Alric had started calling the inn, the headquarters.
It had happened slowly enough because no one had stopped him the first few times. The senior staff gathered there. People came there when they needed him, or letters delivered to his general area. There were rooms, food, tables, ledgers, guards, and a growing sense that decisions made there would cause headaches elsewhere.
It was also, in every important way, their quarters.
Adding head to the front of that had felt clever. After three days, Alric had decided it was just grammar.
He stood near the entrance with Seren, Brannick, and the two guards assigned to him for the day. The morning had already reached that point where the city sounded awake, though Alric had learned that Avengard could sound awake while still being mostly asleep, angry or frequently host chickens that hated daylight.
“Mister Alric, have you thought to employ Brannick full time?” she asked casually, glancing across with Alric with a small smile.
Alric turned to her. Brannick did the same, though with more alarm and less dignity.
“What?” they said together.
Seren rolled her eyes and did not look at either of them as though this was surprising. “Your current security rotates too much.”
“They’re good men,” Alric said, glancing at the two guards, Brannick nodded his support.
“They are,” Seren replied nodding to him, she glanced at them. “But that’s not quite the same.”
One of the guards straightened slightly. The other kept his face carefully neutral, which was impressive considering he had just been included in a conversation about whether he was insufficiently permanent.
Seren continued, her gaze changing between Alric and the guards, “You need people who know your habits. Who knows your staff. Who can tell when you are being strange in the normal way and when you are being strange in the dangerous way.”
“There’s a difference?” Brannick asked, leaning forward slightly, an eyebrow dipping and looking confused.
Seren nodded enthusiastically at Brannick.
Alric frowned while looking at her. “You saying they don’t know me well enough?”
Brannick looked between them. “I’m standing right here.”
“I know,” Seren said, glancing at Brannick. “That is why I said it.”
Alric looked at Brannick properly then.
The idea felt awkward at first. Not because Brannick was unqualified. Quite the opposite. He had also been around enough of Alric’s business that explaining things to him no longer required starting from the beginning.
But he was Seren’s boyfriend.
That made it feel personal, and Alric had an old suspicion of personal arrangements that became business. They could become messy. They could become situations that required someone to say the word “understanding” while meaning something else entirely.
Then he considered the actual job.
A guard close to him would hear things. See things. Notice habits. He would have to know when not to ask questions and when to ask one very loudly. He would need to understand that Alric might carry strange powders, inspect casks like they were alive, or decide that the safest way to learn a thing was to build it and then stand far away.
Loyalty mattered also.
Alric had been getting guards from the adventurers guild, they did rotate often as adventurers tended to. If he was going to be guarded constantly, then the person doing it needed to be more than reliable. They needed to be trusted and deeply loyal.
He trusted Seren. Seren trusted Brannick.
That was not the same as trusting Brannick, but it was close enough to make the rest of the thought uncomfortable.
Alric sighed, he watched Brannick carefully. “Is it what you want?”
Brannick blinked a few times, then his expression shifted into a grin that was absolutely not professional.
“If it gets me more time with Seren,” he said, as his smugness reached new heights, “I can endure the hardship.”
Seren looked at him and winked.
Alric rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
A small twinge of jealousy pulled at his ribs, not at Brannick but at the ease of the pair. He pushed the feeling aside. It was not useful and certainly not going to be productive.
“All right,” he said stretching out a bit. “You’ll sort it out?”
Brannick nodded, still smiling. “I will.”
Seren looked satisfied, which meant the matter had probably been decided before Alric had been invited to participate. Alric couldn’t help but notice Brannick beamed with what might have been pride, he couldn’t be sure if it was that or eagerness to spend more time with Seren.
They stepped out into the street. It was the second day of the festival. Alric had missed the first.
Most people missed festivals because they were ill, poor, working, travelling, or dead. Alric had missed it because he had been moving a large still through the headquarters to find a good place to set it up, he was trying to make clean alcohol again.
If he had not been festive, the city more than made up for that.
At first, it looked like the festival he remembered.
There were banners in green, yellow, and red. Old bunting hung between buildings. Street sellers had boards set out. Children moved in clusters. Music came from too many directions at once, none of it agreeing with the rest. The city had dressed itself for the harvest and, from a distance, had done a respectable job.
Then the distance became shorter.
A banner hung loose from one corner, dragging against the side of a stall. Another had been torn down entirely and was now wrapped around the base of a street post as though the post had won it in a duel. A painted board for apple pastries lay on its side.
There were tankards everywhere.
Everywhere.
Tankards sat on windowsills, under benches, near drains, beneath carts, balanced on a trough, and once, inexplicably, inside the hollow of a decorative barrel that had no reason to be part of the investigation.
The air smelled of apples.
Not fresh apples. Not the bright scent of the press on a good morning.
This was thicker. Warmer. Worked over by time, bodies, smoke, and stone. Sweet and sharp, with that familiar fermented edge that made Alric’s stomach tighten before his mind caught up.
He stopped walking.
Seren stopped because he had. Brannick stopped because Seren had. The guards stopped because everyone else had, and because they were better at this than Alric.
“What is it?” Seren asked, looking at Alric nervously, a tension had crept into everyone’s expressions.
Alric looked down the avenue.
Last year, the city had gathered around the adventurers’ guild. The problem had been visible from the main avenue only if one knew where to look. The bunting had still hung. The sellers had still shouted. The old festival had continued, wounded in pride more than structure, while the guild drew the crowd like only cheap alcohol could.
This felt different. It was both silent and not in the wrong way.
“Nothing,” Alric said, because it was too early to start being right and he had nothing to point at.
Brannick looked unconvinced, which was fair.
They moved on. The main avenue should have been busy, and it was. The road was thick with bodies, bright cloth, food smells, laughter, and the ordinary careful movement of people trying not to step on children. But the flow was wrong. People were not moving around one another so much as negotiating passage through the aftermath of something.
Up ahead, the way was blocked.
At first, Alric assumed it was a performance. Festivals had performances. They also had arguments that became performances, same thing, fewer rehearsals.
A loud cheer went up. Alric looked over the crowd and saw a handcart.
Then he saw another.
Two men stood on the hand carts, each holding a broom.
Each cart had someone pulling them toward each other. The two carts faced one another down a cleared strip of street while the crowd roared encouragement with the deep commitment of citizens who had found a new sport and had not yet been told it was illegal.
The cart-pullers began running. The cart-riders lowered their brooms. Alric stared. A small part of him couldn’t help but note gratefully that those were not his hand carts.
The carts met in the middle with a noise that was mostly wood, panic, and applause. One broom struck a shoulder. The other caught a hat. The man on the left cart wobbled, windmilled both arms, and fell backward onto the cobblestones with a whoomf noise, he quickly stood up rubbing his back, the crowd received him like a returning hero.
Someone near the front shouted, “That’s a point!”
A different voice shouted, “No, he held the broom wrong!”
There are rules?
Brannick leaned slightly closer. “We should turn off the main avenue before this gets weirder.”
Seren nodded, Alric nodded too but found it difficult to tear his gaze away. His feet simply followed them into the side street.
The side street was calmer in the way a pot was calmer after boiling over. The worst of it was over but everything was sticky.
People moved with great care, with the deep exaggerated sense of care alcohol tends to bring out in people who are tired of falling over too many times. A man crossed the street with both arms slightly out, not touching anything, but prepared to fall against a wall if it became necessary.
More tankards.
A garland hung from the neck of a small stone statue. Someone had placed a tankard in the statue’s hand. The statue, being stone, handled the responsibility better than several citizens nearby.
They passed a tavern. The singing reached them before the building did. It came from above. Alric looked up.
Five people sat on the roof, arms around each other, singing with enormous feeling and no shared tune. One of them had a drum. The drum was being used only occasionally, and never at a moment that helped. Another was waving a tankard in broad arcs, spilling most of it onto the tiles.
The song might have been patriotic, or perhaps romantic, there was even a chance it was religious, though if so, the gods were receiving a very loose interpretation.
Alric glanced to try figure how they got there, he couldn’t see a way up onto the roof that didn’t involve the nearby buildings and a lot of courage.
“Think we should goto Brenner’s inn? It’s the nearest… place.” Brannick said trying to find the right word. It got a chorus of nods from everyone.
Brenner’s inn was the nearest space that might be controlled. Brenner was sensible. Or at least sensible by the standards of men who made their living selling alcohol to tired people.
On the way, the city continued to offer evidence.
Two boys were using discarded tankards to build a tower in a doorway while a third supervised with the seriousness of an engineer. A cask lay on it’s side marked EMPTY sat in the street. Someone had written VERY below it.
Alric kept seeing last year in pieces.
The tired guards near the dying fire. The apple smell in the stone. Gil swaying in the cellar, afraid to lie down because he might never get up again. The crowds around the adventurers’ guild, drawn in by cider that tasted innocent and played tricks on you.
Last year, he had thought they needed to avoid the adventurers for a few days. This year, he was seeing how he had never respected Pavise enough for how he kept it under control.
They reached Brenner’s inn.
A man slept sitting against the door. He sat with his head tilted forward, hands limp in his lap, mouth slightly open.
Brannick crouched and checked him briefly.
“Alive,” he said simply.
Brannick got the door open with some difficulty around the sleeping man. He made a vague noise, adjusted his head, and continued not participating in the day.
Inside, Brenner’s common room had become a storage facility for poor choices.
People slept everywhere.
At tables. Under tables. Beside benches. Across benches. One man had folded his cloak into a pillow with surprising care before apparently giving up halfway and lying beside it instead. A woman slept with one arm wrapped possessively around a lantern. Another pair had fallen asleep leaning against each other, foreheads touching, looking almost tender except for the spilled cider between their boots and the snoring.
The hearth had gone low. The air was warm and stale, thick with cider, sweat, old smoke, and the deep quiet that followed too much noise.
Brenner was asleep behind the counter. His arms were folded beneath his head. Brannick rapped his knuckles against the wall.
Brenner jerked awake.
For a moment, his face held nothing but blank surprise. Then his eyes found Alric and a slow, stupid smile spread across his face.
“Alric,” he said, with the warmth of a man seeing either a friend or a friendly hallucination.
“What happened?” Alric asked trying to take it all in.
Brenner looked around the room.
He sighed. “Sold out.” glancing toward toward the common room.
Alric waited.
Brenner rubbed his face with both hands. “Should’ve bought more apples.”
“Didn’t you buy a lot of apples?” Alric asked, looking at Brenner in alarm.
“I know I did,” Brenner said, wounded. “That’s what makes it hurt. Not enough.”
“No, Hang on.” Alric said, gesturing vaguely toward the room, then the street, then possibly the city as a whole. “What happened?”
Brenner followed the gesture and seemed to consider whether it contained a separate question.
“Oh,” he said, brightening up. “People were drinking late.”
“That’s it?” Alric asked, tilting his head to the side, his eyes were wide.
“Very late.” Brenner added, nodding to his own wisdom.
Alric closed his eyes briefly.
“The watch were through here twice,” Brenner continued. “Then not again. Heard they’re exhausted. Might be looking for you.”
Alric opened his eyes. “Me?”
Brenner shrugged, he glanced at the common room. “You know how people are.”
“I was at headquarters the whole time.” Alric said, following his gaze and shifting slightly.
Brenner stared at him.
“The inn,” Alric added, he waved with his hand as he spoke. “My inn.”
Brenner shrugged, then brightened suddenly, then sagged just as fast. “Wanted you to try mine.”
“Your what?” Alric asked, his expression shifting to suspicion.
“Cider.” Brenner looked genuinely heartbroken. “Made it like you said. Strong, clean, good apple on it. It was so good.”
Brenner pouted. Alric scoffed, it was a very sincere expression.
“I should’ve kept a jug,” he muttered, he put an elbow down on his counter and leaned his head against his hand.
Seren looked at Alric. Alric intentionally did not look at Seren.
There were several kinds of silence. This one felt like an accusation or at least a ‘I told you so’.
“I’m glad it sold,” Alric said weakly. “Well done.”
Brenner nodded. “Aye. Good night.” He settled down on his arms again.
They left shortly after.
Outside, the sleeping man at the door had shifted slightly, he was leaning his head against the wall now.
The street seemed brighter after the inn, but even less sensible. The festival carried on around them with too much confidence. Somewhere on the main avenue, another cheer went up, followed by the splintering sound of wood and then more cheering, which suggested handcart jousting had entered its tournament phase.
“We could go to the adventurers’ guild?” Brannick said, trying to look everywhere at once, there was a wariness around him.
Alric looked at him, considering that. The adventurers had handled this before and were close to professionals at working with drunks at this point. Alric may have been involved in that education.
Seren looked down the street and added. “It is a sturdy building.”
They started that way anyway, because there were only so many directions one could walk before curiosity became indistinguishable from poor judgment.
They had not gone far when a child appeared beside one of Alric’s guards. The boy held up an apple in both hands.
“Brewing apple,” he said with a serious expression.
The guard looked down at it. The apple had suffered.
It was bruised almost black on one side, dented on another, and had the soft, defeated shape of fruit that had been dropped, stepped on, recovered, and given a new business model.
“Two copper,” the child said, his hands shifting to protect the apple.
Alric slowed.
The guard looked at the apple. Then at the child. Then at the crowd beyond him.
“Two copper?” he asked, trying to keep his expression serious.
The child nodded with the grim confidence of a merchant testing the limits of a market.
“Brewing apple, this is.” the child with all the confidence of youth.
Alric felt, despite everything, a flicker of respect. The guard clearly did too. Alric could see it in the way his mouth pressed flat to avoid smiling.
“I’m working,” the guard said with a wink. “Maybe later.”
The child nodded once, serious and accepting. Then he turned away, already scanning the crowd for another customer.
Alric watched him go. He worried for a moment that children had suddenly learnt branding.
Before they reached the adventurer’s guild, they passed a group of city guards sitting against a wall.
Last year, Alric had seen guards huddled around a dying fire, deep bags under their eyes, one sleeping while another had draped a cloak over him with the tenderness of someone admitting defeat. This looked like the same thing merely bigger.
One guard sat with his helmet in his lap and stared at nothing. Another leaned on his spear with both hands, head bowed, not asleep but close enough that sleep was about to win. A third had his back to the wall and his eyes closed. Many were sporting bruises either around knuckles, arms and one with a distinctive black eye.
None of them looked up as Alric passed. A small cowardly part of Alric was grateful they didn’t recognize him.
They carried on.
More singing came from ahead, though this group was at street level and therefore less immediately worrying. They were attempting the same song as another group farther down the road but were several lines behind and apparently trying to solve the difference through increased volume. A man argued with a banner outside a closed shop.
The adventurers’ guild came into view at the end of the street, but the closer they got, the less Alric wanted to continue.
It was not the centre of everything this time.
There were people there, of course. There were always people near the adventurers’ guild when anything foolish was happening. But the crowd was not being pulled in the same way as last year. Last year, trade itself had seemed to develop a sense of direction. Stalls had gathered around the guild because the cider was there, and the city had followed.
This year, the city did not need to follow the cider.
The cider had followed the city.
Every tavernkeeper with apples, pride, a cask, and a memory of Alric’s instructions had apparently decided that this was the harvest festival and therefore harvest should be expressed as forcefully as possible.
One of Alric's guards looked toward the guild, then back the way they had come. Alric stopped.
He saw, in his mind, the guild master’s apple demon. He saw Mara and Hal’s faces when they had realized people loved what they had made. He had thought the tavernkeepers would learn the process, improve their stock, make safer drink, earn more coin, and give people something to celebrate.
All of that might still be true, the celebration especially so.
“You all right?” Brannick asked, giving Alric a searching expression.
Alric nodded and was about to explain when a priest staggered out of an alley.
For one awful second, Alric thought he was drunk. Then the man paused, placed a hand against the wall, and Alric saw the deep shadows under his eyes. His robes were rumpled. His hair had escaped whatever shape it had begun the day in. He carried a small bag in one hand and a water flask in the other.
A woman approached him, spoke quickly, and pointed back the way she had come. The priest closed his eyes for a moment, visibly gathered the last pieces of himself, and followed her.
Alric watched him go. He felt the guilt settle in, familiar and unwelcome. With a small sneer he pulled himself out of it, he had been through this before.
He had not made anyone drink. He had not told anyone to stand on a handcart with a broom. He had, however, given tavernkeepers the method, this like the arena was culture and not his to decide for anyone. He squared his shoulders with a sigh.
“We should go back,” Seren said with a frown at their surroundings. “The festival is festive,”
“That feels generous,” Brannick murmured, keeping an eye on openings and rooftops.
Seren ignored him. “But the watch are exhausted. People may be looking for you. The city is not unsafe exactly, but it is… loose.”
One of the guards nodded slightly, which did not make Alric feel better.
Alric looked around.
Torn banners. Sleeping citizens. Tankards. Apple smell. Roof singers. Handcart jousting somewhere behind them. Guards leaning on weapons because duty was apparently load-bearing. Priests being sent back into the streets like men returning to a losing battle.
Last year’s festival had felt like a city discovering what his cider could do. This year felt like it had expanded on that lesson.
“All right,” he said, nodding and accepting the wisdom of it.
They turned back toward headquarters.
The safest thing he could do for the city today, he decided, was not talk to anybody or give them any more ideas.