How long had it taken the thief to realize they’d stolen from the wrong brewer?
I’d been away from my wagon all day long. Visitors had begun to arrive, but St. Olaf Row still boasted very little traffic. It would not have been difficult for someone to steal my kegs today, if they had the mind to do it.
And someone certainly did.
11
LILIA
Crowds often gathered around the Traveling Tavern. At times, I wondered if I should hire an assistant to barkeep for me during the busier events, but then I’d remind myself I didn’t much want a traveling companion, other than Reykur. But what normally drew people in was the sweet scent of my ale wending through the festival. This time, however, it was the scent of calamity.
Ragnar and I stood at the rear of my wagon. At least twenty spectators gathered round with Steffon right in front, wringing his hands in pure dismay. He must have already learned of Ragnar’s missing kegs and now suspected the same as we did. The culprit had struck twice, and the blow would echo through the entire festival. And as I lifted a shaking hand to the back door, everyone held a collective breath and leaned in like trees bent in the wind.
“This isn’t how I expected to open my wagon for the season,” I muttered beneath my breath.
“Want me to look?” Ragnar asked.
“No. It should be me.”
I unlatched the door. It swung wide, creaking on the well-used hinges. Thick shadows obscured the contents, so I hopped up on the step and ducked inside. Everything was exactly how it should be. Tankards and banners were tucked in the correct corner. Wooden stakes were propped against the square pieces I used to construct tables. Even my brewing kit had been left untouched.
There was only one thing missing. A very important thing. Well, eleven things, really.
“It’s gone,” I whispered into the quiet dark. “The ale is actually gone.”
For a moment, a deafening silence seemed to suffocate the wagon. It was as if a powerful storm had sucked out all the air, leaving nothing behind. Heart pounding, I stared at the empty space where my kegs used to be. All those long days spent brewing, all the care and attention I’d given to the grains. It was all gone.
A dozen angry voices shattered the silence. The wagon rocked as the crowd swarmed. I fell to my knees, and my bones sparked with pain. The shouts grew louder. A few people clamored into the wagon and took a look around.
“Everyone, stop. Calm yourselves. Now!” Ragnar’s booming voice rent the chaos. The shouting ceased, and the wagon stilled. The intruders who’d leapt into the wagon slowly edged back outside. Sighing, I closed my eyes, then climbed out myself.
Steffon was shooing people away, but it was Ragnar’s scowls that put the fear of Freya in them. The crowd gave the wagon some space, but they lingered still. They wanted to know what was happening, and I didn’t much blame them. I wished I knew, too.
“I was hoping I wasn’t right,” said Ragnar, his eyes glued on the crowd. “Any idea who might have done it?”
“Earlier today I would have said you.”
He tore his gaze from the crowd to look at me, his lip curling. “And now?”
“Doesn’t really make much sense,” I said. When his brow rose, I quickly continued. “It’s not that I trust you, of course. Or even like you. But if you were going to steal my kegs, you would have been a lot quieter about it. I mean, if it weren’t for you, I would have gone to bed tonight none the wiser.”
“Maybe I’m a mastermind, and this was my way of convincing you it wasn’t me.”
“That would be very convoluted, and I don’t think that’s your style.”
“Enough,” Steffon cut in, shuffling closer, his shadows whorling around his reedy frame. “We have a problem, and you two don’t seem to understand the severity of it. There’s no ale for the festival. Yule is ruined!”
A murmur went through the crowd. Swallowing, I cast around a desperate glance for any sign of the thief. There were several footprints surrounding the wagon, but they could be mine or Ragnar’s or any of the people who had swarmed me during the missing ale discovery. There was no help to be found in the size or shape of those markings.
“We’ll figure something out,” I told Steffon. “It’s a little less than two weeks until Yule. Worst case scenario, I can brew some more. For now, Nilsa has plenty of wine. That’ll do while we work out a plan, right?”
“And you can brew some that fast?” he asked hopefully.
“Potentially,” I said slowly. There were a lot of factors to take into consideration. Most importantly, I had to buy some grains. But I didn’t want to see his eyeballs pop out of his head from the stress, so I decided not to go into detail. “I’ll need to look into a few things when it’s daylight, but I promise I’ll do my best.”
He lurched forward and latched onto my hand. “Thank you, Lilia. Fates bless you.”
The smile I gave him was weak. Fate had not been kind so far.
