Book 3: Chapter 33: A Worthy Brew

Book 3: Chapter 33: A Worthy Brew

I spent a day playing with hops, varying the amounts in the tea and testing it with other spices, then went back to the market to meet with Ganji.

To my absolute horror, he wasn’t there.

He’d promised a week! The filthy liar!

Thankfully, a nearby merchant notified me that he’d likely be back at the start of the next month. I only wept a little.

The rest of the week rolled by without any real progress. The gose quietly fermented, Bran and Darrel loudly fomented, and the tavern continued to get busier and busier. The pub was packed every night, and Liquid Gold continued to be the most popular seller. A significant number of customers got Barista Brew to go, but it wasn’t as popular at the tables. The inn-side of things was also now in full swing, as the city continued to bust at the seams. From talking to other local hoteliers, it sounded like every inn in the city was completely booked.

And wouldn’t you know it, some industrious locals had started renting out their rooms for the low, low, price of an arm and a beard.

See! Air-BnBs! It was inevitable!!!

Our inn’s residents ran the gamut of red-haired easterners, gnomes from Minnova, local villagers, wealthy refugees, and even a few dark-skinned southerners. The stories that were told in the tavern after closing, when the inn customers got the place to themselves, ranged from fascinating to terrifying. Tales of enormous black-skinned tentacled abominations from Deep Crack tearing through villages, of gleaming members of the Highwatch keeping back roving bands of Ashwolves, and of the sweltering red peaks of the south where dwarves made their homes in the mountaintops instead of below the erd.

Of course, life outside of the inn continued apace as well.

The ‘revolution’ was steadfastly marching on, in some cases quite literally. We had a demonstration walk past the tavern that had to have been at least several thousand dwarves and gnomes. They chanted slogans and carried signs calling for change, immediate action by the king and the council, elections, and decrying the cruelty of nobles.

Rosie and Balin had scoffed, but I... was really beginning to agree. My time in Western Crack had been marred by meeting a few nobles here and there, and they’d all reminded me of Louis Blackbeard in one fashion or another. Pompous, arrogant, and self-serving were the only words I could’ve used to describe them. Plus, dwarven society seemed built for democracy; they had an incredibly well-functioning bureaucracy and a strong education system. And every dwarf I’d ever met strongly believed in meritocracy, even if they tended to default to gerontocracy.

At the end of the week, it was finally time. We invited the entire crew, including Malt, Copperpot, and Whistlemop to come to the manor house for the party. They nearly all came, with Berry begging off to prepare for a concert the next day.

Bran and Darrel put together a feast of – *choke* – Bran’s Big ol’ Beefloafs, and we racked the first goses in the world straight into some serving jugs. While we had several different carboys, there were really only two different brews – a sour gose, and a not-sour gose. The jugs were placed on display in the dining hall while we had a small get-together first.

While I was chatting with Malt about the exact science behind making sours, I felt an insistent hand on my elbow, and looked down to see a stormy face. It was Whistlemop, for once not in his fancy rainbow get-up. He was wearing something a bit more subdued and in the Kinshasan noble fashion – a simple brown suit with armored accents and an ornamental gorget instead of a tie.

“Oh hey, Whistlemop, ‘aven’t seen you around much recently. Where’ve you been?”

“I LIVE here!” The foppish little mop shrilled.

“I mean, I never see you!”

“Oh, falling as low as short jokes now are we!?”

“No, I mean I literally never see you! What godsawful hour of Lunara’s Black Lace Nighty do ya leave!? I know tha Whistlemug business is going well, given ‘ow I see yer grinnin’ glassy face everywhere, even in me nightmares.”

“I have lots to do.” Whistlemop muttered. “And I have to keep going to the transit station to send messages to the Minnova store via [Herald] before they open. Then I need to run my wagon at the Grand Market.”

I slack-jawed. “Yer still micromanaging!? I told ya to get someone qualified to do all that before we left!”

Whistlemop glowered back. “I just didn’t have the time! Finding someone and getting them trained takes time!”

“Argh! That’s my store too!”

“Aaron’s Arse it is! We both know you only really care about the beer business!”

“Boys!” A hand thumped onto my shoulder, and another onto Whistlemop’s. We looked back to see Annie’s pained smile, complete with a throbbing forehead vein. “Do you need to take this outside? This is an important moment. I could ask Kirk to give you the toss?”

“Sorry Annie.” I muttered.

“*Ahem*” Whistlemop shuffled from foot to foot and nodded.

Whistlemop and I gave each other glares that promised, ‘business talk later’, then split ways.

At this point, the only person absent from the proceedings was Johnsson. He’d told Annie not to wait up, and that he had a surprise for us. We still waited until we couldn’t wait anymore, but eventually curiosity took over.

It was time to pour! I was far past nervous at this point; I had hops, a good crew, and forward momentum. The only thing that stood in my way was that last dreaded obstacle, the white wall that stood between my happiness and the future of beer.

“How alliterative.”

“Mm-hm. Ah, leave some time for later, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Alright.”

Annie poured the rest of the sour gose into mugs, then passed them around. “Alright everyone! The moment of truth! Let’s see if Pete was right about this stuff!”

“CHEERS!”

Our mugs sloshed over and then there was only the sound of gulping.

I paused as I brought the Whistlemug to my lips, taking in the scent of the beer. Thankfully it didn’t have any of the aromas I associated with a bad sour, with faint notes of sour-cream and mushrooms. With my first sip, the gose slid down my throat just like I remembered it, a creamy mouthfeel mixed with the sharp sting of salt. The briney aftertaste definitely mixed well with the new Goldstone Bitters, which were much more in line with what I was used to back on Earth. It was still quite a bit stronger than I liked, and the erdroot malt still felt filmy, but this was finally worthy of being called beer!

A tear sprang to my eye as I took another slow sip, swishing the beer in my mouth and enjoying the everything of it. Godsdamn, this was turning out to be the best week of my new life.

*Bing!*

Quest: More Brews Part 2/5!

More! MORE!

Invent sixteen new drinks. Mixes don’t count.

Drinks Invented: 4/16

*Bing!*

Hidden Quest Complete: A Worthy Brew

Finally! A beer even YOU consider decent!

Gained: [Rapid Aging]

“Yes!” Annie gasped, as she finished drinking. “This is definitely it! This could win it!”

There were similar gasps around the room as the others came up for air. One of them was mine at the unexpected Hidden Quest completion.

“Win it!?” An unexpected voice came from below, and we all looked down to see Copperpot wrestling with Penelope for the dregs inside the discarded jug. “Who cares!? This’ll make us all rich! Richer!!! How does it taste with wheat?? You said it uses yogourt Pete? I need to know more!! The sourness, the bitterness, the taste!”

“That good?” I asked, looking over at Whistlemop.

“It’s better than tea!” Whistlemop gabbled.

“You shut your dirty mouth!” Copperpot snapped, coming back to erd. “It’s good, but not that good!”

“Do gnomes get to vote?” I asked, watching the two bicker back and forth.

“We’re going to crush this.” Aqua whispered, nodding.

Our celebration was short lived, as there was a knocking at the door.

“Must be Johnsson.” Richter said, walking to the door. “I’ll let ‘im in. He’ll be sad he missed ‘de moment.”

Richter swung the door open, but instead of Johnsson standing at the manor door, there was a bloody giant of a dwarf. He was half naked, with an enormously bushy red beard and curly hair, and he wore a flaming red dragon luchador mask.

Richter gaped, Aqua fainted, and I shrieked, “DWARF DRACONIS!?!”

Johnsson peeked his head through the door from behind the professional luchadorf. “‘Oy, you lot. Surprise!”