A Hint of Hydra

by Heidi Lang

  Every time her mom came back after another random trip, Lailu pretended everything was fine, squashing her anger and sadness deep, deep down, covering them up like a lid over a noxious stew. This was her mother, who treated her wounds and told her stories when she was little. Her mother, whom she loved.

  And Lailu could feel that tiny pinprick of fear buried beneath the anger and sadness. She was afraid that if she said anything, then the next time her mother left, she wouldn’t bother coming back.

  “Looks like you’re getting low on lebinola,” her mother said, peeking in the spice cupboard behind her. “Are you still using that in everything?”

  Lailu sagged. Maybe she’d tell her mom later. . . . “Not in everything,” she said, letting the words she couldn’t say vanish like steam off her cream-of-griffin soup. “Just when it’s needed.”

  “Which is often, I take it?”

  “Did you really come out here to criticize my cooking?” Lailu stirred the soup cooking on the stove, her knuckles white on the ladle.

  “I told you, I came out to visit. The criticism is just a bonus.” Lianna smiled.

  Lailu scowled.

  “Oh, relax, Lailu. You’re always so serious. I’m sorry I said anything about your cooking. It smells absolutely wonderful, and I’m sure it will taste even better.”

  “Greg always teases me about my use of lebinola too,” Lailu grumbled, setting her ladle down.

  “Ooh, Greg?” Lianna’s eyes sparkled as she leaned forward. “And who is this Greg?”

  Lailu’s ears turned red. “He’s just . . . Greg is just my rival.”

  “Just your rival. Interesting. Tell me more.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Lailu said. “Are you going to be here long?”

  Lianna laughed. “At least through the Week of Masks. And don’t try to change the subject. It won’t work on me. Especially since I counted two justs there. Must be serious.”

  “Lailu, another family of five came in clamoring for the special, and Master Slipshod says to pull out the soufflé,” Hannah said, bustling into the kitchen holding a tray loaded with dirty dishes.

  “Hannah, be a dear and tell me about Lailu’s Greg,” Lianna said.

  Lailu’s blush spread from her ears to her cheeks like melted butter on a frying pan. “I told you, he’s just—” She caught herself, cleared her throat. “He’s a fellow chef.”

  “He leaped to Lailu’s defense a few weeks back when we had to hunt dragon,” Hannah added, setting her tray down. “He’s a LaSilvian. A very handsome LaSilvian.”

  “Hannah!”

  “What? He is—you can’t deny it. Even if he does have too much hair.”

  “A handsome aristocrat, interested in my Lailu,” Lianna purred. “Well, well.”

  “He is not interested in me,” Lailu said, but she could tell her mother wasn’t listening. Typical. Sighing, she pulled the soufflé out.

  “He’s always making excuses to hunt together. And aren’t you cooking together tomorrow?” Hannah smirked.

  “That’s different. That’s just cooking.”

  “Another ‘just,’ ” Lianna remarked, exchanging knowing smiles with Hannah.

  “Stop smiling so much!” Lailu said. This was almost as bad as the time her oldest brother, Laurent, caught her writing poetry about Vahn. “I need to go check on my customers.”

  “Go on, then. I’m sure Hannah will tell me everything while you’re gone. Won’t you, Hannah?” Lianna clasped Hannah’s fingers.

  “Of course, Mrs. Loganberry.”

  “I’ve told you, call me Lianna, dear. ‘Mrs.’ makes me feel old.”

  “Hannah, shouldn’t you come with me?” Lailu asked, loading up a new tray with dishes. She couldn’t leave her friend there unsupervised. Who knew what she’d tell her mother?

  “Did you know Lailu actually danced with another boy on the First Night of Masks?” Hannah said.

  “Hey, this tray is awfully heavy. I could use some help,” Lailu said desperately.

  “Another boy? How intriguing. Do continue.”

  “Well, he’s a bit older, and mysterious. His name’s Ryon.”

  Lianna dropped Hannah’s hands so quickly, it was like she’d picked up a hot pan.

  “Mom?” Lailu asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you . . . Do you know Ryon?”

  “Of course not. How could I possibly?” Lianna stood. “Now, I’ll help you with this tray, shall I? We shouldn’t be sitting around chatting when there are hungry people out there.” She took the tray out of Lailu’s unresisting hands.

  “I can take that, Mrs. Loganberry,” Hannah said quickly.

  “Nonsense. I might be old, as you insist on reminding me, but I can still carry a tray. And I know you must be tired, Lailu honey, what with the hunt and then the excitement of discovering a body out there.”

  Lailu’s jaw dropped. How did her mother know about that? It was supposed to be a secret.

  “Don’t look so surprised, you two. Word spreads fast in these parts, particularly when someone wants the word to spread.”

  “And what word would that be?” Hannah asked.

  “Murder.” Lianna looked hard at Hannah. “Murder . . . at the hands of the elves.”

  17

  THE GREATER GOOD

  Someone shook Lailu’s shoulder.

  Lailu rolled over, pulling her blankets tighter around her. “Skilly-wigs are for amateurs,” she mumbled into her pillow.

  “Lailu, you have to wake up. Lord Elister is here,” Hannah said.

  Those words were like a bucket of ice shattering Lailu’s sleep into a million terrified pieces.

  “What? Why? Now?” Lailu sat up, her hand going for her knife. She stopped herself. A knife wouldn’t help her. Not in this.

  “I’m not sure why,” Hannah said, adjusting the robe she’d thrown on over her own nightclothes, “but he’s definitely here now.”

  Lailu glanced at the darkened window. She felt like she’d just drifted off; sunlight wouldn’t be breaking for another hour. What did Elister want? Was he there to question her? Had they found Carbon’s murderer?

  Or . . . had there been another murder?

  Lailu’s fingers were numb and clumsy as she changed out of her nightclothes and into a long gray shirt and a pair of brown trousers, then padded down the stairs. “You’re staying up?” she asked Hannah.

  Hannah sipped her tea. “I’m meeting Starling later this morning,” she explained. “Who needs sleep, right?”

  “Right,” Lailu muttered grumpily.

  “Good luck out there.”

  Lailu slipped into the candlelit dining room. And stopped.

  Lord Elister was there, all right. And so was her mother. Both of them were sitting at a table in the corner, talking too quietly for Lailu to overhear. She remembered Elister saying he had met her mother once before. The comfortable way they sat made it look like he’d met her many times. But that couldn’t be true. Surely Lailu would know if her mother regularly came to Twin Rivers.

  No, you wouldn’t, Lailu thought bitterly. Her mother never said where she was going, or where she’d been. She never told Lailu anything of importance.

  Lianna glanced up, caught sight of her daughter, and immediately rose from her chair. “Good morning, dear heart,” she chirped. “Eli—Lord Elister was just telling me all about the amazing dinner you recently catered for him. I’m so proud.” She put her hands over her heart, the many rings on her fingers clinking softly together.

  Lord Elister stood up. He towered over Lailu’s mother but did not overshadow her. No one ever overshadowed Lianna Loganberry; Lailu wasn’t sure what it was, but her mother always seemed like the brightest spot in any room, the person everyone noticed first. “I thought we should discuss yesterday’s events,” he said. “Walk with me?”

  Even though he phrased it as a question, Lailu knew there was only one answer. She nodded, too nervous to say anything.

  “Here, hone
y, it’s cold outside.” Her mother shrugged out of her wrap and handed it to Lailu. “And it’ll do you good to wear some color for once.”

  Lailu was sure her face was a bright enough red to qualify. It was embarrassing to have her mother fussing over her in front of the king’s executioner, of all people. Still, she took the purple-and-green cloth and wrapped it around herself, breathing in the scent of incense and cinnamon.

  “Oh, and don’t forget this.” Lianna grabbed Lailu’s fancy griffin mask and handed it over.

  “It’s practically morning,” Lailu protested.

  “Until that sun peeks its little head over the horizon, you keep your mask on. You too, Lord Elister. You especially,” Lianna said firmly. “We’re only midway through the week. Still plenty of angry spirits hanging around.”

  Elister slipped a simple green domino mask from his pocket. “As you say.”

  Lianna smiled approvingly. “Have a pleasant walk.” She curtsied in his direction, patted Lailu’s cheek, then swept from the room.

  Elister’s green eyes crinkled at the edges in a genuine smile. “Your mother is an enchanting woman.” Then his smile fell away, and it was all business again. “Shall we?”

  Lailu pulled on her mask and followed him outside, the autumn chill enveloping her with the promise of rain to come. She tugged her mother’s wrap more tightly around her shoulders.

  Whirl, tick, tick.

  Lailu spun, hand dropping to her hip. An automaton stepped into view around the corner of the restaurant, a bowler hat perched on its metal head. Its eyes glowed that same intense blue as before as it watched Lailu. Even though it had no expression, Lailu could tell it was glaring, could feel the animosity radiating from its metal core.

  This . . . this thing did not like her.

  But that was impossible. It was like a stove. Or a carriage. It couldn’t like or dislike anyone. Could it?

  “Ah, Walton, so good of you to wait.” Elister smiled fondly at the automaton.

  “Doesn’t he have to?” Lailu asked.

  “Of course he does, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be polite about it.” As Elister walked, Walton fell into step behind him, trotting at his heel like some kind of metallic dog. “After all, his ability to do precisely what I ask puts him far above any person who has ever worked for me.”

  Lailu had to hurry to keep up with Elister’s much longer strides, and she was very conscious of Walton’s creepy blue eyes on her back the whole time.

  “I’m taking him out for a test run this morning,” Elister continued. “Starling’s daughter fixed some of his bugs, and she also added a few new features. According to Starling, Walton here should be able to take pictures, storing images of the things around him. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “Er . . . ,” Lailu said. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this new ability. It made her even more nervous about saying anything, if Walton was somehow going to trap her image forever.

  Elister fell silent as they walked past his carriage. Lailu noticed it was the same auto-carriage Wren had driven earlier and not Elister’s usual black affair. Clearly the king’s executioner was enjoying all the newest inventions the scientists had to offer.

  “You’re probably wondering why I came here now instead of sending one of my agents,” Elister finally said.

  “No, sir,” Lailu answered. “I just assumed you never slept.”

  Elister chuckled. “These days, that statement feels too close to the truth.” They turned down a side road, passing a shabby brick apartment building. The candles in the nearest window had burned down to nubs. She recognized them as Nighters, created specifically to burn the full night before melting away with the dawn.

  “I came personally because I don’t want any more leaks. People talking about murder is bad enough, but when the deceased is someone who was under my protection . . .” He shook his head. “The fewer people involved in this, the better. We don’t need any more damaging rumors.”

  Lailu fidgeted, feeling strangely guilty. She had told Ryon and Hannah. . . . Did Lord Elister know somehow? Of course he knew. He always seemed to. But Lailu also knew her friends would have kept quiet. It had to be someone else spreading rumors, someone who wanted the city to know about this death, who wanted people to worry about the elves.

  “Now.” Lord Elister stopped in the middle of the deserted street. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about your hunt? Did you notice anything—anything at all—that might have been suspicious?”

  Lailu hesitated, remembering that figure she’d seen moving quietly through the swamp. As she told Elister about it, Walton’s blue eyes glowed brighter and brighter. He sucked in her words, his head tilted to the side.

  Its head, Lailu corrected herself. It was a thing. It was not alive.

  Lailu shuddered, trying not to look at the automaton. “Whoever or whatever it was, it moved like it didn’t want us to know it was there,” she finished.

  “Whatever it was?” Elister asked.

  Lailu bit her lip, but she had to tell him. Even with Walton standing right there. “Sir, I don’t believe anything human could have moved through that muck without ending up in it, and I heard no splashing.”

  “Interesting,” Elister said, running one hand down his chin thoughtfully.

  They started circling back toward Mystic Cooking. Lailu thought longingly of her warm bed, and then of her even warmer kitchen. As her restaurant came into view, she had to fight the urge to run inside, away from the intimidating presence of Elister and his new butler.

  “Your story certainly matches young LaSilvian’s,” Elister said, “but with more detail. Some creature moving through the swamp. That gives Starling’s suspicions even more weight.”

  “I don’t think it was an elf,” Lailu said.

  Elister stopped. His eyes narrowed on Lailu’s face, and suddenly she found it hard to breathe, like she had swallowed an extra-large glob of peanut butter.

  “I heard clicking noises. I don’t think it was alive.” She gulped, but she made herself say it. “I think it was . . . made.” She thought of the hat again, that dirty bowler hat, but those words dried up in the face of Elister’s stony expression.

  “I think,” he said quietly, “that there are a lot of noises in a swamp. I think,” his voice grew louder, “that it would be hard for someone to distinguish among them. And I think that this is something a chef would be wise to not think too much about.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Do not get involved, Lailu Loganberry. Sometimes the good of the country must take precedence over justice, or what might seem right to someone in your situation.”

  Lailu swallowed hard. It sounded almost like Elister was already choosing the scientists and their accusations over the elves, regardless of the truth. Like the truth was something that could just be decided.

  “Do you understand me?” he asked.

  “I . . . I think so,” Lailu whispered. She could picture the axe hanging just above her head.

  “Good. I’m glad we had this chance to chat. Come along, Walton,” he said, striding to his auto-carriage.

  The automaton cocked its head again, then leaned in closer to Lailu. She froze.

  Click-click-click, whirrrrrrrrr.

  “Walton!” Elister ordered.

  The automaton turned and glided to the carriage, vaulting inside. Lailu remained outside her restaurant for a long time after the carriage drove off.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think Walton had just threatened her. And although she’d dealt with threats in the past, both from Mr. Boss and the elves, this felt somehow worse. More terrifying. For how could she reason with a thing that had no heart? A thing that wasn’t alive.

  Times are changing.

  Lailu shook herself, then headed inside. She had to get ready now if she was going to get to Greg’s in time to help cook.

  18

  EXTRA HEADS

  Lailu prodded the hydra meat with a long-handled fo
rk, checking for any bright green streaks, the lingering signs of poison. Usually, the more magic a creature had in life, the more poisonous it could be in death—if not cooked and treated properly, that is. Hydra meat was almost as deadly as dragon meat. And sometimes poison from a mystical beast might cause strange side effects. Of course, this topic was widely disputed among chefs. No mystic chef worth her apron would ever admit to cooking anything incorrectly, so the few instances of magical poisoning that resulted in bizarre changes instead of death were always blamed on other things.

  “How’s it look?” Greg asked. He pulled a roast from the broiler, sweat glimmering on his upper lip.

  “I don’t think anyone will grow an extra head from this steak,” Lailu declared, tipping the bottle of Greg’s “special” dry rub.

  “There’s no proof that hydra meat does that.”

  “No, just theory.” Lailu began delicately slicing the meat. “Although I know you’re not really up on all your chef theories.”

  Greg narrowed his eyes. “If you mean up on all my theories from that dried-up, has-been Chef Gingersnap—”

  “Hey! That’s Master Chef Gingersnap.”

  Greg snorted. Master Chef Gingersnap had been one of the few teachers at the Chef Academy whom he hadn’t been able to charm. He’d passed her class, but just barely.

  “And she was right about the side effects of griffin meat,” Lailu said.

  “Well, even a tasteless chef can find spice if it’s loaded onto her plate.”

  Gingersnap had theorized that griffin meat, if not treated and cooked properly, would cause extreme honesty in people who ate it. Then, about twenty-five years ago, that theory had been put into effect. Rumor had it, some of the tension between Savoria and the Krigaen Empire stemmed from a single failed banquet, when the Savorian diplomat insulted the Krigaen queen’s nose . . . and worse yet, her fighting prowess.

  “I still maintain that those diplomats wanted to insult the queen all along,” Greg said. “And I’m just about done with my end. Have a look.” He gestured with his knife. “The flaked mandrake and chopped scallops.” They would be turning those into delicious steak rolls. Another dramatic knife gesture for “our spicy tahini and sesame chili.”