“Sounds like he did all the questioning.”
“And the answering.” Hlanan flashed his rare grin. “So then he asked me what I knew and I rambled on, dropping ominous hints left and right how I’d heard there were secret meetings and how everyone said there were covert orders, and he leaped up and yelled, That’s just what the prince says! Everyone is talking, but not to us! He then went straight from there to the conclusion that the others were conspiring to stick the Farans in the front lines of any coming battle, and I whined back, I don’t know anything.”
“So there are already rumors spreading, or did you invent some to spread?”
“I didn’t invent anything. Didn’t have to. All the gossip coming out of Forfar agrees on one thing: the prince is a coward. He likes violence, but only in the form of attacking from behind. Or watching from a position of safety. Probably why his name turns up somewhere behind all the conspiracies in that benighted kingdom. My guess is he joined this attack because he got caught one time too many.”
“And Forfar got too hot for him?” I grimaced, remembering squalid Fara Bay.
“Judging by the sick look in the equerry’s face, and the speed with which he raced off to tell the prince, I trust there might be one less mercenary commander before long. But the rest will not be so easy.”
I wiped my sweaty face. A sense of headiness, almost but not quite dizziness passed through me, almost a hum. Heat? “Magic,” I said.
Hlanan paused, frowning. “I felt that too. Can’t be transfer magic, if Geric told the truth about wards. And I believe that from him,” Hlanan whispered, thumbing his eyes then blinking rapidly. “I better go. There’s one more commander down there who I know about, a renegade Thesrevan duke stripped of his title for murder. If I can get him to believe that Thesreve is about to catch up with him . . .” He started away, stopped short, then turned. “Will you be all right?”
“This is really easy. Even kind of fun.” I waved at my cook pot.
His answer was a brilliant smile below those tired eyes, and he was off.
FOURTEEN
My rice had begun to bubble nicely in a rolling boil, so I stirred it again, wondering what else I ought to do to it. It seemed very soupy. Of course. Vegetables!
I walked into the preparation part of the kitchen to find an argument going. Three red heads turned quickly my way. Faura crossed her arms over her formidable front. “This cook, he seems to want to be everywhere but in his kitchen,” she said disapprovingly. “I think he’s a tippler! Don’t deny it. I smelt it.”
I bit down so hard on a laugh that my ears nearly popped. But before I could speak, lanky Fam threw up his hands. “Who c-c-cares? He c-c-c-an be d-drunk as a duh-duke. Don’t c-c-care. ’slong’s we p-p-put food down for these th-th-f-for . . . invaders.”
Faura said, “True.” She turned her scowl on me. “We all want to wake up alive come morning. But none of us know kitchen work.” She thumped her hand to her breastbone. “I’m the linens mistress. Fam here was third footman. The young’uns are runners. But we know what dishes used to be set out in the old days, and cheese pies was one. I think we ought to serve cheese pies, and we’ve left-over crust makings on account of using the last of the fresh apples and berries for the tartlets.”
“D-d-duchess used to say. Ch-ch-cheese p-p-pies is for old p-p-people. Servants,” Fam stated, with the intense concentration of someone who had repeated his point and was going to repeat it again. “These f-f-f-oreigners. W-w-ill w-w-want m-m-meats.”
“We don’t have more meats dressed.”
“So we put what we have into other dishes to stretch ’em out,” Deni chirped.
All turned to me expectantly, as if I knew the answer.
“Cheese pies are served in the Liacz army,” I lied desperately.
Faura’s scowl lessened to perplexity. “Well if warriors up north eat ’em, stands to reason these here warriors will eat ’em as well. Cheese pies it is, then. So tell us what to do.”
“Do?” I repeated, thinking: put cheese in the crust and bake it?
“I think the tomatoes go on the bottom, then the onions, then the sweet-basil, and then the cheese,” Frandi said, his throat-knuckle bobbing. “But Ma insists the onions go at the bottom.”
“Onions, tomatoes, cheese,” I said, trying to sound authoritative.
“And the sweet-basil?”
“Why, between the layers.”
All faces cleared, and I breathed in relief.
“Do we do anything to the onions first?” Deni asked doubtfully.
“Cut them up,” I said.
She eyed me with a frown that made her look more than ever like a miniature of her mother but went off to fetch onions, and I followed, hoping to find vegetables where the onions were kept. I should have known that winter was unlikely to furnish fresh vegetables short of the ones that last longer in the cool, dry room—the onions, cabbages large and small, and suchlike.
Deni took down a big jug with tomatoes preserved in something, and went off to the table where Frandi was setting out pie pans.
I returned and stared doubtfully at the cabbages. I didn’t remember any cabbage in that seasoned rice dish I’d liked so much. But there had been tasty little red things whose name I had never learnt. Things the color of currants, or crackle berries. Almost as soon as I thought that, my gaze landed on big glass jars full of preserved crackle berries, and I thought, why not? Crackle berries were delicious when I picked them off hedgerows and ornamental shrub fences late in summer, and a beautiful deep red color. I was certain that the seasoned rice had not contained crackle berries, but why not try them in this dish? Rice was tasty, crackle berries were tasty, so . . . put them together.
I slopped a heaping load out of the jug into a big mixing bowl, noting that they were rather glutinous thus preserved, the smell a heady combination of liquor and berries, then lugged the container back to the fireplace and tossed the berries into the boiling rice. A good stir—and purple streaks began spreading through the watery rice mix, which had turned a startling color somewhere between gold and green.
Cooking seemed the simplest thing in the world. Why had I never tried it? Because nobody wants thieves in the kitchen, of course. I recollected distinctly being grateful for cabbage heels to gnaw when I was especially hungry, and thought back with wistful craving to the tender, delicately spiced cabbage I’d eaten in Imbradi.
Halfway back to the cold room that hair-prickling sensation of magic hummed through me again and I shivered. When my spine and neck hair stiffened I snatched at my yellow cook hat and knit cap to keep my hair from lifting in a cloud and inadvertently hurling them across the kitchen.
Magic was Hlanan’s affair, I thought grumpily, reminded of my total failure at magic lessons. Maybe he was right about the why of it, and maybe he was just being kind, but whatever was going on, he was the best one to deal with it.
Hlanan returned, retying the apron around him, and pulling on the treasured yellow hat of a cook. “And that’s another one gone,” he whispered. “I suspect more than half his company are all under attainder of some sort in Thesreve.”
I grimaced, remembering the summary justice in Thesreve—mostly having to do with public bonfires. Doing magic there was against the many, many laws.
“That’s two, but I don’t know how many might have arrived. They are all over the castle—”
“Where is the drunk runner?”
The angry voice stopped everyone in the kitchen. Hlanan stiffened and took a half-step in front of me, as if to shield me, but the newcomer’s gaze passed over us, seeing only the aprons and yellow hats.
A burly fellow in military dress advanced into the room, complete to mailed jacket, with a broad belt around his middle holding both a sword and a long knife. Even his thick boots looked intimidating, his only affectation a carefully trimmed beard. “There’s some snake of a scout or a runner mouthing off somewhere in this castle. If you see him, send for one of us,” the man bawled, a
nd I scowled at the basket I was holding rather than look at Hlanan.
“When’s dinner?” the man snapped, and all the redheads turned out way.
“The tarts are due to come out of the oven,” Hlanan said. “And we were just now discussing the possibility of a nut cake.”
“We’ll eat at the watch change,” the man snarled. “See that it’s ready!” He strode out, heels ringing like the drums of doom.
Hlanan looked around at the frightened gazes. “Good,” he said in his soothing voice. “The tops are on those pies. What kind are they?”
“Cheese pies,” I said proudly. “I told them how to make them.”
“Let’s get them into the ovens now that the tartlets are done. We’ll serve those first, as cheese melts as quickly as the crust browns,” Hlanan said. “Then we’ll serve everything else as it finishes.”
By then I was so hungry I was lightheaded. Faura detailed Deni to offload the tarts onto serving trays. I moved to help her, making four tarts vanish in eight gulps. That steadied me enough so that I didn’t feel my head was about to float off my shoulders.
When I saw Hlanan blink rapidly as he stood between two tables, I picked up a couple more tarts and pressed them into his hand. “You have to eat something,” I whispered. “All you’ve had today is whatever you drank in the wine closet.”
“I know,” he said, shutting his eyes. “We shouldn’t. We might not have enough.” But he ate them anyway, in two gulps.
Fam went off with his mother to check on the meats, which the blond spit boy was still lackadaisically tending, and I remembered my rice dish. Was it done yet? How long did rice take to cook, anyway?
Between the last time I’d seen it and now a vast change had taken place. The rice had turned a strange color, reminding me of a summer thunderstorm before the first lightning strike. The rice grains surged and bubbled in slow gurgles, popping in craters that oozed and filled. An eye-watering smell rose from each pop.
I picked up the stirring spoon, dipped it, blew on the rice and then tasted it. My eyes bulged like those bubbles and began furiously watering as my tongue, mouth, and throat burst into flames. Or that’s what it felt like.
What had I done? The rice had turned to mush. Tongue-burning mush! I gazed at that vast, heaving pot in dismay.
“It stinks.”
I glanced up. Deni stood at my elbow, arms crossed exactly like her mother.
“It stinks,” she stated, “like a sick skunk up and died in there, and ’twas seasoned by old boots. After a hunnert-day march.”
It’s supposed to smell like that? It’ll smell better after it cooks? Before that steady, accusing gaze my lies dried right up.
“I am going to be a cook some day,” Deni said. “Everybody loves food, and I will be a good cook. The best cook. That is one mighty stench, and ’t looks worse.” She pointed a freckled had accusingly at my burbling, heaving rice. “What kind of cook are you? We didn’t even fry up the onions, and that’s the best part of cheese pies, the smell of onions frying with the garlic.”
I had been thinking rapidly. The truth might only get her into trouble if any of those invaders questioned her. And then get us into trouble.
“Do you want these invaders here?” I whispered.
Her frown turned to perplexity. “No!”
“The way I see it is, if we serve ’em good food, they’ll want to stay.”
“Oh-h-h.” Her face cleared, and she grinned. “That’s diff’rent.”
“Sh-h-h-h, keep it a secret,” I whispered.
In answer she picked another long wooden serving spoon from the rack beside the recessed fireplace, dipped it into the rice, and nibbled. Then shuddered. A lopsided smile. “It’s almost tasty if you like hot spice and sweet from the berries at the same time.”
“Then let’s fix that,” I suggested.
“I know!” She scampered off, and reappeared with a sizable jug. She uncapped it, and the pungent odor of puckergrass soaked in vinegar walloped our noses. She poured. I stirred. It took both hands on that spoon to stir the dark green grass down into the mix. Brownish clots clung to the bottom of the spoon—the rice was burning!
I swung the pot out from the fire. That would have to do. Deni looked at the disgusting mess, heaving all over with suppressed laughter. I pushed one of the rolling tables over, fetched a stack of serving dishes, and together we ladled the rice into them. It looked . . . horrible.
“They’ll take one glim and refuse to eat it,” she whispered, tapping her eyes.
“So we mask the looks,” I said. “How about cheese?” I’d seen several enormous cheese wheels. “Everything looks and tastes better with cheese.”
Deni wiped her shiny face with the corner of her apron. “Sure as sun, that. I’ll fetch the old cheese, the one that didn’t turn out so good. If it melts on the top, it’ll look pretty and no one will know until they bite in.” Heaving silently with laughter again, she scurried away to fetch the cheese.
While Hlanan stirred the batter for nut cakes and Fam and his mother fixed the meat platters, Deni and I cut and laid thin slices of crackled old cheese over the steaming rice, and watched it melt into a lovely golden cap, hiding the weird-looking rice mush.
Clang! Clang Clang!
The redheads looked at each other. Faura said, “All the duke’s fancy servers ran off. Up and took the ducal silver, too. You’ll have to serve, Fam.” She pointed at the oldest boy.
“N-n-n-ot m-m-m-e.” The very idea seemed to make his stutter worse. He backed up, hands out as if pushing something away. “F-f-f-ootman.” He thumped his scrawny chest. “Always f-f-f-follow. No t-t-talking.”
“I’ll help,” I said. “And if anybody wants to talk, they can talk to me.” Nobody was chasing me, for once, and maybe I could even overhear something for Hlanan.
“We’ll tend the carts from outside the dining hall,” Faura said, indicating Deni and Frandi. “After we fetch out the cheese pies.”
“Thank you,” Hlanan whispered to me as he quickly put together his cakes in their pans.
While he finished setting up the nut cakes, Fam and Deni pulled the cheese pies from the oven. They looked golden and perfect, and smelled kind of oniony, but otherwise fine. In went the nut cakes.
Then Faura and the two younger children helped push the serving carts down the hall to a great double door, and formed into a line to pass Fam and me the platters. I left Fam to handle the big meat platters, as the smell rising off made my stomach lurch. I carried cheese pies on a tray.
We walked into dining hall, a long vaulted chamber decorated with tall tapestries, with two chandeliers hanging high over the long, empty table below the dais. The shorter table raised on a marble dais had already been in use, as it was covered with shoved-aside platters dirty with crumbs and congealed juices. The gathered commanders didn’t seem to mind; several of them looked so drunk that they probably would not have notice if we’d served chicken feed in troughs.
Fam and I walked along the table, setting our serving dishes down.
Scarcely had we set down a serving dish before it was attacked by reaching spoons.
When the meats and the cheese pies had been delivered we returned to carry the rice and cabbage dishes in.
“Hey!” A huge man grabbed Fam by the front of his shirt. “These onions are raw!”
“Same here!”
“So’s this one!”
The frightened boy looked my way. I said, “These are what the army eats in Liacz.”
“Yes,” Deni shrilled, poking her head in the open door. “They love that rice in Liacz!”
“Here, let’s try that.”
“It looks like a sick horse walked by, under this cheese.”
“Smells like it, too!”
“Ah! Ah! Ah! My tongue! Gimme that ale!” A glare. “Are you trying to poison us?”
My heartbeat thundered. “It’s a prize dish in Liacz,” I said. “They eat it by the cartload. They say,” I added, getting an idea,
“only the toughest get that down, and it makes them five times tougher.”
“No wonder those boys are always fighting,” someone muttered into his ale cup.
They fell on the meats.
Fam and I retreated, he looking at me fearfully. “M-m-m-aybe t-t-try southern r-r-recipes,” he said as we rejoined the family.
Recipes? I thought as we pushed the carts back.
“Let’s get the tarts to them,” Faura muttered, giving me a strange look. Then she scowled at her daughter, who once again heaved in silent laughter like a boiling pot.
“And more ale,” Frandi put in.
Hlanan had finished clearing off the prep table when we returned. All the redheads went off to fetch more bottles and jugs of drink. I sidled up to Hlanan. “What’s a recipe? Fam says I should review southern recipes.”
Hlanan stared at me. “You really don’t know what a recipe is?”
“How should I? This is the first time I’ve been in a kitchen longer than it took to run through and steal something to eat.”
“It’s a list of ingredients, in specific amounts, with instructions on putting them together and how long to cook the dish.”
“Oh, like the magic spells the Mage Council tried to teach!”
“Very much so. What did you use to make your rice dish?”
I told him how I’d begun, and he shook his head. “Didn’t it occur to you to start over?”
“And waste food?” I asked, appalled. “My lies covered it all right. Deni thinks we have a plan. It’s a very good idea, actually. We stink ’em out with horrible foods.”
“They’re far more likely to fall on us with all the wrath of disappointed hunger,” he said, mopping absently at his apron. “Phew, there are few smells I hate worse than stale whiskey. I can’t even smell your rice past my own reek.”
I shrugged. “Have you a plan for your part?”
“I have.” He pointed at the oven, as Faura led her troop past, each toting jugs and bottles. “I’m going to serve up the nut cakes with some lemon sauce I discovered untouched. If I mix a bit of cinnamon in it I can make a pretense of adjusting it to taste for each of them, and perhaps get some conversation going. Or listen to them, if I’m lucky enough to catch them talking of something substantive.”
Lhind the Spy Page 17
