I cut through the crowd and stepped through the arch. A meticulously arranged shop greeted me. Weapons with wicked curved blades hung on the walls. Knives lay displayed under glass. Strange armor adorned mannequins lined up like soldiers at a ceremony next to high-tech guns in metal racks.
A large animal padded into view, its paws bigger than my hands. Blue green, with a shaggy mane and ears that reached to my chest, it moved like a predator. Despite the size and the mane, there was something lupine about its build. He felt like a wolf, and if you saw him on Earth, you’d think he was the spirit of all wolves come to life.
“Hello, Gorvar,” I said.
At my feet Beast opened her mouth and growled low.
“Who is it?” A man walked in from the other room. Tall, grizzled, and still fit, he moved like Sean, with natural, easy grace. His graying hair fell to his shoulders, and as his eyes caught the light from the doorway, pale gold rolled over his irises.
“Hello, Wilmos.” I smiled.
“Ah yes. Dina, right?”
“Right.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to check on Sean. Haven’t seen him for a while.” There, that didn’t sound too desperate.
“He’s out on a cruise with a Solar Shipping freighter,” Wilmos said. “He owed me a favor, and I owed a friend of mine. The friend has a shipping route and picks up credit vouchers from a couple of leisure planets, so he gets boarded a lot. He needed a good security person, so I gave him Sean for a year. It’s good for him. He wanted to see the glory of the universe, and now he gets a tour.”
Hmmm.
“You want me to get word to him?” Wilmos asked. “I can probably leave a message for him. I’ve got the codes for the freighter.”
I gave him a nice, sweet smile. “Sure! That would be great.”
Wilmos tapped the glass of the nearest counter. It turned dark, and a small circle with glowing symbols appeared in the corner. “Sorry, it will have to be text only. They’re too far out for face-to-face.” He tapped the circle, spinning it with his fingertips. An English keyboard ignited at the bottom of the rectangle. I was about to send an interstellar text.
“Go ahead,” he said.
I had to send something that only Sean would know. At least I would find out if he was dead or alive. I typed. It’s Dina. The apple trees recovered.
Wilmos touched a glowing symbol. The message flashed brighter and dimmed. Seconds ticked by. I kept my smile on.
A message flashed in response to mine. I told you I wasn’t poisonous.
Sean was alive. Nobody else would know that I nearly brained him with my broom for marking his territory in my orchard.
“Anything else?” Wilmos asked. He was trying to be nonchalant, but he was watching me very carefully.
“No, that was it. Much appreciated.”
“Anytime. I’m sure he’ll visit when he gets shore leave.”
“He’s welcome anytime and you as well. Come on, Beast.”
Beast gave Gorvar one last parting snarl, and we walked out of the shop, joined the crowd, and kept going down the street.
It made no sense. Wilmos built and sold weapons. Some of the gear in his shop looked too new to be antique. He must have a lot of connections in the soldier-for-hire world. When Wilmos recognized Sean, he’d come unglued. Sean was a natural biological child of two alpha-strain werewolves, who weren’t supposed to have survived the destruction of their planet. A normal werewolf was bad news, but Sean was stronger, faster, and more deadly than ninety-nine percent of the werewolf refugees strewn across the galaxy. Wilmos had acted as if Sean was a miracle.
“You don’t stick a miracle onto a freighter where he’ll be a security guard,” I told Beast. “There are more exciting ways to see the glory of the universe.”
It was like finding the last-known Tasmanian tiger and selling him to some rich guy to be a pet in his backyard. It just didn’t add up.
Wilmos didn’t want me to know what Sean was doing. I didn’t know why, and I really wanted to find out.
#
It took me almost half an hour to get to the Quillonian’s place. The shop owners pointed the door out to me, but it was on the third floor, and I had to find the way up and then the right set of stone bridges to get to the terrace. Quillonians were a reclusive race, proud, prone to drama, and violent when cornered. A couple of them had stayed at my parents’ inn, and as long as everything went their way, they were perfectly cordial, but the moment any small problem appeared, they would start putting exclamation marks at the end of all their sentences. My mother didn’t like dealing with them. She was very practical. If you brought a problem to her, she’d take it apart and figure out how best to resolve it. From what I remembered, Quillonians didn’t always want their problems resolved. They wanted a chance to shake their clawed fists at the sky, invoke their gods, and act as if the world was ending.
My father was brilliant at handling them. Before he became an innkeeper, he was a very good con man, excellent at reading his marks, and he finessed our more difficult guests. Before long, they were eating out of his hand. I tried to remember what he’d said to me about it. What was it? Something about plays…
I crossed the terrace to a stone bridge. The bridge, without a rail and barely two feet wide, terminated in a narrow balcony with a dark wooden door. Deep gouges scoured the wood as if something with superhuman strength and razor-sharp claws had attacked the door in a frenzy. I squinted. The scratches blended into a phrase repeated in several common languages. KEEP OUT. Wonderful.
I leaned and looked over the side. At least a fifty-foot drop to the street. If the Quillonian jumped out of his door and knocked me off the bridge, I would die for sure. I’d be a Dina pancake.
Beast whined.
I picked her up and started across the bridge, taking my time. I didn’t mind heights, but I would’ve liked something to hold on to.
Step, another step. I stepped onto the balcony and knocked. Before I could get the second knock in, the door flew open. A dark shape filled the doorway. I saw two glowing white eyes and a mouth studded with sharp teeth.
The mouth gaped open, and a deep voice roared, “Go away!”
The door slammed shut inches from my face.
I blinked. Really now. I think he actually blew my hair back with that. I knocked again.
The door sprang open, jerked aside by a powerful hand, and teeth snapped in my face. “What? What is it? Do I owe you money? Is that it? There is no money! I have nothing!”
“I need a chef.”
There was an outraged pause. “So that’s it. You have come to mock me.” The dark lips that hid the teeth rose, baring fangs the size of my pinkies. “Maybe I shall COOK YOU FOR DINNER!”
Beast’s fur stood straight up. Wicked claws slid from her feet. Her mouth gaped open, unnaturally wide, displaying four rows of razor-sharp teeth. She snapped her teeth and let out a piercing howl. “Awwwreeerooo!”
The Quillonian leaned back, shocked, and roared.
Beast snapped her teeth, lightning fast, biting the air and struggling in my arms. If he slammed the door in our face now, she’d shred it like confetti.
“Stop it, both of you!” I barked.
Beast closed her mouth.
The Quillonian sagged against the doorway. “What is it you want?”
“I need a chef,” I repeated.
“Holy Mother of Vengeance, fine. Come inside. You can bring your small demon as well.”
I followed him through the doorway into a narrow hallway. The walls were filthy with grime baked into the plaster over the years. The hallway opened into an equally filthy living room. The glass in the windows had been shattered long ago, and a single dark shard stuck out from the top of the frame. Dirt lay in the corners, gathered against the wall like dunes in a desert. A ratty couch sat in the middle of the floor. Soiled high-tech foam stuck out through rips in its upholstery. A pile of wooden slivers filled a singed metal bucket in front of the couch. The Quillonian must make a fire in the bucket when he got cold.
The draft brought a sour, revolting stench. I glanced through the window as I followed my host. Below us stood huge concrete vats. One was filled with what had to be lime and the other with some dark substance. The other three vats held red, blue, and yellow dyes. Tall, birdlike beings waded through the dye vats, stirring something with their feet. It had to be a tannery, which probably meant the substance in the other vat was bird dung. The wind flung another dose of reek at me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and nose and squeezed through the next doorway.
A pristine kitchen lay before me. Its cheap wooden cabinets were so clean they glowed. The countertop, a single slab of simple stone, was polished to a near mirror shine. A butcher block carved out of a plain block of wood held three knives in the corner next to an ancient but clean stove. The contrast was so sudden I stole a glance at the living room to make sure we were still in the same place.
The Quillonian turned toward me, and I finally saw him in the light. Even slightly stooped, he was seven feet tall. Short chocolate-brown fur covered his muscled body in the front, flowing into a dense forest of foot-long spikes on his back. That’s why the innkeepers called them Quillonians. Their real name was too difficult to pronounce.
He had a vaguely humanoid torso, but his thick, muscular neck was long and protruded forward. His head was triangular with a canine muzzle terminating in a sensitive black nose. His hands had four fingers and two thumbs, each digit long and elegant. Two-inch-long black claws tipped the fingers. Quillonians were a predatory species, my memory reminded me. They didn’t hunt humans, but they wouldn’t mind ripping one apart.
“What do you know?” The Quillonian fixed me with his stare. At the door his eyes had appeared completely white, but now I saw a pale turquoise iris with a narrow black pupil.
“You were a Red Cleaver, but you were stripped of your certification because you might have poisoned someone.”
“I did not poison anyone.” The Quillonian shook his head, his quills rustling. “I will explain, and then you can leave and slam the door behind you. I worked at the Blue Jewel on Buharpoor. I don’t expect you to know what it is or where it is, so trust me when I say it was a glittering gem of a restaurant in a hotel of mind-boggling luxury.”
I could believe it. The implant that let him speak English was clearly high quality.
“We were hosting a gala for the neighboring system. Three thousand beings. I was responsible for all of it. It was going splendidly until my sous chef took a bribe and served one of the princes a poisoned soup. The prince collapsed during the dinner and died.”
“So you didn’t actually poison anyone?” Why had they stripped him of his rank then?
“That is not the point!” The Quillonian threw his hands up. “I have two million taste buds. I can taste a drop of syrup in a pool of water the size of this building. I know thousands of poisons by taste. Had I sampled the dish before it left my kitchen, I would’ve detected the poison within it. But I did not taste it. I tasted the ingredients for freshness, I tasted the soup during the preparation, but Soo had worked with me for ten years, and we were serving a banquet to three thousand beings, and I let the soup go. The moment the poison’s presence was detected, the entire galaxy knew that I let a dish go out of my kitchen without tasting it.”
He slumped against the wall, defeated, one hand over his eyes.
“So let me get this straight. They took your Cleaver because you did not taste the soup?”
“Yes. I did it. I let it go. I waved it on.” The Quillonian waved his hand. “Now you know my shame. Two decades of training, a decade of apprenticeship, two decades of being a chef. Accolades I received, dishes I created… I was a rising star, and I threw it all away. I hope you enjoyed tormenting me. The door is that way.”
Now it made sense. He was punishing himself. He lived in this filthy hovel above a tannery because that was all he deserved. But his kitchen was still spotless. As much as he wanted to degrade himself, his professional pride wouldn’t let him dishonor the kitchen.
“I still need a chef,” I told him.
He bared his teeth at me. “Did you not hear? There is no chef here.”
“I’m an innkeeper from Earth. I run a very small inn, and I’m hosting a peace summit. I’m desperate for a chef.”
He pushed from the wall. The quills on his back stood straight up. “There. Is. No. Chef. Here.”
I finally remembered what my father told me about the Quillonians. It just popped into my head. Shakespeare said, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. So, Dina, let them have their monologue.
My future chef was an oversized, hysterical hedgehog with a martyr complex. He obviously loved what he did. I had to lure him with work, and I had to let him play his part and show him that it was time to let the martyr go. There was a new role to be played, that of an underdog winning the race.
“Three parties to the summit,” I said. “At least twelve members each, probably more. The Holy Anocracy represented by House Krahr and others, with at least one Marshal in attendance. All of them are used to the finest cuisine available.” That wasn’t exactly true. Vampires were a carnivorous species. Their cuisine was sophisticated, but they were perfectly happy to bite through the neck of some random woodland creature, pop it on a stick, and scorch it over a fire.
The Quillonian looked at me. I had his attention.
“The second party to the summit is the Hope-Crushing Horde. The Khanum will be present.”
The Quillonian blinked. “Herself?”
“Herself, and with some Under-Khans.”
His eyes widened. He was thinking about it. Maybe…
The Quillonian slumped back against the wall and shook his head. “No. Just no. I am not who I once was.”
That’s okay. “Also, the Merchants of Baha-char. They are spoiled with wealth, and their palate is very refined.”
“Which clan?”
“The Nuan Cee’s family. In addition to them, the Arbitrator and his party.”
I could almost feel the calculation taking place in his head. “For how long?”
“I’m not sure,” I said honestly.
“What’s the budget?”
“Ten thousand to start.”
“Earth currency, the dollar?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible!”
“Perhaps for an ordinary cook. But not for a Red Cleaver chef.”
“I am no longer that.” He rolled his eyes to sky. “Somewhere the gods are laughing at me.”
Time to find out if I’d read him correctly. “It’s not a joke. It’s a challenge.”
His eyes went completely white. He stared at me. Come on, take the bait.
“I can’t.” He closed his eyes and shook. “I just can’t. The shame, it’s too…”
“I understand. You’re right, it is too much for anyone but a true master of his art.”
He surged forward. “Are you implying I am anything less?”
“Are you?”
He sighed. “What happened to your previous chef?”
“Usually I cook. But this is beyond my abilities. I will be very busy trying to keep our esteemed guests from murdering each other.”
“What about the front of the house?” he asked.
“We won’t need it. The inn will serve the dinner following your commands.”
He opened his mouth.
“I came here to find a chef,” I said. “I’m not leaving without one.”
“My spirit is broken.”
I held my hands up. “This kitchen says otherwise.”
He looked around as if seeing the kitchen for the first time.
“It may not be the Blue Jewel, but it is the kitchen of a chef who takes pride in his work. You can come with me and triumph against impossible odds, or you can reject the challenge of the gods and stay here. Would you rather be a hero in charge of your own destiny or a martyr wallowing in self-pity? What will it be?”
#
The Quillonian surveyed my kitchen. I wasn’t familiar enough with Quillonian faces to identify his expression with one hundred percent accuracy, but if I had to guess, it would fall somewhere between shock, disgust, and despair.
The Quillonian heaved a deep sigh. “You expect me to cook here?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Pantry?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“Through there.” I pointed at the door in the wall.
He opened his eyes, glanced at the doorway through which we’d come and which showed the wall to be about six inches wide, and stared at the door. “Is this a joke?”
“No.”
His clawed hand closed over the handle, and he resolutely flung it open. A five-hundred-square-foot space stretched in front of him, its nine-foot-high walls lined with metal shelves supporting an assortments of pots, pans, dishes, and cooking utensils. Dry goods waited like soldiers on parade, each in a clear plastic container with a label. An industrial-size chest freezer sat against the wall next to two refrigerators.
The Quillonian closed the door, marched back to the doorway, examined the wall, came back, and opened the door again. He stared at the pantry for a long moment, shut the door quickly, and jerked it back open. The pantry was still there. Magic was a wonderful thing.
The Quillonian carefully extended his left leg and put his foot onto the floor of the pantry as if expecting it to grow teeth and gulp him down. Contrary to his expectations, the floor remained solid.
“Well?” I asked.
“It will suffice,” he said. “Whom shall I expect to serve this morning?”
“Caldenia and me. Possibly the Arbitrator and his party as well. He mentioned three people.”
“Caldenia?” His spikes stood up. “Caldenia ka ret Magren? Letere Olivione?”
“Yes. Will that be a problem?”
“I have never had the pleasure to serve her, but I certainly know of her. She’s one of the most renowned gastronomes in the galaxy. Her palate is the definition of refinement.”
I wondered what he would say if he knew the owner of that refined palate frequently indulged in bingeing on Mello Yello and Funyuns. “The inn will help you. If you need something, ask for it.” I raised my voice. “I need a two-liter pot, please.”
The correct pot slid to the front of the middle shelf.
“I’ll need a gastronomical coagulator, please,” the Quillonian said.
Nothing moved. The Quillonian glanced at me. “Nothing’s happening.”
“We don’t have one.” The only coagulator I knew about was used in surgeries.
“You expect me to serve vampires and Caldenia without a coagulator?”
“Yes.”
“Immersion circulator?”
“No.”
“A spherification device?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s a device that creates spheres by submerging drops of a liquid in a solution such as calcium chloride, causing the drops to form a solid skin over the liquid center. They pop in your mouth under the pressure of your teeth.”
I shook my head.
“Do you at least possess an electromagnetic scale?”
“No.”
He shook his hands. “Well, what do you have?”
“Pots, pans, knives, bowls, measuring cups, and silverware. Also some baking pans and molds.”
The Quillonian rocked back and stared at the ceiling. “The gods are mocking me.”
Not again. “It’s a challenge.”
He flexed his arms, his elbows bent, his clawed arms pointing to the sky. “Very well. Like a primitive savage who sets out to tame the wilderness armed with nothing but a knife and his indomitable will, I will persevere. I will wrestle victory from the greedy jaws of defeat. I shall rise like a bird of prey upon the current of the wind, my talons raised for the kill, and I shall strike true.”
Oh wow. I hope the inn filmed that.
“When do you normally have your morning meal?”
The clock told me it was four in the morning. “In about three hours.”
“Breakfast shall be served in three hours.” He hung his head. “You may call me Orro. Good day.”
“Good day, Chef.”
I left the kitchen and went up the stairway. I was so tired I’d start to hallucinate if I didn’t get some sleep.
Caldenia emerged from her side of the stairs. “Dina, there you are.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
A metal pot banged in the kitchen.
Caldenia frowned. “Wait, if you are here, who is in the kitchen?”
“Daniel Boone, cooking with his talons.”
“I love your sense of humor. Who is it really?”
“A Quillonian former Red Cleaver chef. His name is Orro, and he’ll be handling the food for the banquet.”
Caldenia smiled. “A Quillonian chef. My dear, you shouldn’t have. Well, you should have months ago, but one mustn’t be petty. Finally. I shall be dining in a style to which I am suited. Fantastic. Does he have moral scruples? I am reasonably sure this summit will result in at least one murder, and I have never tasted an otrokar.”
“Let me get back to you on that.”
I walked to my room, took off my shoes, my robe, and my jeans, collapsed into my bed, and fell asleep.