[Sun And Stars]Haggle Properly. This isn't worth 19 (Victor)

[Arrow]

Fall 62, 511 A.V.


Arrow ran his hand down the front of his rather shabby jacket. Trouble had given it a good brushing before she sent him out the door with a slight pout. She wanted to come too, her frown said clearly. Arrow, however, thought the negotiations might go better without her. The girl had a tendency to want to oversell their product, and it was, after all, a very humble sort of beer. His hand then reached for the handle of the plain, dark door with the silver lettering. It had taken a bit of looking to find the Sun and Stars again. He had planned his timing accordingly though, allowing for a bit longer than it had taken to get home the evening before. Grateful that Laszlo had given him this entrée and possible new custom, he could only hope that he would catch Victor Lark in, and awake. The man kept quite busy, apparently. He was the one to see, though, Laszlo had assured him yesterday evening. This Victor did all their buying, and it was to him Arrow must speak if he hoped to make the tavern his customer. Arrow’s other hand cradled a glass jar with a lid against his chest. Inside the jar was a sample of his ware. He had great hope that the quality of his brewing would sell itself.

Pulling the door open, he stepped inside. The interior of tavern was hardly brighter than it had been late yesterday afternoon. It seemed as if the most light came from the mosaic overhead, as it was still early afternoon. Laszlo has said his co-owner was usually gone by four of the clock, so Arrow had made it a point to try to arrive well before that. Walking further into the long, narrow room, he saw only one person seated at the tables. A young man with dark hair and an olive complexion, slight in build and, from what Arrow could see, fairly well dressed, had his gaze fixed on the cards laid out in front of him. A mug was close to his elbow, so it was impossible to say whether he was a patron, or the one Arrow sought. He fit the fairly detailed description that Laszlo had given him, though.

The eyes had turned up now at the sound of his footfall, and Arrow smiled in a polite but friendly way. “I’m looking for Victor Lark. You wouldn’t happen to be him, would you?”

[Victor Lark]

“I would,” he replied, and a saccharine smile ate up his face as his arms spread in welcome. Lark did not rise, but kicked an inviting chair out from beneath the table and gestured to it. Happy to presume, he added, “And you must be Arrow! Why don’t you sit?”

He sat up to gather the cards on the table, mildly vexed by the game which he had been losing against himself. He turned them on their sides and began to straighten them out into a rightful stack, elbowing his half-emptied mug to one side. It stumbled loudly over the old wood of the table beneath it, mourning its dismissal and bragging of the tavern’s already established successes. Victor wondered whether this stranger was proud enough of his work that he would protest the taint of another’s brew on the taster’s tongue. As the last of the cards fell into place, he took a long, scrutinizing look at the jar between his hands.

When he turned up to Arrow’s eyes again, it was as if he had not noticed the thing. He chuckled. “You’ve survived another day in Alvadas, it seems. How do the streets treat you?” He lifted each card from the newly created stack and began to organize them by number, piling all of the high rank cards in a single spot. His hands moved quickly, nimbly, almost too much so for the slow and sunny afternoon. But the speed came as habit, and he liked how it sometimes made a person’s eyes move faster. That same idle tangent smiled over the snap and slip of the cards as he said, “Are you an Alvad, Arrow?”

[Arrow]

Arrow was gratified that Laszlo had followed through with his offer to mention this matter to his co-owner. Lazslo had appended a caveat that he might not get the chance, due to Victor’s tight schedule. But Victor’s friendly welcome put the Ethaefal more at ease. A new tavern, new owners, it only made sense that they would be interested in whatever local sources they could tap to provide good quality beer to their patrons.

“I am indeed. Lazslo must have mentioned my visit to you.” Arrow said pleasantly, taking the proffered seat. He watched the dexterous, quick flow of Victor’s hands as he worked the cards, admiring his skill. It was a good one to cultivate if one was to be a publican. Customers appreciated a man who could rub elbows with them and be just like one of the regulars. Cards and beer just seemed to go together. Though as he looked at the young man, Arrow thought that Victor was perhaps a shade classier than many who might frequent his tavern.

Setting the jar of beer down on the table, he replied with a small laugh. “I’ve been here a few years now, but, yes, it never gets an easier, does it? Makes each day interesting, though. Keeps things from getting too dull.” His gaze swept the long, narrow room briefly and came back to settle on his potential customer. “And you? You’ve lived here all your life? Or did the dream of opening up a tavern bring you to Alvadas? Or some other vision – or maybe something more mundane?” He smiled meditatively, knowing very few people were fortunate enough to be able to pursue their true desires. Perhaps Victor and his friends were some of the lucky ones.

[Victor Lark]

Victor shrugged. He was not a humble man, but neither would he let a stranger assume as much. He did not, however, take kindly to even the most innocent suggestion that he was in any way mundane. “No, I’m not a native. In the East, mine was a family of merchants.” The laugh that followed was too smooth, almost artificially so. “But I did not travel half-way across the world to open a tavern. Alvadas is hardly the best place for an aspiring businessman, at least not one who requires a stationary building to do his selling!” It was an idle joke at both merchants’ expense, and yet his tone spun an unfounded web of superiority with it. Still his smile remained, full of cold geniality.

He finished organizing his cards with a flourish, planting the last in its stack with a cheery crack. Then he leaned his elbows against the edge of the table, lacing his fingers together. He looked at Arrow as he continued, examining the green of his eyes. “It was Laszlo’s idea, but he needed money. So here I am!” His restless fingers separated and drummed against the table. He already knew about himself, but he wanted to know more about this stranger. “But what about you? Why Alvadas, and why beer?”

With that, his silver gaze danced down to the jar in question, circled and appraised it. The color was ordinary, as far as Victor knew. Though young, he liked to thing he had an eye and a taste for such things, but in reality he was no expert. He reached out with a single knuckle to test how cold it was; sometimes, that made all the difference. His unrelenting smile turned to a jovial smirk and he teased, “Do you think it’s any good?”

[Arrow]

Arrow noted that Victor’s answer was only half complete, and he suspected that was all he was going to get, for the moment. The man was obviously as skilled at playing his cards close to the chest as he was at shuffling them. He returned the silvery gaze steadily as he contemplated his own answer. There was no need or motivation to dissemble, but the complete answer, if given, would probably take hours, if not days. Perhaps that was the very same reason Victor was being so circumspect. Arrow didn’t walk around with his heart on his sleeve. But he also had no desire to bore anyone with the thousand million moments that had brought him here. He was well used to distilling it down to its essence though. Victor certainly wasn’t the first person to ask him such questions.

“Alvadas because I was following my heart, and beer because I need to make enough money to live. Folly and wisdom, with the outcome of either yet to be determined.” He smiled, a genuine smile of affability, for he was always one to keep an open mind. “But you are right. An ever changing grid and streets and buildings that seem hell bent on hiding sometimes does make it less than ideal for a steady flow of customers. It has its charms, though.”

Arrow watched as the knuckle pressed against the jar, making no comment though he could guess what information Victor sought through contact with the glass. He had no cellar and no way to keep the fermenting beer cool, unless it was the cold of winter. Alvadas was blessed with a fairly benign climate though. The best he could do was to adjust the strain of yeast he used to better suit the ambient temperature of his brewing shed. His eyes rested on the contents of the jar, which were hopefully a bit clearer than any mug drawn from the keg he had left behind the bar the day before, with Lazslo. If Victor had had a chance to taste it yet, he might have noted a bit of cloudiness, though typically even without the finings, Arrow’s beer had a minimal amount of sediment, as he didn’t use dry hopping for aroma, as he usually couldn’t afford the hops. One small silver lining to being rather poor. His answer to Victor’s slightly flippant query came easily to Arrow’s lips.

“I believe it to be so, yes. Quite good, for the price I’m willing to sell it. Each batch brewed with care, you might say.” He grinned, his voice taking on a teasing quality to echo Victor’s. “A lot of love goes into that beer.” He nodded at the jar. “I don’t think you’ll find better in Alvadas, but each man to his own, as they say.”

He leaned forward to cross his forearms on the table and rest his weight upon them. His tone became slightly conspiratorial. “And . . . if you sell my beer, you’ll have the privilege to be one of only three such taverns in the city. Think of that!” He almost winked. Not quite, but he came very, very close. Regardless of the outcome of this sales attempt, he was beginning to enjoy this little game quite a bit.

“You wouldn’t happen to have an empty mug about the place, would you?”

[Victor Lark]

Victor emitted an incredulous chuckle at the brewer’s claim to brewing love, but his smile was no less amiable as his fingers slinked around the the thick of the glass jar. He brought it to himself, twisted away the lid and took in the released concentration of aroma.

“Yeah, there are some under the bar,” he answered, throwing a single nod at it. His feet did not move. If Arrow looked in that direction, he might recognize the keg that sat atop the usual two: it remained where the merchant had left it the day before, untouched. It was not that Laszlo was untrue to his word, or that Victor was in any way forgetful; in fact, the conspicuous placement of the thing was the very thing that reminded the bartender to mention his fellow fallen. But Victor was not about to judge a man’s hard work before he could witness the pride in his words. He would have Arrow know that his customer’s tongue remained a virgin to his ware, so that he might glimpse the look in his eyes when he made his very first impression.

He lifted the raw glass to his lips with another deep inhale, but then he paused mid-breath with a look of idle concern twisted over his brow. “How many taverns do you think stand around this city? I should say three was close to half of them, but I can’t say for certain. Is exclusivity the best you have to offer? Do you hope this sale to be your last, or will you whore out your love-brew to anyone you can find?” His face was straight and sharp like ice for a few long moments, as the cold steel of his eyes pored at Arrow over the amber liquid in his hand. But then his eyebrows twitched; a drop of water melted from the look. Then a sudden laugh, that could have passed for a sneeze, erupted spittle into the honest beer. His throat bobbed in the joke, but he silenced himself with a hearty swig. He did not take his eyes from Arrow’s.

Sighing, he dropped the jar onto the table, using the pile of five-cards as an unnecessary coaster. “It’s good!” He admitted, “Not great, but good. Good for a conversation, not a negotiation. Maybe that’s the love in it.”

[Arrow]

When Victor reached for the jar and unscrewed the top, Arrow watched his face rather than the long fingered hands. The distinctive aroma released reached Arrow’s nose as well. But Victor gave no indication one way or another if he recognized the aromatic that Arrow had used was lemon balm and not hops. He had just opened his mouth to tell Victor that, when the young man indicated where the mugs could be found. Taking that as either a veiled instruction, or a tacit permission, for Arrow to go fetch them, the brewer had risen to do so, when Victor’s wry observation stopped him in his tracks.

“Oh, I certainly hope that if we reach some sort of agreement here today, that it won’t be the last sale I ever make.” Arrow said with a grin. “But I would have no problem promising all my love to you, if you believed you were up to handling it. You are young and untried, not quite virginal, but still, I assume, open to any number of possibilities. I’m no grizzled veteran myself, and just in the throws of experimentation. Spreading my wings and flexing my muscles, so to speak. Who knows? The pieces might fit in a quite invigorating way.” He fell silent as Victor took a swig of the beer, waiting of course for the pronouncement. It was a tepid one, but Arrow would take it for what it was worth.

“So . . . no negotiating. That must mean I name my price and you accept without any haggling whatsoever?” He chuckled. “Or is it the other way around?”

He found Victor Lark quite amusing. At least the man was trying to be a good businessman, and Arrow was all in favor of that. A good business head meant the tavern would stay open. A tavern doing brisk business meant Arrow would have a good outlet for his product. If he could only manage to get a decent price for it from Victor, all would be good.

[Victor Lark]

Victor laughed out loud, a breathy chirp that almost seemed surprised. He appreciated Arrow’s effort and humor, thought it fitting that a man in such a business would be so affable. His smile softened a little too far as his mind relapsed to the question to which even he had not granted an answer: why here? Why this? But though he felt inspired for idle conversation, it was a negotiation that brought the two men together. Arrow had jested the opposite; he would let the man assume as much, if he was willing.

He moved the jar away from his eleven piles of playing cards. “A barrel of your stuff, it seems the same as the others.” A vague gesture brought attention to the bar again, but Victor was quick to pull it back to himself. He leaned forward and collected some cards: a Five and all four Tens. He spread the latter in a tight row before the former. “Five gallons, forty pints.” His fingers laced, if only briefly.

“One pint… it’ll have to settle into the public price, at least while it’s new. I’ve got to make a profit, you see.” He grinned; he knew this brewer was no idiot, but he did enjoy treating him as well. “They say some pints are worth five copper rims. I’ll give you three per pint.” He picked up the four Threes, touched them with Tens so that they seemed to read 30.

“At forty pints a barrel, that’s…” Thumb, fore, and middle finger danced over the Three cards as he counted each little symbol that adorned them. He removed the Tens out from under his makeshift calculator and set them aside. “Twelve silvers per barrel. I’ll take a one a day, for the rest of the season, and after that we’ll see if I need more. What do you say?”

[Arrow]

Arrow had done the math long before coming to the Sun and Stars, and Victor’s offer was a bit insulting. But that was business, and if a man could get a product for far less than it was worth, well then, he obviously had a good business sense. On the other hand, if a man sold his own products for far less than they were worth, he was a fool. An almost two hundred percent mark up from keg to mug seemed a might high to Arrow’s way of thinking. One hundred percent seemed much more reasonable, giving them both a handsome price.

“It’s far better than others, in my opinion, and I think you’ll find that your customers will agree with me.” He said, his tone still friendly. “And I can appreciate your desire for profit, as I have one myself. If you sell it at the same prices as what you have on tap now, which is inferior in quality, but more readily available, at least in terms of quantity, then it seems reasonable to believe that we will both profit from it. For you to lower the price of my beer will only have you competing against yourself. Sell it at eight coppers a pint and I’ll sell it to you for four. Sixteen silvers a cask.” He paused, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “And I’m not trying to gouge you. My beer is high quality. I’m willing to stake a claim on that, and put my money where my mouth is. I’ll give you five kegs tomorrow, free of charge, for now. Five kegs, two hundred chances for your customers to tell you whether they like my ales or not. If by the time those kegs are empty, you have more nays than ayes, you owe me nothing. If on the other hand, the consensus is that it’s good and they’d buy from you again, then you pay me – eighty silver mizas. And you pocket the rest.” He was leaning slightly on the table, still on his feet, his weight resting on his hands.

“What do you say, Victor Lark? You can’t lose. A good businessman would never pass up an offer like this.”

[Victor Lark]

OOCSorry for the wait! I’ll PM you to talk OOC ledger logistics. :)

“And who said I was a good businessman?” came the immediate reply. He tried to touch a jovial tone with a hint of polite resentment, but it came out mostly comprised of the latter: sardonic and defensive. He tried to make up for the poor charade with a hasty smile, angling an eager finger to regard the jar and its contents again.

Victor was no stranger to haggling. In Ravok, the first offer was always out of the question, as was the second. The conclusion of a price would only come after many others had been laid and rejected; it was almost impolite, to forego the pleasantries of argument. But this was not Ravok, and this younger entrepreneur decided he could respect Arrow’s pride and reasoning as well as his time. His face had turned wholly to his fellow merchant, but his eyes tipped idly towards the window as he considered the counter offer for many long moments.

Long before the beer’s aftertaste had grown stale on his tongue, Lark had known he could sell a pint of the stuff for a whole silver, easily. Five coppers was the price in Syliras, where taverns were many and easy to find; perhaps due to the city’s status as center of trade and landmark of magic, Alvadas taverns enjoyed the inflation of tourism. He would not tell Arrow that, not yet—when he found out, he could assume that his recipe had made the right impression.

“I don’t need your charity,” Victor said finally. That time, his tongue made the words sweeter and kinder than made sense. He didn’t bother to correct himself, but his lips never relinquished their inviting grin. “I’ll buy your barrels for fifteen each, nice and even. One a day for the rest of Fall, and more if we need it.” Of course they would, said his laugh. “Deliver as many as you can, when you can. I know how things can be. I can give you half payment now, and half later.” He began to slide the cards around each other again, as he tried to make a few more improvised calculations.

It was more direct than he would have liked, but he did so much want to see what sort of rise he could pull from this zealous stranger. “What do you say, Arrow...” He had not mentioned a surname. “...the Brewer?”