After a preposterous amount of wasted time, they at last managed to locate the infirmary. When Meyo got the chance to further examine the place, his difficulties in finding it proved entirely founded, given that it also served as a distillery and summer kitchen. Despite the growing incongruities between any regular monastery and the particular one in which he'd landed, Meyo decided to not allow anything else to surprise him. It would have been wrong in principle, given that to be surprised one had to have had some prior expectations, and he couldn't evaluate his circumstances objectively if he was actively wishing for them to be something else.

He'd placed his drunk companion onto a narrow creaking cot beneath a steaming pipe attached to a giant copper cauldron, watched indifferently by a sober gray-robed acolyte, who barely batted an eye when Meyo questioned the placing of the alcoholics so near the source of their plight. However, the man became immediately animated at the mention of reading glasses, complaining how his own prescriptions were constantly blundered.

"Those snots in the so-called «research» department always get the first pick, which is absolutely unfair, given that they're always breaking theirs," he complained. "It's like the rest of us have to resign ourselves to being second best."

Before the man could grow suspicious and ask whether his new visitor also belonged to that hated group, Meyo inquired after available temporary solutions, carefully adding that he was short on coin.

"We've got some spares with broken frames, but you need to make sure the prescription fits," replied the acolyte.

"It doesn't have to be the exact one," said Meyo quickly. "Just enough for me not to bump into walls and the like."

That wasn't entirely true, of course. For one, his sight deficiencies were nowhere near as bad, merely down to the strain he'd put on his eyes while reading in poor light for long hours. He could certainly see where he was going without them, but the most important function the glasses served in Meyo's mind was the pure remarkable effect they had on his confidence. It was almost like wearing a mask, a disguise of sorts behind which he could hide his wholly unremarkable personality, because the kind of glasses he always wore simply screamed «Bookworm, not dangerous, leave me alone». Without them, he felt exposed.

"Here we are," said the other man, plopping a rattling wooden box on the empty cot beside the snoring drunk. "All shapes and sizes. Take your time."

Choosing to strategically ignore that last piece of advice, Meyo simply picked the first functioning pair whose lenses made him see approximately well. Since he was most interested in reading, he picked up a small leaflet which had been jammed at the junction of two pipes leading into (or out of) other giant barrels lining the room. Despite the crammed writing, he was able to decipher a recipe for apple brandy, which he carefully folded up and placed back where he'd found it.

"I'll take these, if that's alright."

The acolyte gave him a strange look before finally deciding to voice the obvious.

"They're missing a temple. You should probably take a spare as well."

Meyo glanced back at the discarded glasses piled up in the large box and grimaced at the tantalizing effort it would take to fish out another pair. Shrugging, he bent the pair he'd already selected, breaking the other temple, then fiddled with the thin, flexible bridge until he held a perfectly serviceable pince-nez. Slipping it into one of his vest pockets, he smiled back at the acolyte.

"Thank you, you've been an incredible help, which only leads me to believe that your efforts are underappreciated around here. If there's anything I can do for you, please let me know."

The other man smiled bitterly, taking back the box full of glasses.

"We don't often get sober ones," he mumbled. "I suppose it's nice to at least have a coherent conversation." 

With that being said, he disappeared around a corner from which drifted vague aromas of beef stew.

 Meyo sighed at the sad state the place was in, with no clear boundaries or segregation of duties. The poor man was likely expected to do everything, from making sure the sick didn't throw up on themselves to overseeing the distilling process to cooking lunch. Meyo sometimes found it difficult to juggle eating, sleeping, and bathing while he was intent on a specific project, so he regarded these hard workers with profound respect.

He knew he couldn't stick around, however, so he scuttled out of the confusing room to yet another inner courtyard, this time flanked by an eatery and another brewery. Several brethren were clustered around makeshift tables, enjoying a few light snacks with their immense tankards of beer. Raucous laughter along with the constant rolling of dice could be heard from within, and because some men seemed to have taken notice of him, Meyo ducked into a narrow alley skirting one of the buildings, partially hidden from sight by honeysuckle shrubs.

He had no idea where he was supposed to go or what his new excuse should be, but since the acolyte hadn't asked for one, Meyo finally considered giving it all a rest and "going with the flow", as his sister would have put it. Yet another reminder of Tahni came in the form of the slight weight in his left waist pocket, whose source was the pilfered money bag of the drunk he'd helped settle into the infirmary.

Meyo didn't fool himself into believing he had some sort of moral excuse for stealing, because he didn't. It was wrong, but he'd already learned the hard way that the real world rarely aligned with the theory, so he simply did what had to be done. In truth, he had expected only bitter disappointment when he'd felt through the man's pockets, but he actually came across a decent amount. The discovery of the money bag proved nothing in and of itself, but implied that the drunk had felt comfortable carrying it around, meaning that trust and community were regarded highly in this place. The fact that the acolyte hadn't inquired after Meyo's own business seemed to bolster that supposition, but there was still some reconnaissance to be done.

Taking the pince-nez out of his other pocket, Meyo put it on and adopted the confused expression of a lost scholar - which couldn't have been far removed from his original mien. After emerging onto a cobbled road leading up a broad hill, he elected to climb so he could get a better view of the monastic complex.

After a few minutes, the flat roofs of several structures came into view at the very top, and Meyo paused to regain his breath. Several brethren - some alone, others in groups of two or three - passed him by on their way up, so there was bound to be a gathering of sorts from where he might garner some new information. He took his pince-nez off to better wipe the sweat off his face, then replaced it and gathered his strength for the last stretch of the climb.

Once he reached the top, he headed straight for a small bench overlooking the valley below and squinted against the noontime sun.

The patches of greenery and hutments, along with the ant-like figures crawling among them seemed normal enough. Meyo identified three larger buildings, only one of which seemed to serve a religious purpose, but he couldn't make out any distinguishing features. Turning his attention towards the other end of the valley, he spotted several clustered gardens, and briefly remembered the endemic gourd species which he'd gotten to know rather too well. However, he suspected that the brethren were more interested in the famous Adenam grape variety, which they were bound to cultivate on the sunny southern slopes.

Meyo let out a long breath, as he battled against his mounting fatigue. A gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach also warned of impending hunger, but he could put it off a while longer until he uncovered the purpose of the building behind him.

Stepping away from the bench, he came upon one side of the structure - a wide single-storeyed clay hut with a flat shingled roof. Curious, he crouched beneath a half-open window and listened intently.

Through came a bored droning, punctuated by coughing and shuffling, as well as some hushed murmurs. Apprehension suddenly gripped him as he contemplated potentially disrupting the sermon, but such feelings were immediately dispelled when another window along the same side burst open, nearly smashing the glass panes, and a monk bent over the sill to noisily bestow the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

Startled, Meyo quickly bounded away from the spot, rounded a corner, and came up to the entrance proper. The low door had been left slightly ajar, so he pushed it timidly, wincing at the slight creaking, but no angry voice barked at him to be quiet. Instead, the sounds he'd heard from the outside - including the sick man throwing up - simply became louder and clearer in the chamber, and Meyo needed a few moments to adjust to the dimness until he could make out their sources. He started drifting towards one of the walls, but was confronted with the fact that almost the entire surface of the floor - apart from the central aisle and the narrow altar against the wall opposite the entrance - was covered with pews, some of which were occupied by pious monks. Consequently, there was nowhere to stand, so he quietly headed for the nearest empty seat.

He sat down gingerly, praying that none of his joints would pop noisily, while at the same time well aware that they wouldn't have been noticed regardless. A quick look around revealed that almost all of the monks were focused on their own inner worlds, most with their eyes closed and heads downcast. The brother closest to Meyo also fitted that pattern, having his hands neatly folded on his lap, and his chin almost touching his chest. Only a handful of brethren were clustered in isolated groups, seemingly absorbed by deep conversations, no doubt over some obscure doctrinal discrepancy, while the lector at the other end of the room kept on reading from the holy book.

Upon seeing all of this, Meyo was almost tempted to believe it, but too many questions had already been raised by these people's odd behavior, the last one being the poor soul who was still being sick while clinging to the window. Therefore, Meyo began a second appraisal of the room, and soon realized that rather than finding themselves in a deep meditative state, it was far more likely that the brethren were asleep. If he really listened carefully, he thought he could make out a couple of timid snores, including from his neighbor.

Next, he squinted in the direction of the nearest cluster of monks, huddled together a couple of pews over. He couldn't see their hands, instead witnessing the moment when the one on the far left quickly reached down to catch a falling object, which heavily resembled a playing card.

Lastly, he closed his eyes and focused on the sermon itself. He had never been a foreign language enthusiast, mostly relying on the translations of experts when he needed to read a certain article, but he was fairly certain that the language employed by the lector had nothing in common with Kassi, or the dialects spoken across the border in Terevansia or Iskaria. The sounds, the diction, and the words themselves just felt wrong, so rather than persist in listening, he focused on what they would have appeared as in writing. After several disjointed sentences, Meyo opened his eyes in disbelief and stared at the lector.

He was reading Iskarian using the Terevansian pronunciation rules, which worked as well as one might expect. The strange combinations had taken him back to his childhood, when he'd earned himself some harsh punishments for the same mistakes the monk now appeared to be making on purpose. If he really concentrated, he might have even been able to puzzle out the subject of the sermon, but he was willing to bet then and there that it had nothing to do with religion.

However, he never got the chance to test that theory, because right then his neighbor stirred from his slumber, leaned closer to him and whispered dryly into his ear.

"Pass me your cup, would you? Those five o'clock bastards have stolen mine."

Meyo turned his head slightly and followed the man's blurry gaze towards his end of the pew. He inclined his head obligingly, reaching out as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't, of course, but he could guess.

While focusing on the sights and sounds present in the room, he had neglected the smell, and now he found that an unfamiliar sweetness permeated it all, not unlike the pleasant aromas coming from a banquet hall when dozens of carafes of wine were placed for the eager guests. Meyo's most recent brush with alcohol had occurred at King Eker's coronation, where he'd been more or less forced to down a goblet of finest Terevansian wine - not that he could have told the difference between an expensive vintage and gutter swill, given his lack of experience. What he could do was remember the smell, and match it with the clinging aroma of this room. The logical conclusion was that these monks not only drank while working, they made it their work.

So what did his neighbor want? Turning to examine the end of the pew, Meyo brought his hand down to inspect the greasy wood, searching for some hidden compartment. Sure enough, when his fingers brushed the underside, he came across a small knob, which seemed to be attached to a sliding panel. Quickly, Meyo brought his other hand down and caught the small wooden cup as it fell.

"Here," he whispered, offering it to his neighbor who clasped it immediately. Meyo had tried hiding the entire process as best as he could with his sleeve, despite his suspicion that no one would have batted an eye upon seeing them. Still, there must have been a reason why they kept the charade of a sermon when they could have turned this place into a tavern not unlike the ones found in the valley below.

"He's read the same passage three times already," murmured the monk, "but one's got to fill the time."

He inclined his head gratefully, then slid farther away. Intrigued, Meyo kept on watching him out of the corner of his eye as the man placed the small cup held in both hands beneath the pew in front, and waited innocently. Then he brought his hands back up, mimicking a praise gesture, but Meyo knew he was only disguising his drinking. His own focus was still on that spot beneath the pew where a hidden faucet must have dispensed the wine.

"Fascinating," he whispered.

Meyo knew he'd already made his decision about staying so he could gather information, but now more than just the initial reason compelled him to seek out the secrets of this supposedly holy place and its unconventional monks. Just how adept were these people at concealing their vices, and why had no one caught on to them yet? As far he knew, there were no gods or goddesses of alcohol, taverns, or indulgence, so a monastery such as this shouldn't even be allowed to function, given that all religious institutions in Kassinem were funded by the Central Pantheon Church via special donations instituted by the government.

There was certainly more to this place than met the eye, and Meyo felt the excitement that always preceded an important discovery. He breathed in slowly, trying to calm himself so he could reason out the optimal process of reaching it, and while his mind did clear once again, there was no stopping a wide grin from emerging.