The day after the maid received cash for the first time, I counted the empty kegs in the kitchen.
In the previous chapter, I separated meals, lodging, and the cloak, making ten days of wages visible as twenty-nine denari in cash. Twelve denari remained in the maid's hands, and the next payment had been set as well.
The inn's money was finally reaching the people who had earned it.
But the kegs in the kitchen still held city prices.
“How much did you pay per gallon for this keg?”
Maren peered into the mouth of the empty keg.
“Two denari. That's just how ale is priced.”
In this roadside town, a gallon of ale cost one denari.
The selling price was one denari, but the purchase price was two. Every time a guest drank a gallon, the inn lost one denari.
“How many gallons in one keg?”
“Ten gallons.”
One keg cost twenty denari. Sales brought in ten. Every time we sold one, ten denari disappeared.
“When did it become two denari?”
“After my husband died. I'd buy it whenever I went into town for something else.”
Maren lowered her eyes as though recalling the month her husband had died.
I tapped the bottom of the empty keg with my finger.
“Starting today, we stop paying city prices.”
“We can't go without ale in this town.”
“We won't. We'll change the price we pay.”
Ale didn't merely wet a guest's throat. A guest who boarded a horse would drink at night, order a meal, and stay until morning.
So buying it cheaply wasn't just about making the keg cheaper.
It meant keeping a night's stay at the inn from running a deficit.
If we forced city prices on town customers, they'd leave after one drink. If we could buy at the town's going rate, they'd have room to order another.
I wasn't trying to make guests drink more. I wanted to keep the one denari they paid from turning into a two-denari shortfall inside the inn.
In the early afternoon, a wagon from the city stopped in front of the inn.
It carried three kegs. Its wheels sank deep into the dirt, and the driver was letting the horses rest.
“I want to buy ale,” I said.
The driver tapped one of the kegs.
“Two denari a gallon. City price.”
“We sell it for one denari in this town.”
“Then sell it for two.”
“If the guests won't pay that, the kegs will remain unsold.”
The driver shrugged.
“It sells for two denari in the city. What some country inn does is none of my concern.”
While he remained unconcerned, the inn in town had been buying it for two denari.
Maren intended to buy just one keg. Since guests came, she believed the keg was necessary.
The more necessary something was, the less likely she was to check its price before buying it. It was the same with oats. If we didn't keep them on hand, guests would be inconvenienced. The seller's price rode on top of that feeling.
“Needing a keg and buying one for two denari are separate matters.”
“It's hard for me to think of them separately.”
“Then we'll write the purchase price beside the keg.”
“One keg is ten gallons. We pay twenty denari and sell it for ten.”
When I said that, Maren bit her lip.
“Ten denari per keg.”
“Thirty denari for three.”
The driver didn't lower his price.
“I hauled them from the city. I use horses and roads.”
There was labor involved in transporting them. But the price for selling ale in a roadside town was different from the price in the city.
If we simply brought city prices here, the inn swallowed the difference.
I wrote down the number of empty kegs.
We had two left. Ten gallons each. If we'd bought them for two denari a gallon, we'd paid forty denari and sold them for twenty.
“Twenty denari have already disappeared.”
Maren placed a hand against one of the kegs.
“But I'm serving it to guests for one denari.”
“That price keeps the guests here. That's why we have to make up the difference when we buy it.”
That evening, the city wagon headed for the inn next door.
The neighboring inn had hung out a sign advertising ale for two denari.
We wouldn't know which inn the guests would choose until nightfall.
Maren looked at the empty kegs.
“Isn't there anywhere we can buy it at the town price?”
“There is. I'll find it.”
I traced the ale entries in the ledger back three years.
When her husband was alive, a gallon of ale cost one denari. The purchase price was one denari too. One keg held ten gallons and cost ten denari.
Sales brought in ten denari. Ale alone didn't leave much net earnings, but once guests ordered meals and rooms, the whole inn turned a profit.
After her husband died, only the purchase entries had changed to two denari.
The selling price remained one denari.
The numbers were tainted.
I looked at the page where no supplier's name was written. Only the days she bought from city drivers showed the number of kegs and the two-denari price.
“My husband wasn't buying it in town, was he?” Maren said.
“It looks like he received the kegs from a brewer in the neighboring village.”
There was a faint mark at the edge of the ledger. Ten gallons per keg, one denari. On the days they were delivered, a small additional amount had been written separately.
“What was this delivery fee?”
“One denari per keg. It disappears if you pick them up yourself.”
“Much less than twenty denari from the city.”
I walked to the neighboring village. The road didn't stray from the highway. There was no need to send a wagon; we could load two empty kegs and carry them back to the inn.
The brewer opened a keg and checked its smell.
“One denari a gallon. Ten gallons per keg. Return the empty kegs, and the price stays the same next time.”
“What about delivery?”
“No charge if you come get it yourself.”
The town price was two denari a gallon. The neighboring village price was one denari a gallon.
The difference was one denari per gallon. Ten denari per keg. Thirty denari for three kegs.
I wrote down the purchase amount.
The selling price was one denari a gallon. The purchase price was one denari a gallon as well.
That alone left no net earnings on the ale.
But it erased the deficit from buying for two denari and selling for one. The kegs would no longer eat up the money guests spent on meals and rooms.
An inn wasn't decided by a single item. That was exactly why we couldn't leave a gap in any one item unattended.
I counted out the payment for two kegs.
“We'll pay twenty denari today.”
“I'll bring another keg tomorrow.”
“We'll line up three kegs.”
The brewer nodded.
The next morning, I loaded the empty kegs onto a wagon.
I walked to the neighboring village and received the two kegs. Then I returned to the inn and washed the back of the kitchen.
The old kegs bought from the city were set aside until we sold the remaining ale.
I drew one white line across each new keg. It marked ale purchased at one denari a gallon.
Maren tilted her head as she looked at the lines.
“Are you writing the price on the keg?”
“So anyone can tell the difference in purchase price at a glance.”
Four guests came that night.
One gallon each. Four denari in sales.
With an old city keg, the purchase cost would be eight denari. We would be four denari short before selling a drop.
With a new keg, the purchase cost was four denari. There was no deficit.
When the numbers were lined up, it became clear whether a guest's drink supported the inn or wore it down.
“A mug of ale.”
Maren opened one of the new kegs.
Foam rose, and the scent of wood drifted through the kitchen.
The guest took a sip.
“It tastes lighter than before.”
“The price is one denari.”
“In that case, I'll have another.”
Two gallons per person, eight gallons for four guests. Eight denari in sales. Eight denari in purchase costs.
There was no net earnings. But the guests ordered meals and used two rooms.
If we'd served the same eight gallons from a city keg, the purchase cost would have been sixteen denari. Sales would have been eight. The money from the meals and rooms would have vanished into the keg's deficit as well.
By eliminating the ale deficit, we kept the money from the meals and rooms at the inn.
Maren wrote the two denari for the rooms on a separate line. She didn't mix it with the eight denari in ale sales.
Before, eight denari came in and sixteen went out. Now eight came in and eight went out. The remainder moved on to the meal and room entries.
A guest's drink had meaning simply because the keg no longer wore down the inn.
The third keg arrived the next morning.
Three kegs stood in a row at the back of the kitchen.
One white line on the first. One white line on the second. One white line on the third.
I moved the kegs from the city to the side. Items with different purchase prices didn't belong in the same place.
“Anyone can tell today's purchase price by looking at the kegs lined up here,” Maren said.
“Before, I never checked the price until a keg was empty.”
“Now we'll check the next price before it runs out.”
The maid opened the wages page and added the ale entry as well.
One denari a gallon. Ten gallons per keg. Three kegs.
Two denari from the city worked if you sold it in the city. If you served it here for one denari, you had no choice but to change suppliers.
The numbers lined the kitchen wall.
When I set down the last keg, all three stood at the same height, visible from the entrance.
The kegs lined up there were proof that the inn no longer swallowed city prices.
We sold off the remaining city ale and ended our city purchases.
Every gallon bought for two denari left us one denari short whenever we sold it. Buying it from the neighboring village for one denari a gallon erased that gap.
Three kegs, ten gallons each. The roadside-town price was one denari a gallon.
The maid looked at the white lines on the kegs, then returned to the wages page.
The next gap to examine was winter firewood and charcoal.
Firewood that cost one denari in summer rose to three denari in winter. If we chose the wrong day to buy it, our money would shrink before the wood was even stacked.
There were only twenty bundles left in the firewood shed out back.
Even with the kegs lined up, we couldn't serve ale or cook without a fire.
For things bought at the town price, we had to choose when to buy them.
Three ale kegs stood quietly at the back of the kitchen. Next, I would look at the price needed to keep the fire from going out.
If we could choose the day of purchase, the inn wouldn't be driven along by every drink a guest ordered.
The white lines on the kegs were also lines meant to keep us from forgetting the price.
Even an empty keg could become a signal to arrange the next purchase.
The price of the three kegs led straight to the firewood for the coming winter.
Leave the price behind.
Even with the kegs lined up, we couldn't serve ale or cook without a fire.