Examination shewed that the fether was indeed, in greter part of finest metal, which alchemie revealed to be magnesivm. In the 4 or 5 moments elapsed before the carcase spontaneously combvsted, fearfvl heat emanated from the byrd, the which, I believe, was the cause of the ignition. As the bones and viscera were distinguishable upon very close examination, I dedvce that the grete heat doth originate in the byrd his skin.
My examination seemeth to have hindered, but not prevented, the formation of the phoenix his egg, which took a fortnight to hatch (so much for sitting on the thing tonight and tomorrow) and did produce a byrd like unto the firste.
Yt cannot be saide of a certantie, whether this be the same byrd, or it his offspring, yette if it be the same, then immortalitie is among us. But even yf it be notte the same, then surely the phoenix his defence is as nigh perfect as may be, for what hunter would dare another such deadlie morsel, yf once it survived the unwisdom of attempting such preye?
~o0o~
How could Angwy slow-roast a phoenix? According to Maximus, even plucking the bird would kill it. And magnesium burned hot enough to melt lead! Was it really possible that the bird’s skin got hot enough to ignite the feathers? Sorcerers knew metals, and that would be nearly twice as hot as the hottest oven I’d ever heard of.
There was only one answer. I would have to discover what Angwy had in her kitchen. Because even if I had a plucked phoenix in front of me right now, all I knew to do with it was heat it and hope. So you think I should look into other options, bitch? How about yours?
Angwy had taught me not to make an enemy of a chef. It was time to teach her not to make an enemy of a sorceress. The secrets of high gastronomy were her weapons. To steal them, I would rely on the lowest magics, known to every student mage who had ever haunted an n-dimensional library. Her notes would be in her kitchen. And while I didn’t dare try breaking into the Imperial Kitchen, I could always Goggle it.
I fished out my Glass Goggles and wound up the clockwork on the side. I hoped there was enough power in their surge engine. When it started humming, I began my chant.
Slowly, the great kitchen swam into my view. Guiding the Goggles, I peered through walls and into her office, where stood three shelves of books. I browsed titles: The Art of Fringe Cooking for Masters. The Viceroy of Cooking. The Brutal Gourmet. Now:
“Phoenix,” I sang.
And the library went dark. Not a glimmer of arcane light showed.
As I feared. No one knew how to prepare phoenix. There was no recipe here. Like many master mages, Chef Angwy kept her most cherished secrets in her mind alone.
Nevertheless, if I did come up with a way to capture Phoenix, I would need actual recipes. A Phoenix was about the size of a large duck or goose.
“Duck OR Goose entree,” I sang. And half the tomes on the shelves lit. I peered within: Bacon Stuffed Goose Drumsticks. My Goggles memorized the recipe. Paté de foie gras. Goggles. Brandied duck tongue. Goggles. Balut, whatever the hell that was.
“Game birds” lit up almost every tome on the shelves. I Goggled a dozen. Then the most vital encanta: “Goose OR duck AND dessert.”
A single small volume lit in three places. Two featured foie gras, cream and sugar, and one said “Chocolate tongue profiteroles.” Goggled.
I had the recipes, but no clues about phoenix. Could the kitchen tell me anything? “Slow Roaster,” I intoned, winding the surge engine tighter.
A largish box lit. I examined it.
Perhaps it was special, but as far as I could tell, it was an iron box, with a rotisserie and a handle to turn it. Would she use it for phoenix? Likely. Especially useful for phoenix? I couldn’t know. Angwy had mastered a sorcery I couldn’t hope to learn in a night. I was done.
~o0o~
Back in my chambers, though, I had to face facts: what did I have? One phoenix egg, and a collection of recipes.
I couldn’t think like a chef, so I thought like a research student: Start basic.
I scribed the recipes from my Goggles into a book. Then: “Eggs,” I said. Three titles appeared:
Crème Brulee de Foie Gras au Chocolat
Chocolate Tongue Profiteroles
Balut
I looked out the window where stars burned. Start with the weirdest one; you’ll only get more weary as the night drags on.
I brushed the last entry with a finger... and read salvation from the pages:
Balut
This island entrée is for only the most discerning gourmand, as the hoi-polloi are uniformly incapable of developing a palate necessary to appreciate the interplay of flavors resulting from a proper preparation of this dish.
Harvesting the eggs presents difficulty, as one must precisely gauge the development of the egg required. Of course, any common avis domestica can be used, but the truly distinguished palate can accept no substitute for the wild partridge or pheasant.
Once, chefs selected eggs approximately 7/10 of the way through the incubation period, but today’s gourmets prefer chicks matured for at least 4/5 of their incubation, cultivating tender but defined bones. The higher quality dining experience results from the unique crunch thus obtained. Traditional balut is marinated in the style...
~o0o~
Phoenix eggs would be good for one of the dishes... maybe. It was a meat dish and an egg dish. It was definitely haute cuisine, Angwy would have to allow it or be shamed.
If only I had the eleven days to incubate it. If only I had more time! I cursed myself. I should have cast a time extension spell on myself while I’d had the chance; I could have made this night last twice as long for myself. Of course, I’d have needed a willing substitute: the Law of Conservation of Time meant that for me to double my subjective time I’d have needed someone else to halve theirs. But Gods above, I could have bribed any of the guards or maids to do that, and all it would have cost them would have been feeling a little tired the next day! When I had studied at the College, we had Timeshared with each other so that everyone got two nights to cram the day before they faced the Examiners. Perhaps if I waked Trelesta, she’d be my Time Sink for the night. Or not.
Still, I had little choice. I couldn’t extend time for myself for the eleven days it would take the egg to mature for balut...
I stopped. Oh. As simple as that, was it?
I snatched the pair of scales from my desk, weighing the egg: two ounces. Multiply by eleven days. For the egg to age 264 hours in one hour, The Law of Conservation of Time stated that I would have to experience only one hour in 264. I would appear to be in a coma for eleven days.
But now I got to factor in the Law of Conservation of Mass. The egg weighed less than a thousandth of what I did. In the hour of the spell’s duration, I would experience a mere 15 minutes.
Trembling, I scribed the runes around the egg, and up the side of my arm, and then spoke the words of power. The candle flame shifted toward a greenish yellow. I saw the moon begin crawling across the sky with visible speed.
When the light returned to normal, I picked up the egg. The ink had faded considerably. Steeling myself for failure, I cracked it.
I should have been steeling my stomach. The gray, twitching flesh inside writhed like a worm. Then the egg began to grow hot in my hand.
I barely spilled it in the crucible in time to avoid severe burns. But it had no feathers. It didn’t burn with the dirty-white heat of the adult phoenix. Instead, the flesh sizzled with the aroma of cooking meat and burning egg.
Shit! I would have to burn it hotter or I’d lose this egg! Swiftly, I pried open my own jar of magnesium dust and sprinkled a pinch. The crucible went up in an inferno. At the end of it, I had a pile of fine white ash coalescing to form another egg.
So. I could do balut. I wouldn’t even need a stove. The marinade would have to be chilled, to keep the heat of the dish from actually burning it, but the Emperor always had ice.
I still needed an adult bird, though. I couldn’t have that and the egg. And I couldn’t project the whole phoenix forward in t
ime, anyway. At the rate I’d have to age it, it would starve to death seconds after hatching. And I needed more eggs, obviously. Which meant I still needed Tywin. But now I was thinking like a sorceress.
~o0o~
It was dawn, and I’d had an hour’s sleep plus two cups of the strongest coffee I could stand when I swept into Tywin’s lodge. He raised his eyebrows at my bulging pack.
“Come on, Tywin, we have a lot to do this morning.”
He bent back over the weapons he had laid out on a table.
“I’m sorry, lass, but it’s over, I won’t risk forest fires for nothing.”
“But today we can bring down live phoenix.”
He gave me a grim stare. “Even Trelesta couldn’t do that.”
“No. But I have motivation she doesn’t.”
“You had the same motivation yesterday. What’s changed?”
“I’m thinking like a good sorceress instead of a lousy cook.” I held up the fertilized chicken egg filched from the royal coops, now reticulated with the calligraphy of a sleep spell. “Eggs are alive. You get me a half-dozen more phoenix eggs, and you shoot this at a live phoenix.”
~o0o~
And now Angwy was already putting her phoenix into the famous slow roaster. I could see her bird from here, and it looked identical to mine, except for a different and thick dry rub smeared over the skin in an intricate pattern.
It was then that I realized that her roaster was heating! She wasn’t using the bird to cook itself. Somehow, she had neutralized the skin of the phoenix. How?
Now Tywin gently turned my head away from Angwy’s confident preparation. He was right, of course. Focus on the task. I set the eggs firmly in the basket and sliced open the tops. Immediately, the whites began to bubble. I plunged them into the chilled olive oil, and began a slow count of thirty. By the end of it, the fragrance of browning bird had filled the air. I then immersed it in the second pot, the one full of the vinegar marinade. It was done. I removed them and placed the basket on the cloth. Now the moment of truth.
Yes. The phoenix chicks had stopped cooking. Once the skin was cooked through, it couldn’t generate heat any longer, regardless of whether it had succeeded in reducing the bird to ash. I nearly wept with relief, but there was no time. Quickly, I put the eggs in their cups, while becoming aware of a deep, surprisingly strong voice:
“...rich flavor, and complemented superbly by the truffles and liqueur. The slow-cooking locks in the fatty flavor without making it cloying. Excellent presentation as well.”
I looked up, wincing. Angwy’s plates looked like little works of art! Reaching for some of the green salad that Tywin and I had prepared earlier, I arranged dandelion leaves in little sunbursts around the egg cups, trying not to look at His Majesty. Fury was written on his face. He was expecting Scrambled Eggs Phoenix, I knew it. Balancing carefully, I walked past Grammel. His Majesty was rising, and inhaling to have me seized and taken away, when Grammel said,
“Mistress Letzterhoff’s entrée is Phoenix Balut in the style adobo.”
His Majesty froze. Then another voice broke in.
“This is balut? Phoenix balut?”
“Yes, Sir Bastich,” I managed.
“Have you ever made balut before?”
“No, sir.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Rather a challenge for the first time out,” he said. “I hope I don’t regret your choice in the morning.” He flipped open the top, scooping out the sad, grey morsel of birdflesh.
“Perfectly aged,” he said. “I can feel the bones on the tines of my fork. The white hasn’t gelled.” He chewed. I could hear the bones popping between his teeth. “Incredible flavor,” he pronounced. And the yolk has just the right solidity. Talent or luck, Ms. Letzterhoff, is yours.”
The Emperor sagged in his chair, dumbfounded. Mechanically, he began to eat and a thoughtful expression crossed his face. I beat a retreat to my stove. I had done it. The worst, however, was yet to come.
~o0o~
By afternoon, we had only four phoenix eggs. Tywin looked at me and said in a dry voice, “I’d better have that egg now.” Wordlessly, I passed the enchanted egg over.
I had gambled. Yesterday we had seen three phoenix in four hours and hit one. Today, we had seen six and brought down four. Now we had an hour of light left, but the sky was clear of birds.
Fatigue and the afternoon sun sent me into a fitful doze. Then Tywin rose from the reeds. Almost too high to see, a reddish-yellow fleck dived. Tywin raised the bow. Fired.
The egg rose, spinning out of sight.
The phoenix continued its dive.
Lower.
It splashed into the pond, scattering ducks.
I didn’t remember diving into the pond. All I remembered was Tywin pulling me out, pulling me to shore, shouting, “It’s all right, lass. You’ve got it!”
And my hands locked around the neck of the sodden, sleeping phoenix.
~o0o~
Flash-Glazed Phoenix Under Glass
Ingredients:
One (1) ensorcelled phoenix, plucked
One (1) gill Old Genius Dark Beer recommended by an experienced drinker of same
One-half (½) gill orange juice
One (1) tsp. orange zest
Eleven (11) very specific herbs and spices mixed by annoyingly close-mouthed drinker
One-half (½) gill single barrel bourbon from His Imperial Majesty’s stores
One-eighth (1/8) gill same bourbon
One (1) gill lilac honey
2 gallons lard, solid
1 pair heavy leather gloves
Preparation:
Mince garlic
Mix marinade (beer, juice, zest, garlic, pepper) together; divide in two and chill until nearly frozen
Divide lard in two; place half in deep pot
Pour one-eighth gill of bourbon into chef for confidence
~o0o~
The phoenix slept in my hands, as it had throughout the plucking. Feeling no pain, it had felt no need to die. “Good,” said Tywin, who had the pot and lard laid out. “Now remember, just like we practiced it.”
From dawn until noon, he had drilled me in the killing strokes. I had no doubt this man had been a soldier. I held it as firmly as I could.
Tywin skewered the bird through with his dagger. I picked up the knife and sliced from the tail to the breast. The crowd groaned softly as the blood spattered across Tywin, but he reached quickly in and wrenched out the offal.
I turned away, already feeling the bird heat. I placed it in the roasting pan to sear. Then I slapped the amorphous masses of near-frozen marinade onto the sides of the bird. They began to melt instantly, sending up fragrances of orange, beer, bourbon and honey. Half the marinade gone now, gloves heating up. I flipped the bird, slipping the remaining lumps under the skin of the breasts. It sizzled loudly now, fat spattering. Lifting the phoenix in both hands, gritting my teeth against the pain, I dropped it in the fryer and flinched from the roaring geyser of melting fat, covering it with the rest of the lard. It erupted in a storm of noise to the “Oooh,” from the audience.
Now dessert. Tywin was already trimming the liver. So, another correct guess, and I blessed old Alfredus for showing that the organs didn’t catch fire on their own.
~o0o~
Phoenix Liver Crème Brulee
Ingredients:
Eight (8) ounces heavy cream
Three (3) ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate
To taste fresh ground black pepper
Eight (8) ounces phoenix liver
Three (3) hen eggs
One (1) egg yolk
One-half (½) gill fine cane sugar
Preparation:
Melt chocolate over water bath
Heat heavy cream and sugar in saucepan until it begins to simmer
Pat phoenix livers dry and add to heated cream, remove from heat and let steep for 4-5 minutes
Strain the liver out of the cream and puree with part of cream
Stir together blended cream and remaining cream
Pass liver cream mixture through chinois, mix in the eggs and yolk (don’t heat too much!) and melted chocolate
Pour into dish. Bake in a water bath in oven until just set
Sprinkle sugar and torch until sugar melts
~o0o~
Tywin shouted. “Get that bird out!”
Carefully, I pulled the phoenix from the hot fat. It was still hot, but no longer burning. I drained it, then set it aside to rest.
I turned back to Tywin, but now we had time, and he knew it.
“Now what’s she so fixated on?” he asked. I followed his gaze to where Trelesta was sitting. And staring. Staring at Angwy, who was brush-basting her slowly roasting bird with intricate strokes that were somehow familiar, almost as if she were...
I locked eyes with Trelesta. She nodded. Angwy was enchanting the bird! While I had been thinking like a chef, she had been thinking like a sorceress. But what spell? Then I recognized it. It was a Gustatory Magnification Spell: the common flavor-enhancer! We’d used cheap versions all the time to make up for our ingredients. Master chefs held GMS in nothing but disdain!
Should I call her on it, though? The Emperor... even Chef Bastich, had noticed nothing. It would be my word against theirs. Or Trelesta’s and mine, and the Emperor would never believe both of us over his favorite.
But she was cheating!
Tywin carved and covered the bird, and this was good because I was shaking too badly to hold a knife. I carried the glass-domed plates to the table.
“Mistress Letzterhoff presents Flash-Glazed Fried Phoenix Under Glass.”
This time the emperor watched the Bastich before making a move.
“Mediocre presentation,” he began. “So let’s hope it tastes better than it looks. No sauce, even.” He took a bite. Chewed. Paused. Put down his fork.
“To be frank, I was dubious about this dish, but it is elegant in concept, the sear is perfect, and the marinade bold and exciting. That’s another mark in the ‘talent’ column, Mistress Letzterhoff.”
Shaking, I withdrew. Now it was Angwy’s turn to glare at me, but what could she do? She couldn’t hurry slow roasting by definition. For me, only the dessert mattered, and we couldn’t serve that before Angwy’s main course.
Sword and Sorceress 30 Page 4
