The hops weren’t going to work.

That was my immediate first thought when I burst excitedly through the doorway to the tavern and ran headfirst into Annie. She was reorganizing our front of house, her brow dripping with sweat, and she had the cheery look of someone working hard and loving every minute of it.

“You're in a hurry, Pete,” she quipped. She twirled both her moustache braids at the same time, one in each hand, and regarded me with twinkling eyes. “Did you have an idea for the contest? I admit I’m still stuck on gold in the brew.”

I gave a sick smile back, realization hitting me like a tossed dwarf.

She was so pleased and confident recently. She’d spent weeks trying to improve that damn bittering agent to make her Goldstone Bitters and the last batch she’d made had come out amazing, by dwarven standards at least. All things considered, it was a feat worthy of the first brewer.

And now Pete the Godly Chosen ASSHOLE was going to come waltzing in and declare he knew better and whisk her hard work aside.

I would be the biggest putz in the world if I did that, especially if it turned out better. Though, come to think of it, I didn’t even know if dwarven taste-buds would appreciate hops in the first place, or if I had aromatic instead of bittering hops. Or, or, or…

I… I could wait. Now that I had my precious hops, and knew where to get more, I wasn’t really in a hurry. Heck, I could do an experiment with a small batch. Maybe try mixing it in with Annie’s new agent, and see how it did. There were lots of things I could do before tangling her beard with my shenanigans. I was going to live 400 years, I could take it slooooow.

“Pete?” Annie gave me a poke in the stomach. “You’re doing the thing.”

I shook my head clear. “Right. Sorry. No, I found an ingredient I’m really lookin’ forward ta usin’.”

“It’s – “ Kirk excitedly began behind me..

“A surprise!” I finished, and elbowed him in the stomach. At least, I tried to elbow him in the stomach, but with me not looking, and him being quite a bit taller… what followed was a lot of swearing, profuse apologies, and a trip to the kitchen for an ice pack. At least it changed the subject.

While Kirk angrily nursed his dignity, I pulled up one of the chairs next to the fire and stewed over some stew. It was Bran’s latest attempt at a ‘salty food’ for the cooking contest, and It was… salty.

I swallowed it back with some liquid gold. Back to square one. We had a clan meeting tonight to discuss the contest, and I wanted to have at least one good idea to bring. I’d introduce everyone to the hops after Annie came down off her crafter’s high.

What did dwarves find valuable? Where should I even begin?

Or maybe I was looking at this wrong.

What did I find valuable now?

My clan.

Gold. Silver. Gems.

My cozy cave.

Our goat.

My business, though I definitely cared more about the people than the business.

My brews.

My beard.

I activated [Pete’s Miniature Remembrance], and pulled out one of the largest objects I’d been able to call so far - a Newton’s Cradle. Each of the five metal balls was inscribed with a beavermoose, the mascot of our old brewery. Caroline had bought it for me for my office when I’d first moved into it, and it helped clear my head when I was stuck in a rut.

I pulled one of the balls up and let it fall. It struck the next ball in line with a sharp *clack* and the ball on the other end launched up into the air, before it too fell down and repeated the process.

I watched it go, back and forth. *clack* *clack* *clack*

Occasionally I’d lift two balls, or balls on either end, watching the variations of the cradle play out as I let my mind wander. *clack* *clack* *clack*

Valuable… valuable… how did one even define value, anyways? Money? Nostalgia? It was so open ended… *clack* *clack* *clack*

And we needed to be original enough that we weren’t just doing the same as the other breweries. And even if I did arrange something special, would Annie go for it? Would the voters? *clack* *clack* *clack*

What to do, what to do… *clack* *clack* *cl - *

“Well, ain’t that just somethin’!” Bando’s voice came from over my shoulder, seemingly right in my ear.

I jumped into the air like a startled cat. “Hoy! Bando Digger! What’re ya doin’, skulking up on a dwarf like that!!”

Bando had the good grace to look sheepish. “I was sneakin’ in when I heard tha’ sound. Looks neat!”

“It’s a Newton’s Cradle. And… sneaking?” My eyes narrowed to suspicious slits as I regarded his expression..

He fidgeted. “Er, I mean comin’ back in.”

“Uh, HUH. It’s not really my business, Bando. So long as yer work gets done. What’re you up to? I hope not gettin’ into more trouble with the guard.” He’d been brought back by the local police twice now, and they’d said he was liable to end up in a reform mine the next time.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Bando rapidly shook his nead. “No, siree, Pete. We learned our lesson. We were passin’ out flyers in the gnomish district. Lord Harmsson thinks with the full support of the gnomish community, it’ll be easier to put pressure on the king.”

“Physical flyers? Is soliciting like that legal in Kinshasa? I seem to recall I had to play silly buggers with bards when I wanted to advertise in Minnova.”

“Advertise?” Bando gave me a curious gaze.

“Nothing, forget about it. Are you allowed to hand out flyers?”

Bando shrugged. “Dunno. We had a watcher fer tha’ guard either way. They don’t like us no matter what cause they don’t like what we stand for! We scarper ifn’ they show up.”

I nodded noncommittally. This was starting to sound depressingly familiar to election year in Canada. “And what do you stand for, exactly?”

“Freedom from the oppression of the nobility! Equal rights for gnomes! Proper respect fer the merchantry and the average greybeard!” Bando punctuated each sentence with gusto, his eyes shining with the fervour of a zealot.

Ah, youth. Or in Bando’s case, a young-adult crisis. Probably rebelling against his mother’s smothering attention, or seeking validation from his father. Or not, I was a brewer, not a shrink. Either way, this sounded a lot like that most heady of stimulants – rhetoric. I needed a stiffer drink for this conversation.

Dwarven society had almost no defense against rhetoric. They’d been helpless against advertising, let alone a concerted push of jingoism and catchy slogans. Bando and his friends were going to find themselves in serious hot water if they weren’t careful.

Parental experience said ordering him to ‘stop’ would just cause him to dig in his heels, so I simply nodded along as he continued his story. When he was done waxing histrionically about the ‘changes he was wroughting in the world’ – his words, not mine – I gave an appreciative grunt.

“Yer doin’ a fine thing, tryin’ ta make the world a better place, Bando Digger.”

Bando’s chest swelled with pride. “Why thankee, Brewer Pete! Lord Harmsson is an inspiration to us all.”

Sigh. Yes, Harmsson, a populist if I’d ever seen one. “What about this Harmsson do you appreciate so much?”

“He’s a hard workin’ greybeard, and he helps everyone. Even as a minor noble he still has thoughts fer tha less fortunate.”

“Heh. You know, accordin' to Balin and Opal, that’s what all nobles are supposed to do.”

“Mebbe further East, but ‘round Kinshasa parts they’re more like parasites.”

I glanced around the tavern, but we were currently alone; the few guests we had at the inn weren’t in for dinner yet, and we were closed to the general public until later.

“You know that you can get in trouble fer talkin’ about the nobility like that. Country of Crack Ordinances, Chapter 2, Section 4, Subsection 3,” I whispered.

Bando rolled his eyes. Which pretty much summed my actual thoughts on the matter.

I tried another tack. “You wouldn’t want a silly think like insultin’ a noble keep you from helpin’ folks, right?’

“I guess…”

“Have you told yer ma what yer doin’? She’d be right proud of how selfless her son’s become!” I glanced in the direction of the tenement houses that we were using for the inn. At this time of day, Rosie would be there cleaning up. Her [Innkeeper] Specialisation came with some crazy Abilities for housekeeping.

Bando blushed, and swirled his foot. “Naw, she wouldn’t understand. And I gotta admit, Pete. It’s not just about helpin’ folks, I gots another reason too. Rumor says that if’n ya spend enough time helpin’ Lord Harmsson, yer liable to get Titled! His good work has tha Gods keepin’ watch on what he does, and Blessin’ those what help. I’ll never get a Blessin’ workin’ an inn, it’s not my callin’, so this may be my best chance!”

“That’s – “ I trailed off as something about what he’d just said jogged my memory. Recently, my higher intelligence helped me remember even one-off conversations, and I combed through recent events.

What came to mind was that Chosen Catalysts tended to spread Blessings around them. Given that, it was entirely possible that Harmsson, or somebody near him, was one of the other Chosen.

A Chosen within City Hall would explain a lot of the weird things happening with the Octamillenial events. The sudden push for a constitutional monarchy, the slogans, the flaunting of tradition. The uncanny feeling that I was unknowingly playing in a gameshow, like some fantastical version of the Truman Show.

It fit a pattern, and warranted further study. I’d need to check it out incognito, with backup. Preferably lots of burly dwarves with axes.

With that decided, it was time to lay out the hook. I leaned back in my chair and adopted a thoughtful expression. [White Lie] don't fail me now! “Tell you what, Bando. You’ve convinced me.”

“Er, I have? About what??”

“Your noble cause! I want to come help you out.” Which was technically true, come to think.

“Really!?” Bando looked positively ecstatic. “Ya mean it??”

“Sure! What’s the next time yer headin’ out?” I could knock two birds out with one stone. Make sure this was all as above-board as Bando claimed, and steer him from within if the needs called for it. And of course, investigate Lord Harmsson on the sly. That was three birds with one stone!

“We’re goin’ to Yellowwall! Lord Harmsson got tha’ city ta’ pipe in fresh water from tha’ cistern in Blackwall. Right now tha’ pipes only go as far as Greywall, but Lord Harmsson got ‘em to agree to an expansion ifn’ most o’ tha labour was volunteer!”

“Sounds like a fine day’s work. I’m in. When is it?”

“Sometimes in tha next few weeks. I’ll let ya know.”

“Alrighty.” I turned away from Bando and back to my cradle. I tried to get back in the zone, but the moment was lost. Plus, Bando was still standing over my shoulder, with a nervous energy I immediately recognized as ‘child has question for parent’.

I sighed. “Yes, Bando?”

“What’re you thinkin’ on so hard? You were really into it when I came in. Sorry fer’ interruptin’.”

“Eh, sure. You may be able to help. Here’s tha deal.”

I explained the quarter-final rules, and Bando laughed. “Why’re ya tryin’ ta appeal to everyone? Ain’t the votin’ limited to tha capital?”

I stared at Bando. From the mouths of babes, or Bandos in this case. He was right, I didn’t need to appeal to ‘dwarves’ I just needed something ‘Kinshasan’s’ in particular would find valuable. Now, what fit that description? This was something [Flash of Insight] was perfect for, and I activated the ability.

Four things immediately popped into my mind. One was nobility, which was utterly useless unless we could make a beer that magically turned you into a noble. The next was tradition, and while a traditional Sacred Brew would fulfill the requirements, it probably wouldn’t be enough to win.

The last possibility though, was salt. It was in everything in Kinshasa. Salted pork, salted crackers, salty taffy, over-salted coffee at the Whistling Teacup Cafe next door, et cetera. According to Richter, It was Kinshasa’s primary export, and played a vital role in their internal politics, and a significant portion of Yellowwall worked all day in the salt mines. Even back on Earth, salt had been called white gold. Heck, It was the theme of the quarterfinals for the cooking contest. I stared at the dish of half-eaten salty stew in front of me, the eddies of goat in it reflecting the eddies in my mind.

Salt and beer…

Salty beer…

My eyes widened and I jumped to my feet. “Eureka!”

Bando almost fell back on his rear. “Wuzzat!? Yer what??”

“You’ve given me a brilliant idea, Bando! Thank you! I may have just come up with the winning brew, and it’s all thanks to you!”