“Much as I like her, it’s not Lydia that I’m worried about,” Mike said. “Mother Savina, come over here. We’ve got a ceremony to figure out.”
Mike had a full schedule for the day. Among other things, he hadn’t been keeping up with the progress of the brewery.
When he’d arrived in the valley he’d been surprised by several things. One, of course, was the general good looks of the Keldara. The women were outstanding but even the men were so good looking they could have been actors playing their roles. In most “peasant” cultures, the nature of the work tended to make both men and women hard and ugly. So did the inbreeding characteristic of such cultures. The Keldara were a rare exception that proved the rule.
The second thing he had been astounded by, however, was the quality of the local beer. Georgia was far better known for its wines than its beer and it had been a long time since he’d had really good beer when he arrived. But the beer in the tavern in town had been outstanding, as good as any to be had in an American or German microbrewery. However, when he began interacting with the Keldara he’d discovered that the beer in town was their “bad” stuff; the pure quill was so good it should be illegal.
It wasn’t pure beer by German standards, having some additional berries and herbs that were limited to the local area added. But it was truly amazing stuff. Mike had seen the possibilities from the day he took over. The Keldara were depressingly poor by modern standards. His introduction of modern equipment and methods in farming would help alleviate that somewhat, but they really needed a source of capital. They made outstanding beer, people paid good money for good beer. Ergo, they needed a brewery and a distribution program.
The problem was, what Mike knew about either could be written on the inside of a matchbook in crayon. And the Keldara women who brewed the beer did it in small batches.
His answer, as usual, was to delegate. As part of the Keldara spring festival, which was so old it matched pre-Christian festivals found only in ethnology textbooks, a “king” was chosen as well as a “goat,” the latter called the “caillean.” One of the Keldara militia members, Gurum, an otherwise intelligent and capable fellow, had been chosen as the bannock caillean when he found a bean in his bannock.
The caillean was regarded as an omen of bad luck by the more conservative Keldara and the team Gurum had been assigned to had pinned every problem they encountered on him. So he’d been almost impossible to integrate into the teams.
However, the women were much less attuned to the problem of having a caillean around. So Mike had given him a quick class in internet research, a reasonable budget and put him to work on the brewery problem. Gurum had asked a couple of questions in the beginning but since the battle with the Chechens Mike hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. And while he’d seen some construction on the brewery site — a bench near the road to town that had once been a toll station — he didn’t think it was complete.
When he pulled onto the bench, he was surprised by the almost abandoned air of the place. There was a partial building completed, two storeys, more or less, with stone walls and a roof at least, but the doors at the front weren’t installed nor were the windows. There were some construction sounds coming from the interior, however, so Mike parked and walked in the front door.
“ ’Ware, Kildar!” a voice called from above, just as a balk of timber crashed to the floor a few feet from him.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Mike said, looking up. One of the older Keldara males was looking through a large hole in the second floor with an abashed expression on his face.
“Vassily, you were nearly out one Kildar,” Mike said. “Watch where you’re thowing logs next time!”
There was far more work completed than Mike had thought. The upper floors were mostly in and were heavily reinforced with thick crossbeams that were not much more than adzed down tree trunks. The supporting pillars, which were rather close together towards the front, were much the same. Some of the bark was still evident in spots. The right-hand side of the building was open to the ceiling in a loft configuration. Mike wasn’t sure what that was for, but he was willing to assume someone did.
“Kildar,” a voice called from the back. “We were wondering when you would drop by.”
“Hello, Vatrya,” Mike said as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Vatrya was one of the older unmarried Keldara females. He wondered if she was in the same boat as Lydia and hoped that, if so, the brewery would be making enough money soon so the same compromise wouldn’t be necessary. On the other hand, he had to admit that the honey-blonde was a fine figure of a young woman. Long legs under that skirt and nice high ones. Not to mention a heart-shaped face and just lovely dark blue eyes.
He realized he was slipping over to his dark side rather quickly. The idea of breaking in several of the Keldara women was more than attractive. But that was the problem; it could quickly become addictive. It would be easy enough to use the excuse to abuse the privilege and he had worked too hard to cultivate the Keldara’s respect to lose it that way.
Vatrya was accompanied by a tall, spare, man Mike didn’t recognize. From his clothing, a casual polo shirt and tan slacks, he probably wasn’t a Keldara.
“You haven’t even met Mr. Brock,” Vatrya said, gesturing the man forward. “Kildar, this is Herr Gerhard Brock of the Alten Brewery Company.”
“Herr Brock,” Mike said, offering his hand.
Brock shook it deliberately in the manner of a European and nodded.
“You are the Kildar,” the man said in English with a strong German accent. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you Herr Brock,” Mike replied, trying to keep the confusion off his face.
“The brewery apparatus is in transit at the moment,” Mr. Brock said, waving to the rear. “As stated in the contracts, we had the vats and piping in stock. I am assured that locally manufactured materials are available for the barley bins. And, of course, the ovens are being constructed by the Keldara.”
“The Keldara are very good at general construction,” Mike said, nodding.
“I strongly suggest that you take Gurum’s suggestion in regards to the annual convention,” Herr Brock continued, stone faced. “It would be the perfect venue for your aims in regards to marketing. Time is, of course, short, but I am being assured that you are capable of managing the requirements.”
“We’re very adaptable,” Mike said, nodding. “And we are used to short decision cycles.”
“I am to look on the oven construction,” Brokc said, nodding in farewell. “I look forward to further conversation with you, Mr. Kildar.”
“It’s just Kildar,” Mike said as the man strode towards the back of the building again. “Vatrya?”
“Yes, Kildar?” the girl asked, her eyes wide and smiling.
“What did I just talk about?”
Chapter Seven
“You want to what?” Mike asked.
Gurum looked uncomfortable sitting in the chair across from the Kildar. But he held his ground.
“The convention for the International Association of Brewers and Brewery Distributors is this year in the city called Las Vegas in the United States. You know of this city, Kildar?”
“Yeah, I know Las Vegas,” Mike said, sighing. “Sin City.”
“I do not understand, Kildar?” Gurum said. “Sin City?”
“Las Vegas is in a state, like a province, that permits gambling and prostitution,” Mike said, sighing again. “Its nickname is Sin City. It alliterates in English. So you want to, what? Have a booth for Keldara Beer at this convention? Do you have any idea what the logistics are for something like that? And where in the hell did this Brock guy come from?”