“Who’d have thought that peacetime required so much liquor?” said the man to his companion, lighting a torch to lead the way into the underground storerooms in the First Circle.

“Who’d have thought the King would return and need to entertain so many people?” retorted the companion.  “Really, we’re quite lucky this place even exists right now; so many others in the city were ruined by the blasting fires.  Anyhow, if His Majesty don’t like it, he can wait till next harvest.  A Ranger should understand food shortage.”

The man grunted.  “Well, if we can make this last till the end of the delegation, we should do fine.  And a good thing too.  The rest of the wine—the good wine, mind you—has been gone with all this celebrating, even the stuff we brought in.  I hope we get another shipment fast.”  He waved the torch in front of the rows and rows of bottles.  “2983—that should be good enough, if you ask me.”

The companion drew forth one of the bottles.  “Not a bad ye—”  The bottle stuck in the rack.  He tugged at it, but the rack began to tilt forward.

“Leave it alone!”  The man’s advice went unheeded as the rack toppled over.  The torch was knocked out of his hand, setting wood and spirits alight.  “Run!”

They made it out of the conflagration alive, but a little singed.  The spirits were lost.