There were mixed emotions as Gabriel and his troupe skulked back to Wheelbarrow Way. Yes, there was a strong sense of elation at having survived a run in with a rampaging croc-man, but understandably they were also feeling mighty silly.

“So, Figo, Kkyrunnig as glamorous as you thought?” Gabriel asked as they shuffled down the streets aimlessly.

Figo grimaced, “I think roughly on par with wyverns; I regret to say that it was more fun hearing about them than it was meeting one. Some creatures are more magical when they are not trying to kill you.”

Gabriel placed a hand on the archer’s shoulder, “You’ve learnt a valuable lesson here today, my young friend.”

“I still reckon we should have tried to pass that guy off as Screamer’s cousin,” Vish thought out loud.

“I’m reasonably sure that Screamer would notice that. I don’t think he’s relying on Nail-puller’s drawing to identify his own cousin.”

“I still think we could have tried…”

Bling barged between the bickering pair and scuttled ahead of the group. She’d spotted a food stall tucked under the canopy of a general store. The balding man at the counter was turning lumps of succulent meat over a charcoal grill. The others started salivating when the smell hit their nostrils.

“Wait, Natasha, we don’t have money for that, I’m afraid. We’ll have to get food back at the… ‘The Blighted Pond’,” Gabriel couldn’t prevent his lips from turning as he said that.

“Can put it on credit if you like,” the stall-keeper said.

“Is that kind of like flatbread?” Vish asked.

The man almost dropped his tongs, “Err, no, not like bread. It’s a promissory note from your bank or patron. Good as currency here in Jandrir. Guessing you’re not locals,” he was eyeing Vish a bit more deliberately than the others.

“So we can just spend money we don’t have and someone else will settle the score?” Vish rubbed his hands together, “Shit yeah, I’ll take twelve. Or a plate. Or a bun. However this works… What is this?

“Shredded otter. Local specialty,” the man said proudly, before addressing Vish’s original question, “Well, there’s a bit more to it than just spending money you haven’t got, but I guess that’s the long and short of it. Mind you make your repayments though, or else it’ll be debtors’ jail for you, or indentured servitude. That’s just if you go through legal channels! Plenty as will lend you money around here, but don’t mistake it for generosity. The banks and syndicates always get their coin, you can count on that.”

“And if, say, just saying, of course, someone were to skip town?” Vish asked discreetly.

The stall-keeper shook his head, “Never underestimate the reach of people with money and power. Still, I’m afraid I can’t help you out if you don’t have a patron. Feel free to come by tomorrow with some coin, though, I’m here most days,” he said more brightly.

“Now wait just a minute,” Gabriel halted him with a finger, “Say we did have a patron? We could put it on their tab, so to speak. Is that right?”

The stall-keeper pulled a sheaf of papers from a shelf. They were roughly the size of a man’s palm, and were filled with beautiful cursive writing, “Then you and I would both sign or stamp a pair of these. I’d keep a copy, you’d keep a copy, and then we’d part ways. Yours goes to your patron, and I keep mine. That’s pretty much that, unless I don’t get paid within the agreed upon amount of time, at which point I hand my note off to the collection agency, with a brief description of the person whose thumbs they need to break,” he smiled twistedly.

Gabriel chose to ignore that last part, “Well then, we’ll take five portions of otter and a slip of paper, please!” he said, smiling conspiratorially, “You can make the note out to Screamer.”

Gabriel had never seen someone have a heart attack before, but he imagined this is what it would look like. The stall owner spasmed violently and his head jerked from left to right, scanning the street. He never completely relaxed, but his eyes did eventually stop bulging out of their sockets.

“You can’t say that name here,” he hissed, “This is Tinto’s turf. It’s not for outsiders to know, but,” he leaned close, “folk here get their protection from one group or another. Once you’re under somebody’s wing, there’s no associating with the competition.”

“So, Tinto is your patron?”

The man soured, “If that’s what you want to call a thieving extortionist, then I guess he is,” he scratched his nose, “I pay Tinto a fee each moon, and in return he doesn’t tear down my stall and kick me into the Malin.”

“Big city politics are hard to follow,” Vish yawned, and walked off.

Gabriel, though, saw an opportunity, “He sends men around to collect protection money?”

“Used to,” the man grunted, “These days the lazy, drunken bastard just sits around and waits for the money to come to him. Nowadays if his men come collecting then, well, then it’s already too late,” he shuddered despite the warmth of the grill.

“So, um, where do you take the money?” Gabriel tested.

The stall owner gave him a measuring look but seemed to see no harm in chatting with a couple of foreigners, “Can go to any of his assets, really. They’re all over. I like to go to the source though, make sure my money touches as few sticky fingers as possible. I take it directly to the Old Vineyard, right in the center of Wheelbarrow Way. Hand it off to him and his worshippers there,” he snorted.

“His worshippers?”

“Well, not his worshippers, but it amounts to the same. Most of Tinto’s men have gotten brain rot from being constantly sloshed. About a year ago some idiot put it out there that Wine itself might actually be a flippin’ aether god. Started spouting that they weren’t drunks, they were saints. It was a joke, at first, but then the numbskulls drank until they forgot it was a joke. Now they walk around like bloody preachers, literally pouring wine and bullshit sermons down people’s throats. The Old Vineyard is seen as near enough a temple, now.”

Gabriel digested this information, “Well, thanks for the warning, we’ll be more careful next time. Have a nice night. We’ll be sure to swing by tomorrow for some of that delicious looking otter!”

As they made their way along the street Lydia couldn’t help but point out, “So, there’s a place called the Old Vineyard. The Old Vineyard in the center of Wheelbarrow Way.”

“So it would seem,” Gabriel said each word very slowly.

“And we’re after a guy called Tinto. Tinto the Wine Merchant.”

“Is that a question?”

There was a pause.

“Don’t you think that maybe we should hav-”

“I do now, Lydia. I do now.”

Standing in front of the enormous urban villa, with its host of purple-tunicked yobs coming and going, Gabriel couldn’t help but wonder why Screamer hadn’t seen fit to furnish them with this information in their briefing. Maybe he assumed Nail-puller would fill them in, maybe his sources were lacking, or maybe he was just one of the growing number of people in Gabriel’s life who got a kick out of making his life just that little bit more difficult.

The Old Vineyard should have looked entirely out of place in Wheelbarrow Way. It was a large, open structure, with a courtyard in the middle, clearly visible through an entranceway of stucco columns. As with everything in the district, though, dirt and grime had crept up the walls of the villa, blending it with its monotone surroundings. Wheelbarrow Way seemed like the maw of a titanic swamp monster, consuming everything from the ground up, smacking its lips around each building and street, coating it all with its grimy saliva.

There was a fair amount of activity out front of the vineyard-cum-gangland-cum-temple. Bruisers and bouncers loitered on the steps, mostly drinking, whilst men in purple tunics gave vague orders, most of which seemed to be ignored. There were a few characters in long purple robes, as well, dotted around a rough altar like structure strewn with goblets and a large brass pot. Beneath the pot was a sign which read, ‘Corlekshions’. Some of the mobsters were actively accosting passers by to ensure they didn’t ‘forget’ to make a generous donation.

“You know,” Gabriel said to nobody in particular, “in Hamlin there was a group of pseudo-scientists that speculated that most humanoid races adapted from creatures similar to monkeys, just like the Rhoskin adapted from ancient felines.”

“What’s your point?” Lydia asked.

“I feel like that theory does a terrible disservice to the monkeys.”

One of Tinto’s henchmen was trying to balance on the shoulders of another, with avid support from the others drinking on the steps. He lost his footing and toppled backwards, utterly failing to slow or break his fall. He didn’t get back up. There were a few disappointed, “aawhs,” but the man was almost instantly forgotten. The others went back to their carousing even as the blood seeping from the man’s skull started to blend with the wine from the goblet he’d been holding.

“Shall we, ladies and gentlemen?” Gabriel said cheerfully.

There were a few shrugs in response, then Lydia drew her sword, Bling pulled a pair of knives, and Figo notched an arrow.

“I really do love your enthusiasm, but what in the aether are you lot doing?” Gabriel asked.

“Getting ready to storm the place,” Lydia answered, as if it were entirely obvious.

“I’m aware that we’ve had a pretty exciting couple of weeks, but need I remind you all that slaughtering goblins, slaying wyverns, and battling bandits is not actually our MO? Those things tend to get people killed; we’re not very fond of killed. Do you lot even remember that? The fear of being killed? You I expect this kind of behaviour from, Lydia, but Natasha? Figo?

“Sorry, Gabriel,” Figo murmured, returning the arrow to his quiver.

“You’re a bad influence,” Gabriel jabbed a finger at Lydia.

“Did anything exciting happen before I came along?” she grumbled.

“No, actually, not a damn thing. It was a blissful existence.”

“If you say so.”

Gabriel put his hands on his hips, “Now, what we are not going to do is storm the place like a couple of suicidal maniacs. Instead, we are going to talk to people. We are going to learn things. We are going to survey.”

“Boring,” Lydia said.

“I’m not on board with Lydia’s murder-death thing, but even you have to admit that your plan sounds pretty boring, Gabe,” Vish agreed.

“It’s not boring, it’s sensible.”

“Same thing.”

“Right now we don’t even know if Screamer’s cousin is in there, and, if he is, we still don’t know where.”

“And you think they’ll just tell us?”

One of the guards vomited on the back of another’s head.

“I think there’s a pretty good chance! There’s an especially good chance if our mind-mapper here draws a few useful characteristics to the forefront, such as trust, gullibility and truth… speakyness,” he was twirling his wrist as he listed.

“Will that work?” Figo asked.

Vish bobbed his head lethargically from side to side, “Yeah, probably. They’re more than pissed enough not to notice a little mental prodding. You’ll still have to ask the right questions though.”

“We will?” Gabriel asked.

“Yeah. Why should I do it? I’m already doing my bit.”

“Once again I’m reminded of what a devastating resource you and that ability of yours would be, if only you had an ounce of charm to back it up,” Gabriel jibed.

“You’d still be useless.”

Gabriel sighed, “Let’s go.”

As they walked up the steps one of the priest-like figures intercepted them, an empty goblet in hand.

“Come to make an offering to Wine, the aether god of wine?” he said, actually serious.

Gabriel remembered then that they were shit broke, “Ah, um, we would love to! Alas, the lesser gods have cursed us with misfortune, and robbed us of our coin. We wish to raise a glass to Wine and ask the great god for good fortune.”

The priest’s lip curled, “Wine is not cheap.”

“Was that, ‘Wine’, or, ‘wine’?” Gabriel asked.

“Wine.”

“Wine?”

“Wine.”

“… Wine?”

“Wine.”

“Gabriel,” Figo said, gently nudging his captain.

“Well, either way,” Gabriel continued, “We need wine to properly respect Wine, right?”

“This is truth.”

“But we also need Wine… to get wine?”

“Just so.”

“You are killing this, man,” Vish whispered, perfectly audibly.

“Why isn’t it working?” Gabriel whispered back, just as loudly.

“What working?”

“The thing!”

Vish frowned, “Oh, was I supposed to…”

Gabriel turned on the mind-mapper, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

They had quite an audience now. Many of the loiterers on the steps had stopped to watch the bizarre exchange, and a few of the more sober ones had weapons in hand.

“Fuck this,” Lydia said, marching towards the altar.

Gabriel felt his heart catch in his throat.

Half a dozen men sprinted to intercept her, swords and maces ready, but they were too late, she’d beaten them there.

Lydia grabbed a ewer, filled to the brim with deep mahogany tinged wine.

“How about this? If I can outdrink your best man here, then we get to stay for,” she waved a hand, “whatever this is,” she indicated the ‘festivities’.

The priest raised an eyebrow that got lost beneath his purple cowl, “And if you fail?”

“You can keep the long-haired ghostly looking sod,” Lydia said levelly.

“What?!”

There were a few ‘oohs’ from the assembled crowd. They looked to the priest for guidance. Someone shouted, “Do it!”, and was met with murmurs of agreement.

The priest seemed uneasy, “What good is the lanky one to us?”

Lydia actually had to think about that one, “Uuuh. Ah! He knows words. Can read and write some. Can’t you use that to, don’t know, order more wine, or something?”

The priest actually had to think about that one; the logistics of wine procurement were a little over his head.

“Probably,” he decided, “Very well. Your terms are agreeable.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing!” Gabriel shouted.

“There’s not much to it,” she responded, perhaps missing the point.

A bald, pot-bellied man stepped forward as her opponent, and was furnished with a similar pitcher. He wasn’t a huge man, but he was filled out nicely, with a taut belly that was as solid as any muscle. He raised his jug in a toast/ salute.

“For Wine!” there was a cheer, “May the good god grace us.”

Much to Gabriel’s dismay, the man downed the entire pitcher in one long draught, gulping twice. He upended the vessel over his head to prove it was empty, and then signaled his victory with a belch.

The crowd went nuts.

Lydia, for her part, was nodding slowly and respectfully, “Not bad, not bad. But not good enough yet.”

Without breaking eye-contact, she guzzled the contents of her own jug so smoothly that it looked like the liquid evaporated on her tongue.

Tinto’s men were loving it. The contestants were given fresh jugs and the ritual continued.

The bald man kept a broad grin as he chugged the next lot. He gargled before swallowing, shooting a stream of wine up like a fountain and catching it again. He bowed at the applause he received.

Someone in the audience started taking bets.

Lydia was less of a showman. She tackled her second jug with the same methodical precision as before. Jug goes up, wine goes in, jug goes down. The gamblers were debating if this was professionalism or weakness.

Passersby, who had previously given the villa a wide berth, now flocked to see what the commotion was about. Tinto’s men were literally dancing on the steps, jostling with one another to get the best view.

Another jug went down.

Then another.

Then another.

On the fifth go, the pot-bellied man started to hiccup.

Then, he started to splutter.

Halfway through the sixth jug, while Lydia was still merrily chugging away, her opponent doubled over and vomited gallons of purple-hued sick, in a puddle that was almost as wide around as Lydia was tall.

Lydia casually finished her beverage.

“By the gods,” Gabriel said, too shocked by the display to yet be relieved.

“Wine has spoken!” the priest called to the assembled crowd, “Each time a person drinks of wine, they take in a little of the mighty gods own self. Here, we see he has favoured the challenger. He has filled this one with his essence, and crowned her champion on this day.”

There were cheers from the drunks and the commoners alike.

“Hang on a minute,” Vish said, startling everyone into silence, “If wine is the essence of the god, and each time you drink wine you take in a bit of the god, then,” his thinking face looked like it hurt, “Lydia is full of wine… So she’s full of the god, yeah? A human has, what, seven pints of blood? Lydia drank probably twice that, right? So isn’t Lydia now… all god?” he looked around questioningly.

The expressions Vish was met with could be described as agog, aghast, appalled, and, well, basically a whole lot of ‘a + what the fuck?’ terms.

“Well, Vish, I do believe you have achieved the highest level of blasphemy known to these people, and secured us all a gruesome, horrific death. Thank you so much for your input,” Gabriel said studying the shocked onlookers. They were as still as if they were painted.

Then something peculiar happened.

The priest, as Gabriel had come to think of him, slowly dropped to his knees, and lowered his forehead to the ground. Actually, he lowered his forehead into the puddle of vomit, but the ground was under there somewhere.

Gabriel couldn’t believe his eyes. The priest was actually bowing to Lydia.

This started a chain reaction. One by one, Tinto’s men dropped to their knees, pulling down any townsfolk in reach, and threw themselves at the mercy of their god incarnate.

Lydia looked out at a sea of reclined heads, her own personal flock of followers...

And burped.