Beers and Beards: A Cozy Dwarf Tale

Book 3: Chapter 29: Bentley - But Not The Car

Book 3: Chapter 29: Bentley - But Not The Car

It was official. The best part about Erd was that hangovers were practically non-existent with a high enough Vitality. I still took longer to get drunk than the average dwarf, too. I still wasn’t quite sure why that was, but who cared! I could consider it a secret cheat from Barck.

I would have to do something nice for Aishablue. The lovable south-Erden gnomess had been our designated ride home after the party, and she’d done her work admirably. I woke up snug as a bug in a rug in my bed, and then toddered up to breakf–lunch. I ate some very salty soup with very salty erdroot biscuits, then went to saltily do daily chores in the brewroom. Aqua, Kirk, and Richter did not have my Vitality, so they would be a while. Balin probably had me beat for Vitality, but hadn’t bothered to come out of the hole he was holed up in with Annie.

I took all of the above to mean that not much work was going to be done today.

And that suited me just fine. I had a lot to think about.

Or rather, I had a lot to talk about. With specific people. And today was just as good as any to do it, what with all the zombies groaning about the house.

When the chores were done, I grabbed a coffee from next door, then holed up in the office and began doing what every business owner loved doing most.

Scheduling.

Well, I tried to do scheduling. As was inevitable with scheduling, something kept coming up.

*baaaah…* [Translate from Prima Donna Goat] “Forsooth, why do the things we love cause us such pain??”

I gave an amused glance at our resident prima donna. “You think a love of beer is painful, you should try having children.”

*bleee*ehhh….* *glug* *glug*

One of the elementals was dutifully pouring water into her mouth while she lay sprawled on the floor of the office. How on Erd she’d managed to communicate that need was beyond me. I was just happy she’d made it back with us.

The problem was that every time I glanced away, she gave piteous moans until I paid attention to her again.

I eventually bowed to the inevitable and sat down beside her, gently kneading her favourite spot around her horn while I brainstormed. She bleated happily, then groaned again.

First I was going to talk to Opal and see if there was any way for us to get into Whitewall. Once we had a way in, we’d need to plan some epic heist ala Ocean’s 11 or Need for Speed Seventeen or whatever it was on now.

Next person on my list was Berry. It was past time for us to use her more seriously as our celebrity endorsement. She was now famous in Kinshasa in her own right, and was even doing presentations on music-magic to Archis Academy. However, considering what I’d just learned, I was becoming loath to link ourselves to her too tightly. Especially when I was nearly positive there were other Chosen running around the city. I was going to need to warn her that any and all old and powerful clans that approached her should be suspect.

Finally, I had a Pot to hang on a wall. While somehow not getting instantly murdered by whatever shadowy ninjas he had guarding his back. And wasn’t his whole-hearted embrace of Raspberrysyrup suspect now too! GodsDAMMIT!

But first, Opal. I’d leave the fugging ninjas for last. Or never.

—

Opal wasn’t too hard to find. I simply strong-armed Bran into bringing me into Blackwall to meet her at her clan’s residence. He had a pass that granted him entry, and it came with a plus-one by default.

The trip would be almost two hours by foot, less for me with [Long Stride] but Bran didn’t have it, so we went down to the rental stables and took out some goats. Taxis weren’t really a thing here. Instead, most people rented goats at stables located within each district, and then dropped the goats off at another stable. It made it easy to travel around the city, and was paid for by our sizeable taxes. Of course, anyone caught mistreating one of the city unigoats would find that the long arm of the law had nothing on the outraged weaponry of their neighbours. It was my first time traveling by goat-back and it was an enlightening and butt-puckering experience. At least I only screamed louder than the goat once. Okay, twice.

It took over an hour to reach the monolithic obsidian sheet of Blackwall, which shone with inner magic. The guards here were much more alert, showcasing a hard-bitten veteran attitude comparable to the Highwatch. They all wore dark black armor that matched the general motif. We were required to drop the unigoats off at the gate, where a uniformed city official whisked them away to their stables.

The guards inspected Bran’s card, swept me over with Abilities, and then let us in with a warning not to wander into restricted areas.

“How do we know what’s restricted?” I whispered to Bran as we walked away from the gate.

“When someone stabs ya.” Bran grunted back.

“Hah! Wait, you’re serious!?”

“Only a little.” Bran smirked.

I admit I gawked as we walked, but there was a lot to gawk at.

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The best way to describe it was as such:

The atmosphere in Yellowwall was of desperation and decay.

The atmosphere in Greywall was of hustle and bustle.

The atmosphere in Redwall was of business and pleasure.

The atmosphere in Blackwall was of pomp and circumstance.

It had that tasteful minimalism I’d come to associate with wine snobs. Not to denigrate wine-snobs, of course! They were some of my best customers, and I was a bit of one myself. But you know the type; a single painting on an entire wall, a lone tree in a field, a fireplace with exactly two evenly spaced candlesticks on the pristinely clean mantle, a perfectly mowed lawn with nothing but a ‘don’t walk on the lawn’ sign on it.

The buildings here were all single storey affairs, solidly built of a dark grey stone, and the streets were paved with smoother flagstones than the rest of the city. Every surface that wasn’t polished was gilded or silvered. Even the freaking gutters were spick and span.

The few dwarves, and it was only dwarves, that we saw walking the streets had an aloof and je-ne-sais-quois air to them. At least half were escorted by guards or trailed after by minions. And it was so quiet that I felt subconscious of the sound of my heels clicking on the cobblestones.

“I have to ask,” I whispered, “what is Opal’s clan? How do they live here? I know her dad is a lord, or something, and her mum is a royal pain.”

“Her clan is the Bentleys. They’re one of the fore-runner clans that settled Minnova, and their current head is Torim Bentley. Opal is his oldest child, but they haven’t given her the heir’s name yet. She’s still Opal Sifsdotter.” Bran frowned, showing his displeasure at the insult.

In most dwarven clans it was customary to give the heir of the family the clan name, and they would become the Goldstone, or the Malt when it came time for them to inherit. Most others were given last names like ‘Jonesson’ or ‘Bannerdotter’ from one of their parents. They were still Goldstones, or whatever, but they used the clan more as a second last-name.

Gnomes were the opposite, with their children all using the last noun of their first name, like Copper-pot and Whistle-mop.

And then there were myriad families that didn’t follow the rules. Naming conventions were always kinda messy, even back on Earth.

“Why’d they do that?” I asked, curiously. “Opal’s very proper, intelligent, and well-respected! She’d make an ideal noble in my most ‘umble of opinions.”

“They didn’t like that she became a [Doctor]. It’s beneath a noble to be waitin’ on the common folk.” Bran spat into the gutter. The globule spattered onto the stone then kept sliding, whisking away down the stones and into a drain before my astonished eyes. That was some nice infrastructure!

“But… I thought that she was gonna become a noble anyway, ‘cause of her hard work. Isn’t that why she was spendin’ all that time in tha mine?”

“Aye. She definitely deserves it. But she’ll most likely get it because, one way or another, a Bentley is almost always made the Marquis of Central Crack. It’s not hereditary, it just looks that way, cause the Council of Greybeards scratches the nobles’ backs and they scratch back. And doesn’t that just comb Opal’s moustache sideways.”

“Almost always?”

“Aye. Sometimes there’s a Bentley so loutish that tha Greybeards won’t hand out the title out of respect for their Ancestors. Always goes back in a generation or two, though.”

I mulled on that as we walked the streets

Everywhere I looked, it was clear that there was real power here.

I felt like a child clomping mud into a house. It was not a good feeling, and was the first time I’d felt that way since becoming a dwarf.

And then we were at the Bentley Estate. I could tell because it had a big sign on the front that said Bentley. It was just as ostentatious as the car. A three-meter wall ran the length of the block, and then disappeared around a corner. There weren’t any guards or other identifying marks, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. It was downright eerie.

I shivered and went to knock, but Bran stopped me.

“They know we’re here. They’ll be sendin’ someone to come get us. Hold yer goat.”

After a minute or two, the tall metal gate creaked open, revealing a wide courtyard and a perfectly manicured moss-lawn. Oh, hey! With a single flowering tree in the middle of it, and nothing else! I’d been right on the money!

The dwarf that stood in the open gateway looked almost exactly like the [Butler] I’d met at Pot manor. Same black uniform, same pursed lips like he’d smelt something horrid.

“Ah, it is you, Artisan Hurler. What brings you today?” The butler said, in an accent that reminded me very much of Louis Blackbeard. He poked his head out of the gate to look left and right down the street.

Bran smiled. “Just comin’ to talk to Opal. I wanted to share the new dishes I’m preparin’ for the Quarterfinals. This is Peter Roughtuff, the champion Brewer from Minnova. He’s a good friend of ours, and he was hoping to ask Opal for some advice.”

“Of course!” The [Butler]’s face practically transformed into a beaming smile. Where had that come from!? “May I say that the household is very much enthralled with your cooking. We can’t wait to try what you make next. Chef Bronzebeard is worried you’ll take her job!”

“Bah! Not likely. I got a contest to win and a restaurant to run!”

The [Butler] turned his beaming smile on me and gave a quick headbob. “And any friend of Opal’s is a friend of the family.”

The [Butler] and Bran seemed to be great friends, chatting merrily away as we walked the stone walkway to the sprawling manor house. If typical architecture held true, and what lay beneath was bigger than what the eye could see, this place had to be huge! It was practically a palace!

Heck, it actually reminded me of Versailles. Same little gardens and little statuettes placed here and there, and nothing to block line of sight for the guards walking the grounds.

The [Butler], who I learned was named Urist – a common name, apparently – came from a long line of caretakers for local nobility. Their clan name was even Mcbuttle.

Urist Mcbuttle. It was certainly… a name. Whoever came up with it was clearly touched in the head.

As we arrived at the front door, Urist swept his hand to take it all in. “Welcome to Bentley Manor Brewer Roughtuff! I hope your visit is fruitful! May Solen shine upon your path!”

And then we were in. First step down. Lots to go.