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“Seems a waste.” Aqua sighed. “And we used up all our good ideas already too.”

“Speak for yourself!” Johnsson tapped his head. “I’ve got so many good ideas in here!”

Aqua snorted. “Oh yeah! Name one!”

Johnsson waggled his eyebrows. “REALLY strong beer!”

“HAH!” Aqua shrieked with laughter.

“Can we be a bit more serious.” Annie pulled the room’s attention to her. “I know we’re all coming down from an adrenaline high after the events of the last month, but we really do need some ideas.”

Everyone looked my way and I shrugged. “I have lots of beers we could make, but I don’t really know how to tie them to the theme. You lot have lived in Crack for decades, so what would be a beer that represents it?”

Johnsson was the first to speak. “Something dark?”

“Ooh, and wet!” Aqua added.

“And stinky.” Richter nodded.

Annie frowned as the room devolved back into laughter. “Did you really not come up with anything yesterday?”

I heaved a breath. “Honestly? I didn’t really think about work at all yesterday.”

“That’s right! He was on a date with Tourmaline!” Aqua giggled. “Good for him!”

“It wasn’t a date!” I protested. “It was just two friends hanging out.”

“Is that why you came back so late?” Balin asked, wrapping an arm around Annie’s shoulders. She snuggled into him. “Just hangin’ wit’ a friend?”

“No.” My voice grew serious. “We managed to cure her mother. The Heir Apparent of the Duke of the West is back, and she’s really, really

angry.”

I was met with blank stares.

Johnsson was the first to speak. “You’re serious? Really!?”

I nodded. “She’s speaking to the Council of Greybeards right now. She claims she knows who poisoned her.”

Johnsson whistled. “She has a lot of allies amongst the high nobility. And the ear of the King. He dotes on her, and there was suspicion that the Council might name her the next ruler of Crack when he dies.”

“Long live the King.” Balin muttered.

“Long live the King….” we all repeated. We’d all had enough political upheaval for one year, thank you!

“Well, good for you!” Annie patted me on the back, then pulled me into a hug. “And thank you so much for helping her. I never heard the full story back at the mine, but I knew something was eating her up inside. Does Opal know?”

I shrugged. “With the noise Lady Barnes is making in Whitewall? She must’ve heard by now. I decided to keep my distance given… everything.”

“That’s all fine and dandy.” Kirk jumped in. “But we still have a contest to win.”

“What about a beer made from local ingredients like the Kinshasa brew, but made using ingredients from Crack?” Aqua asked, then flushed. “Which is what we usually do. Never mind!”

“Somethin’ old?” Richter asked. “Like ancient tree bark from Greentree or somesuch?”

“What about a beer using an ingredient from every major dungeon or city?” Kirk put in. “There’s a lot of variety there.”

“That’s a good idea.” Annie mused, writing it down on the office chalkboard. “We could talk to Bran about pairing it with a special national menu.”

“He’s busy with his own work right now.” Aqua said. “He threatened to bake me into a pretzel if I bothered him again.”

“It’s not fair,” I groaned. “He got such a good contest all neatly wrapped in a bow too. ‘Erdroot’, now that’s a theme! And against the biggest restaurant in Kinshasa too, The Smug Snapper.”

Annie scribbled a little fish on the board. “He has an advantage, since they’re a fish restaurant. They may struggle with a starch based meal.”

Johnsson shook his head. “Their chef’s a five times Specialized [Barck’sGreat Gourmand]. It’ll be a hard fight.”

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“But a delicious one!” Kirk smiled, patting his belly. We all nodded in pleased agreement. We could all see the days of experimental delicacies stretching out before us. My mouth watered, and Aqua gulped.

“I can see we’re all hungry. So let’s try and wrap this up.” Annie’s shoulders slumped. “Do we really have nothing? Balin? You’re probably the most patriotic of us.”

Balin looked up at the ceiling in thought. “I see it all, as an adventurer. And one thing I’ve noticed since comin’ to Kinshasa, is how much there is in Crack bubblin’ beneath the surface, just like the Sacred Brew we all love. We’re a mixed people, with gnomes, dwarves, elves, and humans all livin’ our lives together as best we can. It’s not perfect, but I hear in the human lands, the beastfolk are not more than slaves. In the great forests, the elves hold dominion by virtue of their long lives. In tha south, the tribes are all separated. Only here in Crack do we all live together in relative peace.”

“I can think of some gnomes who would disagree with that.” Johnsson muttered.

Balin shrugged. “Aye. But we’re tryin’. Tha gnomes are drinkin’ beer now, and Copperpot’s about to release a new sour. Schist is screamin’ about that Great Charter of Harmssons at City Hall every day to anyone that’ll listen, and mebbe somethin’ will come of it. I think a beer that represents Crack would be a beer that’s made for everybody.”

We all blinked, and then Richter began to clap. I joined in, and soon the gentle patter of hands meeting hands filled the room.

“That was lovely dear.” Annie pecked him on the cheek. “And you may have something. Wasn’t that the whole reason for that Umqubothi, Pete? You’ve always wanted to make a beer for everyone.”

“Eh, you’ll never make a beer everybody likes.”I nodded slowly. “Buuuut, I’m now able to magically isolate the gluten proteins in barley and replace them with pork proteins about 95% of the time. So we could make a barley beer, which may be more palatable for humans and gnomes in general while not causing dwarves to bloat up like balloons.”

Richter held his face in his hands. “Please tell me ya didn’t make a spell ta turn barley inta bacon.”

I gave him a brilliant smile. “Sure did.”

“Everyone is gonna think I taught you to be like ‘dat.” He huffed.

“Not a problem so long as we win.” Annie patted him on the back. “I like that idea. Anyone else?”

“Are we doing anything fancy again, like smoking beer?” Johnsson asked, looking at the distraught Richter.

“NO!” Was the immediate reply from the entire room.

—

A few hours later and only Johnsson and Richter and I were left, hard at work putting the finishing touches on the fermentation tanks.

I waved over the tank with my wand, carefully drawing the required sigil. Richter leaned over my shoulder, his eyes intense, and I swore as the Sigil winked out. “Lunara’s Lace! Would you stop doin’ that Richter! I cannae concentrate with you hangin’ over my shoulder like that.”

“I’m just ‘mirin my student’s work.” Richter said.

“Never, ever say that word again.” I grumped, starting the sigil again. I could feel my Mana reserves tightening, so I’d need to take a break soon.

“What, ‘student’? Ya can\'t deny it Pete!”

“No, ‘mirin. I have nightmares about that word.”

“If you say so.”

I finished the sigil, and it flowed into the fermentation tank in a scintillating blue stream of mana.

“And that does it.” I said, rising to my feet and dry-washing my hands. “Now we just let it ferment, and we’re done.”

“What did you call it again?” Johnsson asked, as he inspected the tanks, ensuring there was no bubbling or anything blocking the seals. An improper seal on a fermentation tank could be explosive, and we wanted to avoid that.

“It’s an IPA.”

Johnssons gave a curious grunt. “IPA?”

I grinned. “Most of us do, especially after a beer!”

“Shaddup. How’s it taste?”

“It’s hard to describe. IPA is short for India Pale Ale, and it’s famous for being the hoppiest beer around.”

Johnsson hopped down from his stool and moved to the next tank. “But why that one in particular? Why not just a regular Sacred Brew with barley?”

“It has to do with what an IPA is and why it exists. Back on Earth, India was half a world away and across the ocean from where beer was most popular, a continent called Europe. At the time, a European Country called Great Britain had conquered India and was plundering its riches to send back home. The problem was, the British sailors needed beer to survive the grueling conditions of the British Navy. But trips could take months.”

“The beer went bad.” Richter hypothesized.

“It did.” I nodded. “The solution was in the bittering agent used for beer at the time: hops. This little plant,” I held up a piece of hops fruit, “also serves as a preservative. By waiting just a little longer to insure most of the sugars have been fermented, and then massively hopping the beer, the ale could survive being shipped to India. Hence, India Pale Ale. We’ll probably need to call it Crack Pale Ale, or CPA for short, then hope the local Accountant’s Guild doesn’t go after us. Nyuck!”

“Why would they do that?” Johnsson asked.

“*Sigh* Never mind.”

Richter stared at the tanks. “Will it even taste good? Those hops are nice mixed wit’ Annie’s bitters, but ’dey’re real different.”

I clicked my tongue. “We won’t know until we try, but honestly… I think it’ll turn away a lot of customers. It’ll taste quite a bit different – a lot drier and more bitter– but it will last as far as we can send it. To each corner of Crack and even to the human lands and the south. No rare Teleportation Abilities or expensive alchemical components required, just good old goat-driven wagon and time.”

“It certainly meets the theme.” Johnsson nodded. “It’ll be the only beer I know of that any dwarf in Crack or on the surface will be able to drink. Eventually.”

“Eventually.” I nodded. “It is a risk.”

“But a good one.” Johnsson patted me on the shoulder. “I think we have the right idea. Even if we lose the contest because people don’t like the taste, we’ll have made a beer that we think represents our country, and more importantly, one that anyone can drink.”

“You do realize that we’re going to be locked in here for another month brewing, right?” I complained. “With that stupid requirement that we provide half of the beer for the drinking contest, I’m going to need to sit here and cast Barley to Bacon and [Rapid Aging] nonstop.

“And we all appreciate yer sacrifice.” Johnsson grinned. “Just think of all you’ll be able to do when we win and you become a Lord.”

I shook my head. “Let’s spend the time with our heads down. Between everything Schist’s been doing, and now all the kerfuffle around Lady Barnes, we’re a bit too visible politically. I say we focus on being a cozy inn for a change.”

There was general consensus, and we went our separate ways. With the tavern so packed, we were all working around the clock, and there wasn’t time to waste. Two weeks until the IPAs were ready, and then…

Showtime.