After a moment, Henry said, “Festival should be lively.”
“That is one word.”