the street as
I reached the brewery. The stench of fermentation drenched the
neighborhood. The workers didn’t notice. Neither did the
residents. Their noses were dead.
Weider’s main brewery is a great gothic redbrick monster
that looks more like a hospice for werewolves and vampires than the
anchor of a vast commercial empire. It has dozens of turrets and
towers that have nothing to do with what goes on inside the
building. Bats boil out of the towers at dusk.
The monstrosity sprang from Old Man Weider’s imagination.
A smaller duplicate stands directly across Delor Street,
Weider’s first effort. He’d meant that to be a brewery
but it turned out to be too small. So he remodeled and moved his
family in while he built a copy ten times bigger, to which all
sorts of additions have attached themselves since.
We TunFairens love our beer.
The brewery doen’t have a real security team. Senior
workers take turns patrolling and watching the entrances. Outside
villains don’t get in. The workforce protects the place like
worker bees protect their hives.
A spry antique named Geral Diar had the duty at the front
entrance. “Hey, Gerry,” I said as I walked up.
“Checking in.”
“Garrett?” His eyes aren’t the best. And he
was surprised to see me. That was a good sign. If nobody expects
me, any bad guys will have no time to cover up.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Snooping. Same as always. The big house says it’s
time. Been stealing any barrels?”
“You enjoy yourself, young fellow. Somebody
should.”
“Oh? You’re not?”
Diar is one of those guys who can’t not talk if anybody
stops to listen. “Not much joy around here lately.”
“How come?”
“State of the kingdom. Everybody’s got a viewpoint
and nobody’s got a pinch of tolerance for the other
guy’s.”
This might be germane. “Been some political friction
here?”
“Oh, no, not around here. Mr. Weider wouldn’t put up
with that. But it’s everywhere else and you got to get
through it to get to work. You can’t hardly go anywhere
without you run into a brawl or demonstration or even an out
an’ out riot. It’s all a them foreigners from the
Cantard. They just act like they
want
to cause
trouble.”
“I know what you mean.” I was in my chameleon mode,
where I mirror whomever I’m with. That loosens people up.
Diar’s comment, though, complimented the Dead Man’s
suspicion that Glory Mooncalled was trying to destabilize Karentine
society.
“Gets depressing, Garrett, knowing you have to go out
there. Things was better back when all you had to worry about was
thieves and strong-arm men.”
“I’m sure the King will do something soon.”
Like the traditional turn-of-the-back till the mob sorted itself
out. Not that the royals deign to spend time in TunFaire, where the
upper crust bears them far less goodwill than does the factious,
fractious rabble.
“Well, you just have yourself a wonderful day,
Garrett.”
“And you, too, Gerry. You, too.”
When you think brewery mostly you picture the finished product:
beer, ale, stout, whatever. You don’t consider the process.
First thing you notice about a brewery is the smell. That
isn’t the toothsome bouquet of a premium lager, either.
It’s the stench of vegetable matter rotting. Because
that’s the process. To get beer you let vats of grain and
water and additives like hops rot under the loving guidance of
skilled old brewmasters who time each phase to the minute.
There are no youngsters working in the brewhouse. In the Weider
scheme even apprenticed sons of the brewmasters start out as rough
labor. Weider himself was a teamster before he went to the Cantard
and believes that physical labor made him a better man. But when he
was young everybody over nine had to work. And jobs were easy to
find.
Weider does know every job in the brewery and occasionally works
some of them just to keep in touch with a workingman’s
reality. He expects his senior associates to do
I reached the brewery. The stench of fermentation drenched the
neighborhood. The workers didn’t notice. Neither did the
residents. Their noses were dead.
Weider’s main brewery is a great gothic redbrick monster
that looks more like a hospice for werewolves and vampires than the
anchor of a vast commercial empire. It has dozens of turrets and
towers that have nothing to do with what goes on inside the
building. Bats boil out of the towers at dusk.
The monstrosity sprang from Old Man Weider’s imagination.
A smaller duplicate stands directly across Delor Street,
Weider’s first effort. He’d meant that to be a brewery
but it turned out to be too small. So he remodeled and moved his
family in while he built a copy ten times bigger, to which all
sorts of additions have attached themselves since.
We TunFairens love our beer.
The brewery doen’t have a real security team. Senior
workers take turns patrolling and watching the entrances. Outside
villains don’t get in. The workforce protects the place like
worker bees protect their hives.
A spry antique named Geral Diar had the duty at the front
entrance. “Hey, Gerry,” I said as I walked up.
“Checking in.”
“Garrett?” His eyes aren’t the best. And he
was surprised to see me. That was a good sign. If nobody expects
me, any bad guys will have no time to cover up.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Snooping. Same as always. The big house says it’s
time. Been stealing any barrels?”
“You enjoy yourself, young fellow. Somebody
should.”
“Oh? You’re not?”
Diar is one of those guys who can’t not talk if anybody
stops to listen. “Not much joy around here lately.”
“How come?”
“State of the kingdom. Everybody’s got a viewpoint
and nobody’s got a pinch of tolerance for the other
guy’s.”
This might be germane. “Been some political friction
here?”
“Oh, no, not around here. Mr. Weider wouldn’t put up
with that. But it’s everywhere else and you got to get
through it to get to work. You can’t hardly go anywhere
without you run into a brawl or demonstration or even an out
an’ out riot. It’s all a them foreigners from the
Cantard. They just act like they
want
to cause
trouble.”
“I know what you mean.” I was in my chameleon mode,
where I mirror whomever I’m with. That loosens people up.
Diar’s comment, though, complimented the Dead Man’s
suspicion that Glory Mooncalled was trying to destabilize Karentine
society.
“Gets depressing, Garrett, knowing you have to go out
there. Things was better back when all you had to worry about was
thieves and strong-arm men.”
“I’m sure the King will do something soon.”
Like the traditional turn-of-the-back till the mob sorted itself
out. Not that the royals deign to spend time in TunFaire, where the
upper crust bears them far less goodwill than does the factious,
fractious rabble.
“Well, you just have yourself a wonderful day,
Garrett.”
“And you, too, Gerry. You, too.”
When you think brewery mostly you picture the finished product:
beer, ale, stout, whatever. You don’t consider the process.
First thing you notice about a brewery is the smell. That
isn’t the toothsome bouquet of a premium lager, either.
It’s the stench of vegetable matter rotting. Because
that’s the process. To get beer you let vats of grain and
water and additives like hops rot under the loving guidance of
skilled old brewmasters who time each phase to the minute.
There are no youngsters working in the brewhouse. In the Weider
scheme even apprenticed sons of the brewmasters start out as rough
labor. Weider himself was a teamster before he went to the Cantard
and believes that physical labor made him a better man. But when he
was young everybody over nine had to work. And jobs were easy to
find.
Weider does know every job in the brewery and occasionally works
some of them just to keep in touch with a workingman’s
reality. He expects his senior associates to do
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