Beers and Beards

Book 3- Chapter 57 Doctor's Orders

I sighed as the [Barber] combed a knot out of my hair. It matched the knots in my back – and heart. Aqua was right, I really did need time off. Well, no time like the present!

“You were saying, Pete?” Johnsson asked.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was getting a beard oil massage while a gnome rubbed his feet. Beside him, Beauregard – the Dwarf Draconis – was getting his nails done.

Because of course the professional luchadwarf that ran around nearly naked all day needed to have perfect cuticles.

Bare feet were, to be fair, the ultimate flex for a dwarf.

I turned back to stare at the ceiling then closed my eyes. Very deliberately, I let my mind wander back to my old life.

“The worst part of having children, especially a daughter, was the hair,” I said, continuing my anecdote from earlier. “It was tangly, frizzy, and an absolute horror show to keep combed and washed. I could handle the poopy diapers, I could deal with the tantrums, and burping was a snap, but the battles over shampoo were the thing of nightmares. Going to the hair salon wasn’t much better. She got used to it eventually, but it took years.”

Beauregard laughed, a belly-bouncing guffaw. “Aye! Me nephew was a right mudworm when it came time to clip his moustache! He’d burrow into the nearest hole and then bite anyone what came near!”

My first therapist mandated rest period was fairly simple; spend the day being a third wheel to Johnsson and Beuregard. It turned out to be pretty chill – they just bro’d about the city, and I got to be another one of the bros.

As we’d walked through town, I’d noticed we were getting a lot of attention. At first I’d thought it was because we were walking with someone famous, but the famous person turned out to be Johnsson! Everyone seemed to know him! Gnome, giant, child, it didn’t matter who, they were all saying their hellos to the pink streaked, false armored, dandy of a dwarf.

Whoddathunkit.

The barber pushed my chin up, and I obliged, giving them access to my lower beard. The barber tsk’d at the state of my scruff, and went to work with clippers.

“What colour was her hair?” Johnsson asked.

“Brown.” I said. “She was always kind of upset about that. She wanted blonde, or black, or red. Or something exciting, like rainbow.”

“Never seen rainbow hair.” Johnsson remarked. “That could be interesting.”

I just barely avoided nodding while clippers buzzed inches from my chin. “Aye, I guess rainbows aren’t nearly as popular underground.”

“Speaking of popular!” Beauregard jumped in. “Am I helpin’ you sell your next beer? And when are you gonna let me try it! Johnny said it’ll knock my armored socks straight off, and I don’t even wear any!”

He wiggled his toes, and the gnome working on them gave his leg hair a yank.

“We’ll let you try it next week.” Johnsson murmured, ignoring Beauregard’s hisses of pain

“I never had a big beard before.” I continued. “Sammy hated it, and so did my Caroline. They always said it was too scratchy. I’d start growing it out on the first of the month and five days later I’d start finding razors on my pillow, in my office, on my breakfast plate… and Sammy would start making comments about seeing bigfoot in the yard.”

“What’s a bigfoot?”

“Think a giant, but with really big feet. And covered in hair. Sasquatch was another name for it. My favourite hot springs town, Harrison Hotsprings, was famous for them. They had a whole touristy thing around the Harrison Sasquatch. And they made these really tasty nuts. We loved that town… Caroline and I would go dancing at the Copper Room, then go eat whole pork hocks at the Black Forest.”

I sighed, remembering the taste. Maybe I could ask Bran to make me one. “Caroline and I even talked about retiring there.”

“Sounds like a mountain ape,” Johnsson mused. “They have those in the northern mountains. You’ve come a long way!”

I rolled my eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if every fantasy thing you could imagine existed in Erd. At least it helped keep my story straight.

We sat in silence for a little while more, enjoying the feeling of relaxation that could only be found in a good spa. I closed my eyes and sank into reminiscense. The best spa I’d ever gone to with Caroline was Spa Erding in Munich. Our Canadian sensibilities had balked at a thousand person nude spa at first, but we’d come around right around the time we’d found the in-pool bar. Nothing removed inhibitions quite like a double mai tai!

Especially when all I was wearing was my tie! Nyuck!

Speaking of which, the first order of business after I finished with all this beer business, was to go get some harder alcohol.

At this point, another patron came in and started talking with the front staff. The new voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t put a face to it. I ignored it; I had rum and coke to drink in my daydreams.

The newcomer was brought next to us in the row, and they greeted us as they took their seat. “Good afternoon. You three look like you’re having a good time.”

Their voice was deep and cultured, with the cadence of a noble, but without the annoying inflections.

“Aye. The Bashful Beard hires the best of the best” Beauregard said in a friendly tone.

“This is our favourite spot.” Johnsson added. “Can’t beat ‘em.”

“Oh, I agree. My friends keep telling me to patron some place more exclusive, but Barber Mcshave is my favourite dwarf in the business.”

The dwarf working on my beard chuckled. “Hah! Flattery won’t be gettin’ you any discounts!”

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice. Do I know you?” Johnsson asked.

“Hmmm… possibly. I never forget a face. Did you come out to the water pipe project in Yellowwall?”

“Aye… You’re - !” Johnsson said in partial alarm.

I opened my eyes to see the one dwarf in all of Kinshasa I didn’t want sitting next to me in a barbershop. Which was weirdly specific, but whatever.

It was Thad Harmsson.

In the flesh.

Sitting right next to me. A buxom human shaped elfess stood behind his chair, trying to blend into the background and looking bored.

He noticed me staring and gave me a winning smile. “Hello! Sorry for interrupting your trim.”

“No problem, Lord Harmsson.” Barber Mcshave said, giving a flick of his wrist. “I was just finishing up.”

I nodded in confirmation. “Aye. We were going to be leaving soon anyway!” I turned a ‘happy’ smile on Johnsson, and he picked up the cue.

“Aye! We’ve got a wrestling match to go see!” Johnsson nodded vigorously.

“Har! Not that there’s much to see! It’s all second stringers today!” Beauregard guffawed, thumping his chest with pride and missing the hint entirely.

“You are the famous Dwarf Draconis then!?” Harmsson said, his eyebrows arching. “I thought my eyes were deceiving me.”

“That I am!” Beauregard nodded, frowning. “And I’ve heard of you, Lord Harmsson. Not all of it good.”

“I’d imagine so.” Harmsson shrugged. “A natural consequence of my work.”

He then turned to give me a questioning look. “But I’m curious. I feel like we’ve met, but I can’t recall your face. Do I know you?”

My brain hiccuped. The last time he’d seen me, I’d been in costume. Talk mouth! Talk! My answer came out unbidden, near knee-jerk, ingrained from years of habit.

“‘fraid I can't say. I don’t know any dwarves named You.”

Harmsson blinked.

I blinked back.

The upright noble snickered, then laughed, then guffawed. In a moment, he was in near paroxysms of laughter.

I gave a nervous chuckle and shot a look at Johnsson, who shrugged and rolled his eyes.

Harmsson quickly calmed, and wiped a tear from his eyes. “Ahhh!! Thank you for that! I’m surrounded by serious nobles and city workers all day. You just reminded me of something I heard a long time ago. Thank you for that.”

I gave a sick smile. “Happy ta help.”

“All done, Brewer Roughtuff. Would you like a hot towel? You don’t need to get up – feel free to wait until Johnny and Beau are done.” Mcshave took that exact moment to cut my throat, figuratively. See if I leave you a tip, Mcshave!

Harmssons eyes twitched up, like someone reading a prompt, and then flicked back down again. His smile grew a bit more genuine.

“Brewer Roughtuff! That’s why I didn’t recognize you! You came in disguise last we met! I’m glad to finally meet you face to face!”

“Ah - haaaah!” I leaked. “Aye, I hear Sam talked to you about that?”

Harmsson nodded. “That he did. And not to worry, I understand your caution. You’re not the first to come in disguise to our rallies, and you won’t be the last! We encourage local master craftsmen and Titled to come and see what we’re about, and not all the guilds like or appreciate what we’re doing. The nobility certainly doesn’t, especially the Council of Greybeards! That can make some reluctant to come. And you not only came, you worked hard to help the less fortunate. You’re a shining example of a Crackian. I thank you for your civic duty.” He actually held his beard out to me, a rare gesture of humility from a noble.

“Uh, thankee.” I breathed a sigh of relief, and my jaw uncramped.

I accepted a hot towel from Mcshave and lay it on my neck as I settled back into my chair, keeping a wary eye on Harmsson.

“I haven’t been following the brewing contest very closely.” Harmsson admitted as Mcshave tipped his seat back and began working on his large, grey, and well-manicured beard. “But I did hear that the guild’s been hard on you for changing the Sacred Brew. It’s not your fault, you’re just following the contest rules, and furthering your craft too! Such a shame…”

I couldn’t help agreeing with gusto. “Aye, the guild’s been a right pain in me behind!”

“The guilds have been a problem for all the crafters, from what I’ve heard. The blacksmiths have had the worst of it – two entire forges burned down during the last round.” Harmsson shook his head in chagrin, and Barber Mcshave paused his clippers just long enough to mutter an angry imprecation at the movement.

I gulped and looked over at my resident gossip. Johnsson nodded sadly and Beuregard swore mightily.

Harmsson, sensing the plunging atmosphere, smoothly changed the subject. “I did hear you’re competing against the famed Riverside for the next round! That’ll definitely be tough – Master Brewer Schist is my favourite brewer in the city, you know.”

“Heh. I think you’ll be surprised.” I smirked.

“Oh?”

“We have something special planned. Riverside and the Thirsty Goat, that is.”

“Really? What is it?” Harmsson asked conspiratorially. He leaned over, and Mcshave smacked his head back.

“Hmmm… nope. It’s still a secret.” I grinned wide. “But as a fellow lover of the Sacred Brew, I can give you an early invite to our big event next month.”

It would be public knowledge soon anyway, so there wasn’t much point in hiding it.

“An event? There’ll be lots of Riverside brew, I assume?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll make an effort to be there.”

Harmsson paused in our conversation as Mcshave went to work on his moustache. I waited for Johnsson and Beauregard to finish up, and the three of us stood to leave.

I gave a parting farewell as we headed out. “Have a good shave, Lord Harmsson.”

He held up a hand. “Brewer Roughtuff. Before you go, may I ask you for something of a favour?”

I paused. “Um, you may.”

“In light of the attacks on the blacksmiths, I’d like to make a statement about the contests and the state of the guilds. Your event sounds like it could be the perfect venue for it.”

It took me a second to parse his question, and I sucked in my breath as I realized what he was asking. Uh, how about no!?

“You don’t need to answer right away!” Harmsson assuaged me, seeing my hesitation, “And please do talk to Master Brewer Schist first. But given the events of the past month, between the cheating in the cooking contest and the arsons, it may behoove you to show that someone powerful has your back.”

I wanted to deny him flat out, but I hesitated. He was doing more for the city than any other noble or city official that I’d seen since arriving in Kinshasa. There was still a high chance that there was a Chosen involved with his campaign, but…

I thought back to helping Sammy make posters for her outreach club at school. Of volunteering my grapes and time at the local soup kitchen. All the memories I’d been avoiding while I focused on my all-important mission of saving beer.

I always had a place in my heart for the little guy, and right now Harmsson was quite literally the only noble looking out for the littlest people of all – the gnomes. And the people of Yellowall of course. I just couldn’t keep ignoring that. Even if it could be personally dangerous.

“And my Great Charter demands a number of concessions for celebrated craftsdwarves such as yourself.” Harmsson pushed. “Have you read it?”

“I have.” I admitted. “And I agree with much of what you’re trying to accomplish. It’s just… can I be honest, Lord Harmsson? Politicians promise the world, but in my experience they don’t deliver. I was impressed by what you did in Yellowwall, and I was there for the shaleshark cleanup as well, so I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I’m not sure I want to hook my goat up to yer wagon yet.”

Harmsson’s face didn’t change at all, but I could tell he was disappointed.

“But…” I heaved an enormous sigh. “I’ll talk to Master Brewer Schist. I’ll send word of our decision through Sam, as well as a sample of our semi-final beer entry. We’ll see if you still think Master Brewer Schist is the best brewer in the city after that!”

“I look forward to hearing from you then, Brewer Roughtuff.” Harmsson replied with a smile. He held his fist up for a fist bump, and I obliged around a rapidly reddening Mcshave.

“Oh, and if Schist approves you'll need to run your speech past us first.” I hedged.

Harmsson beat his clenched fist on his chest. “Of course.”

*Ding!*

And then the three of us were back out in the street, dodging goats and giants and heading to the wrestling arena.

I hoped I wasn’t making a terrible mistake, but Godsdammit, I WANTED what Harmsson was selling. He was right! And according to Master Brewer Schist and Guildmaster Malt, I was already in deep shit in the background. Pulling the attention off me and onto Harmsson could be just what the Doctor ordered.

But I’d leave it up to Master Brewer Schist. Yep, it would be all his fault. And we'd set up a contingency, just in case