Beers and Beards-Chapter 33Book 4: : Romero Romero, Wherefor Art Thou, Romero

I considered butting in, then decided against it. No point in getting involved in drama, and there was no guarantee Master Romero would appreciate it. If anything, he looked amused as the volume went up another notch. Ambassador Falith stood at the edge of the forming crowd, pulling at his horns and looking ready to pop.

I felt for the old beastfolk. I’d had to deal with quite a few drunken young firebrands in my past year of Ambassadorial work.

The scarred beastfolk, Marco, was gesticulating at the wineglass in his hand – it wasn’t wine, just a local cider – and was shouting something about mead. Romero shook his head in response, and smiled sadly, but gestured at Marco to continue.

Mead, huh? I had a soft spot for mead. It was the first alcohol I made way back in college, and it’d helped introduce me to my Caroline. I glanced surreptitiously at Mirelda, who was watching the byplay with distaste. She… didn’t look anything at all like Caroline. More like a young Jennifer Anniston, really. A big Jennifer Anniston.

Marco eventually ran out of steam, and stood there huffing. Master Romero pulled out a notebook and began speaking quietly while leafing through pages.

“Okay. I really want to know what they’re talking about,” I muttered.

“Are you sure you should interrupt?” Mirelda asked, looking worried.

“Why do ya think I haven’t just run up there and introduced meself already?”

“... social paralysis?”

“Hah!”

As I dithered, a gelf servant in the King’s livery came rushing over and butted into the conversation. Marco looked upset at the interruption, then joyful as the servant conveyed their message. Master Romero just looked annoyed. Marco placed his two fists together and bowed deeply to Romero, before disappearing back into the crowd as he followed the servant away, Ambassador Falith scampering after him.

The crowd looked disappointed at the loss of the show, but several of them were giving Romero curious looks.

I immediately pushed forward through the scrum. “Whoops. Now’s the time. Before other people twig to who he is. Most folk’ve never met ‘im, and he never comes ta these events.” freēwēbηovel.c૦m

“What did you want to talk to him about? ‘Scuse us, scuse’ us.” Mirelda began using her giant stature to get us through the press of bodies.

I smiled up at her. “Thankee. To yer question, at this exact moment, Master Romero over there is an alcohol nerd waxing poetic on his craft. He just got jock blocked, so he’s gonna be extremely thankful to whoever gets there first and asks to talk about wine.”

Mirelda’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “You sound so certain.”

“Ach, I can see his type a kilometer away.”

“Uh huh. It takes one to know one?”

“Damn straight.”

We broke through the crowd line, and I walked up to the elderly helf. He was tall, taller even than Joseph, nearly as tall as Mirelda even. He had long silver hair done up in a thick braid over his shoulder, and was wearing a traditional sarong. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, which he kept pushing up in a habitual tick as he read his notebook. His every motion was slow, purposeful, and annoyingly methodical. The only thing out of place were his skin and facial features. His skin was thick and mottled, more like green leather than the tuberous texture of most elves, and his face had a certain uncanny valley to it, like his eyes were just slightly too far apart, his nose just a tad too symmetrical, his mouth just a bit too thin.

I cleared my throat to catch his attention.

He looked up from his notebook, and right over my bloody head. Freaking giants!!!

“Hrm? Dost thou seek my help, young lady?” He asked Mirelda, kindly. He had the same kiwi lilt as Joseph, though his cadence and word choice were… archaic.

Mirelda bit her lip and shook her head and glanced down at me while holding back a laugh.

Romero followed her gaze, then blankly continued, “Ah, master dwarf. To what do I owe this interruption? Before you ask, no, I do not have any beer.”

Ah, I could see which side his bread was buttered on. I made a close fisted bow. “Ambassador Peter Roughtuff of Crack, Master Vintner, sir. It’s a pleasure ta finally meet ya.”

Romero’s face broke from his mask of boredom, and a genuine smile crossed it. “Ah! Master Brewer Roughtuff, the Forefather of Brewing! I have indeed heard of you! It brings me joy that we have met this day.” He swept me a curtsey back, his sarong flowing around his legs

Well, that was a good start! “Ach, tha King’s been keepin’ me away,” I confided. “Or I woulda come sooner.”

Romero’s eyelid twitched. “Yes. My work requires privacy, and I am often busier than a blumpkin in Spring.”

“What have you been workin’ on?” I asked, pointing at his notebook. “If ya don’t mind me talkin’ craft.”

His eyes sparkled and he tapped his notebook. “This year’s cuvée from Anima was 5.32% too tart. I had to throw out nearly the entire batch; it was unacceptable.”

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I tapped my ear as one word came out oddly accented, then realized what had happened. Usually, my translation Ability converted what I was hearing into English. In this case, it was translating it into French instead.

Cuvée was one of those confusing words in winemaking that meant different things depending on if you were French enough. In the Okanagan Valley, it was used to refer to a specific blending of different kinds of berries. While the refined wine connoisseur appreciated that each individual wine had its own specific balance, sometimes mommy just wanted to get drunk on a boxed red. In that case, consistency mattered more than balance, and by mixing several different wines, it was easier to get a flatter flavour profile. The word originated from the French term for the vats used in winemaking – cuves.

In Romero’s case, it was more likely that he was using it like the French to refer to the first cut of grapes in a batch. They were usually considered the best, and the cuvée of a season could sell for significantly more than the tail.

I considered the problem. 5.3% was a… very precise number but I could hazard a guess. “Excess tannins in tha’ skin? Cuvée’s usually a bit more tart anyway, since early grapes are more astringent. If that’s not it, mebbe it was a bit colder than usual?”

Cold weather could cause a batch to have more tannins, as the grapes grew a thicker shell to hold off the cold. Same with a rise in pests or a disease running rampant in the vineyard, though I doubted those would be the issue for a Master Vintner.

His smile grew a hint more genuine. “My word, you do know the craft. Yes, I thought the same. I’m here today to pass my concerns on to his Majesty. There may be an imbalance with the Tender Sprites in the dungeon. It is their presence that usually regulates the temperature near my vineyard. If they’re riled up it can drop the temperature enough to affect Anima’s plant life.”

Anima was the dungeon local to Tree. It was a ‘Spirit’ dungeon, which meant it was mostly full of disembodied ghosts and mental horrors. All set on monstrous tree boughs that stretched in labyrinthine criss crossing paths over a howling spiritual abyss. The ‘Tender Sprites’ were ethereal white pixie-like creatures roughly the size of corgis. They swept through the skies of Anima in large flocks, keeping the walkways clear of debris and tending to the plant life. They usually kept a distance from adventurers, only attacking stranglers, or when a team looked especially battered. Their presence brought a chill breeze, especially when they were angry.

Anima was not a beginner friendly dungeon, but it yielded very potent magical materials. If the grapes were from Anima, it could explain the effect they had; I was quite literally getting drunk with my soul!

I frowned as I considered the problem. “Hmm… we’ve been having issues with tha Kobolds in Deepcore as well. And I’ve heard of trouble from the Orcs in one of the dungeons down south. Mebbe they’re all related?”

Romero jotted the news down in his notebook. “That will be useful to add. Thank you. I dread the thought that we may be seeing a mass rise in dungeon activity. I already have too much to do.”

“Ach, I know what you mean,” I grumbled. “I’ve been bustin’ me butt gettin’ the new brewin’ school set up. Now that it’s done, I can finally get back ta’ brewin’ meself.”

Romero sighed. “Ah, to be able to teach the next generation. Truly a blessing worthy of being called one.” He picked up a wineglass and took a drink, gracefully.

I started in surprise. “Ach, does [Copyright] prevent even your apprentices from makin’ wine??”

Romero blinked at me. “You know about [Copyright]?”

Shit. Was it meant to be a secret? How the nether could it be a secret when nobody could make the damn stuff?? I quickly hedged up a believable lie, trusting in my Charisma to carry it through. “I’ve been makin’ cider, and was comin’ up on makin’ wine next, but was runnin’ into trouble with it. I made some inquiries to find out why.”

He nodded, and gave me a sad smile. “S’truth, most vintners do not get even that much, their batch fails to ferment and they blame themselves, never to try again. Many of my apprentices quit as well.”

The full implication of what he’d said hit me. “Are you sayin’ that it’s impossible fer you to pass on your craft!?”

He took a longer drink this time, and practically groaned. “Yes! It must be I, from the first step to the end. My apprentices might help with the pressing and the racking and the stirring, but it must be under my instruction, and I must have my hands ‘pon it at every stage.”

By Aaron’s Awful Arse! No wonder elvish wine was so rare and expensive! I’d figured [Copyright] just meant that his winery had to make it, not that he had to make it personally! Gods, Barck, what had you been thinking!?

“That’s awful,” I choked. “I’m so sorry.”

“‘Tis what it is. You can always live again.” He shrugged. “How have you been enjoying Tree? Mayhaps I could come and see your school some time. I have been thinking of how I might leave my legacy, and this Tree Brewing School might have the answer.”

I felt an electric thrill. Master Romero was going to come personally to the school? Haha! I could finally stop trying to butter up King Whatsisface! “We’d be happy to have you,” I said. “I’ll send my people to talk to your people.”

“I ought to have time in my schedule next decade,” he mused. “I recall there’s some space available in the fourth month of 8007. Yes, let’s – as you put it, what a quaint saying – have your people talk to my people.”

I worked very hard to keep disappointment from reaching my eyes. Even without glancing behind me, the amusement radiating off of Mirelda was practically palpable. “Thank you, Master Romero,” I managed to choke out. “If you’d excuse me, I need to see to my companion. In the meantime, the Thirsty Goat provided some cider for tonight. It should be coming out soon enough. It’ll be the green one. You should try it!”

“Oho! Not just a slave to the Sacred Brew, then! I will ensure that I imbibe,” he assured me, then went back to looking over his notebook, tuning me out.

I turned away, leading Mirelda with me. The crowd parted, and we were instantly swallowed up by the milling dignitaries.

“8007?” She tittered when we were out of earshot. “How will you last that long?”

I smirked. “Hey, I’ll ‘ave you know that ‘lasting long enough’ is the one thing nobody’s ever complained about.”

She thwacked me playfully on the back. “You know what I mean. Are you actually going to wait for five years?? You don’t strike me as having the patience for it.”

“Eh, I’m a dwarf now. I can wait.”

“You can wait.”

I grinned. “Yep, but I won’t. I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“Theeere it is. Now, are you finally going to give some attention to your date, Master Brewer Roughtuff? You’ve been ignoring her since you got here,” Mirelda pouted, sticking out chin.

I grabbed her hand and led the way. “Come on, let’s dance. Didja know that dwarves have two left feet?”

Mirelda let herself get pulled along. “Really?”

“Dunno. Let’s find out together!”