The bartender's shaggy beard moved in thought for a while before he finally made up his mind.

"Whatever you say." The beard nodded.

"It'll be all right." Cyril said, clapping his hands. "Pour me a beer."

Dyck raised an eyebrow, but did not refuse the request and went to the barrel, taking a larger mug from under the counter. When he returned, Cyril gave him a very conspiratorial look that made his beard shake with fear again. The situation was getting more and more out of the tavern owner's control.

"Do you want an additional shadow source of income to bypass creditors?" Cyril asked, taking a long drink of warm beer.

Gotta organize ice here somehow. Cyril immediately made another note.

"What?" Dyck did not understand.

"I thought that since we have our own water source, we don't need to buy water any more."

"That's right."

"Let's sell it to competitors at half price!" Cyril exclaimed, slamming his mug down on the counter.

He was as happy as a child when he came up with such a simple and at the same time bold idea. Cyril still didn't understand why, but he wanted to punish this Clean Heel clan that had created an Empire around the water.

The story of a company from Earth that pumped water from similar sources, selling bottled water all over the planet, came to his mind. This water belonged to the inhabitants of those lands, but the company simply stole the source. Perhaps Cyril saw the Clean Heel clan as a similar greedy beast that built a business on someone else's mountain?

Definitely, Cyril's cynicism was just a mask, and he still empathized with ordinary people. However, it seemed to him that every time other people died because of him, there was less empathy.

"Uh, but the clan..." Dyck muttered.

"Forget the clan." Cyril said, taking a sip. "We'll hit the market price of water, and they'll beg us to raise the price back."

"Or they will come with war." Dyck said in his old, menacing voice, and a heavy hand fell on the counter.

Dyck lost his patience. He could have agreed to a change in the tavern, but he would never have allowed a clash with the clan.

"I'll have something for answer." Cyril said, quite calmly. "Gurgle."

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Dyck raised an eyebrow, not understanding what Cyril meant when the room became cool and water droplets formed under the ceiling. One of the drops fell on Dyck's broad nose, and a vortex appeared behind Cyril, and then formed a giant slug.

[Did master call me?]

Bubbles ran inside the giant slug and Dyck saw the one who had recently cleaned out his entire tavern.

Cyril did not turn to look at the elemental, and was still looking at Dyck with a steady gaze when he asked the elemental a question.

"Can you handle a group of desperate wizards from the Clean Heel clan?"

[They are weak, but I'm getting stronger with each new portion of human shit.] Dyck heard a voice inside his head. The bubbles ran up again inside the transparent body.

"Do you understand now?" Cyril asked, looking into eyes of Dyck.

Dyck knew where Cyril was tending, but the beard on his face was shaking, ignoring the wishes of the person on whose face it was growing.

"Cyril, I don't want any problems." Dyck repeated, a phrase that had already become familiar to him.

Now the bartender really wished he hadn't made Cyril the manager.

This guy didn't just become a pain in the ass; he didn't just enrich the tavern in two days; he didn't just make Freya happy; Cyril made him restless in the usual bustle, when Dyck knew in advance which of the guests would drink and eat, and when to go to bed.

Dyck trusted him, but trust led to a complete loss of the usual life.

"Do you wanna return the good name of your father?" Cyril asked, and Dyck couldn't help but agree. "You will have to face the clan."

The trip to retrieve the body last night had made Cyril reconsider his plans. He, like Dyck, at first hoped to quietly pull off his business, die and leave without saying goodbye. But no matter how much Cyril tried to hide, people were dying around him.

That captain shouldn't have died. Cyril thought. As much as those thieves in the alley or Lady Oink shouldn't have. Their blood is on my hands, and if, even trying to avoid trouble, I attract someone else's death, there's no point in hiding anymore.

Freya came up behind him, circling the elemental in a wide arc, and sat down in the chair to Cyril's left.

The more noise I make, he added to himself. The sooner I get answers.

"You are no longer alone." He said, glancing at Freya and back at Dyck. "Both of you have me and my fucking friend. Right, Gurgle!?"

[As long as my master makes me stronger, I don't care whose corpses I consume.] Gurgle answered, blowing bubbles.

"Corpses?" Freya was startled, but Dyck frowned and his beard also moved in disbelief. "We don't want dead bodies here."

[Don't be afraid, woman. I didn't see any corpses here, and I only ate shit.] The elemental reassured Freya. Or rather, he tried to calm them down, because the nature of people remained a mystery to the primodial being.

At the words about shit, Freya blushed. Guests weren't the only ones who went to shit in the local toilet, and Freya felt uneasy at the thought of this two-meter-long slug eating what was so shamefully coming out of her body.

Dyck shook his head.

"That's too harsh. I'm not ready for this change." He said, and beard nodded in agreement.

"Anyway, the changes have already begun, and there's no turning back." Cyril snapped. "You don't have to do anything at all, we'll take care of everything else."

This magic phrase can move mountains if the mountain is too lazy or stupid to step aside when dynamite is placed in it. We'll take care of everything, the bombers say, clearing their tunnel explosion after explosion, while the mountain remains in place and does nothing at all.

So did Dyck hear what he wanted to hear. You don't have to do anything at all, he thought, and it seemed to him that control of his life was back in his hands, and this clever partner only wanted to make him richer and freer. Free from debt and guilt towards his sister.

"Did you get the whiskey, by the way?"

The question snapped Dyck out of his reverie.

"Malt brew?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. Just don't let it be called so ridiculous. We have a cool place and we make whiskey. The only one in town."

Cyril said this with such a pompous air that even the elemental chuckled. The trouble was that Freya was already head over heels in love with this rascal, and Dyck finally let go of the reins.

"Agree, brother!" Freya exclaimed. "Cyril is a reliable person, everything will work out."

She really believed it, and Cyril couldn't blame her. In the end, Dyck already said that people, like morals, were quite simple here.

"Oh, the hell with you." Dyck swore, and the beard smiled. "Deal! On Thursday, we will pump this city up!"

"Wow, did you pump your slang up!?" Cyril asked, almost choking on a mouthful of beer.

"Yep! Haha!"

Dyck laughed, though it sounded more like thunder from the sky. Freya echoed his laughter, glad that her brother had decided to pull the tavern out of the shadows and restore the honor of their family name. Cyril laughed too, seeing that his new plan was about to work.

Gurgle blew a couple of bubbles and disappeared in a cloud of steam. He had time to think that people were strange creatures, but Gurgle wanted to know the world of people and was glad that he knew them a little more.

When the laughter faded, there was a clatter of hooves and the creak of a wheel from the street. The bright day was playing with happy colors outside, when an inconspicuous man in a shabby cap entered the double door.

Cyril glanced at the newcomer and recalled the coachman.