by Heidi Lang
Lailu’s stomach clenched. “For me?”
“I didn’t have any money, and I . . . I’ve made some mistakes in the past.” Master Slipshod sank into a chair. “Lots of mistakes. I’ve burned bridges and lost connections; there weren’t many people left who were willing to take a chance on an old chef like me. But we can pay Mr. Boss back. I believe in this place, Lailu. I believe in you. You’ve got more talent than I’ve ever seen in a chef of your age.”
Lailu remembered the day Master Slipshod had taken her on as his apprentice. In order to achieve full Master Chef status, she needed to complete an apprenticeship with a qualified mentor after graduating, but everyone she’d sought out had said no. Some had turned her down because of her unusual restaurant idea—most graduates found jobs in wealthy households, but Lailu believed good cooking should be accessible to all. Others turned her down because she was too young, too inexperienced, too short. She’d heard it all. A week went by, then another, and even though she’d graduated at the top of her class, no mentors would take her.
Her father had come out for her graduation, and then stayed the extra weeks for support as she was rejected again and again. As she failed, again and again.
And then her favorite teacher at school told her about his old mentor. “What you need is an unconventional chef for your unconventional idea. Sullivan Slipshod’s been out of the kitchen for a while now, but his mind is still as sharp as his knives,” Master Sanford had said, passing her Slipshod’s address. “See if you can’t get him away from those card tables. His talents are wasted there.” It had taken a lot to convince him, but finally, reluctantly, he’d agreed to at least meet her at school and sample her cooking.
“Okay, girl, you’re up,” Master Slipshod had told her as she stepped up to the academy stove. “Show me what cooking skills you’ve got.”
“Let Chushi and Jiakin guide your hand,” her father said, invoking the God of Cookery and the god he worshipped, the God of Hard Work. He kissed Lailu on the cheek, and in that rare moment of affection, Lailu knew she could do it. She would cook the best dish Master Slipshod had ever tasted. And she did.
After she cooked for him, Master Slipshod had signed her there on the spot. “You and me, Pigtails, we’ll go places,” he told her. And she had believed him.
She uncurled her fists. She believed him still.
“If you want to achieve great things, you have to be willing to take great risks,” Master Slipshod added.
“But . . . forever? We’d be stuck working for him forever?”
“Only if we didn’t pay him back.”
“We haven’t even had any customers. Isn’t that a huge gamble?”
He gave her a ghost of a smile. “All of life’s a gamble.” He pushed himself up, moving slowly. “But with your talent, the odds are on our side.” He glanced down at the paper in his hands. “I hate to bring even more bad news, but I decided to check out your friend’s restaurant on my way back.”
Lailu went hot, then cold. She knew exactly who Slipshod meant. “He’s no friend of mine,” she breathed, her nostrils flaring. She still couldn’t believe she had entrusted him with her plans to open the first restaurant in Twin Rivers, just so he could turn around and copy her.
Master Slipshod shrugged. “He seems to think differently.” He tossed her the folded paper.
Lailu unfolded it to reveal a black-and-white picture of a distinguished dark-haired man, his lined face filled with pride, his arm around a grinning boy’s shoulders. Lailu would recognize that wide, obnoxious grin anywhere, not to mention that shaggy mop of hair. It looked terribly unprofessional, even crammed under the chef’s hat. Apparently Greg hadn’t changed at all in the six months since they’d graduated from the academy together.
Under the photo, a caption read “Famous winemaker Dante LaSilvian with his nephew Gregorian Jocelyn LaSilvian.”
Below the picture, printed in tiny, perfect letters, were a few paragraphs. Squinting, Lailu read them quickly, then again, her hands shaking with the urge to tear the paper into thousands of pieces as she read the words a third time:
Youngest Master Chef Cooks Up Huge Success
Dante LaSilvian opened the doors of his highly anticipated restaurant, LaSilvian’s Kitchen, early this morning. Joining him is his talented nephew and protégé, Gregorian Jocelyn LaSilvian, the youngest chef to come out of the Chef Academy in three hundred years.
“Don’t let his tender age fool you, Gregorian is a culinary genius,” said Jonah Gumple, the first person inside. Gumple, who proposed to his longtime girlfriend in the restaurant, credits the food with her positive answer. “I’ve asked her four times already,” he admitted. “This was the first time she said yes.”
Gregorian prepared an excellent seafood feast for the first hundred people lucky enough to get in. When asked if he would be serving kraken, he scoffed. “No one’s foolish enough to go after that kind of animal,” he said, adding, “Skilly-wigs and stewed sea-orchids taste just as good, and are far easier to get ahold of, which means I don’t have to overcharge my customers for them.”
(story continued on page seven)
Lailu stopped reading and crumpled the paper into a tight ball, imagining it was Greg’s head. “The youngest chef ? How . . . dare . . . he!”
All through school she had been tied with Greg for top chef in their class. Lailu worked harder, and she knew her recipes were better prepared, but Greg was a favorite with most of the teachers and always seemed to pick up extra points. Greg, with his easy smile and aristocratic family. Greg, who unscrewed the caps of her seasonings, who added colored dye to her soups, who made up names for her and never, ever got in trouble because he was a LaSilvian. Greg . . .
She stood and threw the crumpled ball to the ground, all thoughts of Mr. Boss and Slipshod’s betrayal vanishing in the wake of her anger. She had to beat Greg. She had to!
She looked up at her mentor. “What was this you were saying about a gaggle of batyrdactyls?”
Master Slipshod smiled. “That’s the spirit.” He stretched, then headed to the kitchen. Lailu followed him, pausing in front of the large steam-powered stove. A graduation gift from her father and two older brothers, it was made out of polished metal and glass and boasted eight burners as well as two stove openings wide enough for Lailu to crawl inside. A multitude of pipes burst from the top of it to puncture the wall and connect to the chimney in back, making their kitchen feel small, even though it was almost half the size of the rest of the restaurant.
Lailu traced the small letters, SV, engraved in the top left corner, sighing. Scientist Starling Volan was amazing and brilliant and creative. Almost two years ago she had visited the academy to unveil her new stoves, and Lailu had looked up to her ever since. Starling wasn’t afraid to do things differently. No, she had revolutionized modern cooking with her marvelous steam-powered inventions, just as Lailu had wanted to revolutionize eating by opening the first restaurant ever in Twin Rivers.
Her mentor rummaged around in each of the shelves. “I got a tip that a gaggle of those bloodsuckers has been terrorizing the townsfolk on the edge of the Velvet Forest and could do with a bit of thinning out.” He removed a small pouch that jingled mysteriously. “I have to do a few more things this afternoon, but I’ll be back before dark, and we can go hunting then.”
“I can hunt them myself.” Greg probably hunted everything himself.
“No, batyrdactyls are dangerous.”
Lailu snorted. “They’re only a few feet tall.”
“Yes, but they’re bullies, always fighting in a group. Plus my contact said they’re nesting close to the elves’ tree fort, so we’d be treading a bit of dangerous territory. No, Pigtails, you need to wait for me. I won’t be long.”
But as Lailu cleaned up all the dirty dishes, and the sun sank below the horizon, Master Slipshod did not return. Finally, she headed up the creaky wooden stairs to her room above the restaurant. They’d still be able to hunt before opening tomorrow.
O God of Cookery, please bring people to our restaurant, Lailu prayed as she slipped under the blankets on her thin feather mattress. Then she remembered her broken shrine. Would Chushi even listen to her now? With that thought ringing through her head, she lay awake for a long time. Just as sleep came drifting over her, Lailu’s eyes snapped open. There was . . . something. Something downstairs. She froze, listening intently. Was it Master Slipshod?
Thump! Crack! “Ow!”
Lailu went for the large butcher knife she kept in a quick-draw sheath next to her bed. The noise had come from the kitchen. Master Slipshod knew his way around that kitchen, even in the dark. It wasn’t him down there.
She willed her heart to beat quieter, images of the Butcher flashing through her mind. A creak, then another. Someone climbing the stairs. Taking a deep breath, Lailu eased herself out of bed, her hand shaking from gripping the knife so hard.
The bedroom door opened.
Lailu lunged forward and grabbed a handful of cloth and hair in her free hand. She glimpsed a pair of familiar dark eyes widened in terror before the intruder shrieked and dropped her candle. It sputtered out, returning the room to darkness.
“H-Hannah?” Lailu asked, letting the intruder go.
She heard a deep, gasping breath, then, “Yes. Yes, it’s just me,” her best friend said shakily.
“What are you doing here?” Lailu crouched down and felt for the candle, then made her way over to the bedside dresser for some matches. As she relit the candle, she glanced back at her friend. Hannah remained standing awkwardly in the doorway, her borrowed secondhand school uniform disheveled where Lailu had grabbed it, a glittery emerald haircomb askew in her long black hair.
“C-can I stay here for the night?”
Lailu couldn’t hide her surprise. Hannah had followed Lailu to the city from Clear Lakes, their snowy little mountain village. But after being accepted into Twin Rivers’s Finest, an elite boarding school for hairdressing and fashion, Hannah had been too busy to see Lailu much. Especially since she was living over on Gilded Island with the wealthy, whereas Lailu had moved from the academy all the way out to the opposite end of the city. “Why?” Lailu asked. “What’s going on?”
“Just some nasty drama with the other girls at school.” Hannah waved a hand casually, but her red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips were apparent in the flickering candlelight.
“Drama? What kind of drama?” Lailu had dealt with whispered insults and taunts from many of the girls in Clear Lakes, and was no stranger to the way words could cut a person into tiny pieces. But Hannah had never let things like that bother her before. What kind of drama would have such an effect on her?
“Oh, you know, just the usual.” Hannah shrugged her overnight bag up higher on her shoulder. “But if it’s too much trouble . . .”
“Of course you can stay.” As if Lailu would tell Hannah no and send her back out into the night, especially since she was clearly shaken by whatever had happened. Lailu was dying to know more, but could tell Hannah wasn’t in a talking mood.
Hannah gave her brightest smile and dropped her bag with a very final-sounding thump. “Whew. That was getting very heavy.”
“But what happens if you’re caught outside of school?” Lailu knew from experience that all the city’s boarding schools had strict curfew policies.
Hannah shrugged. “I’ll be back and in bed before Madame Pompadour even notices tomorrow morning.” She pulled the sparkling emerald comb from her hair and carefully placed it on the nightstand, crawled into Lailu’s bed, and blew out her candle. “Thank you,” she mumbled, already drifting off to sleep. “You’re the bestest. . . .”
Lailu sighed and squeezed in next to her friend. It wasn’t exactly a large bed. The vanilla-and-cinnamon scent of Hannah’s hairsprays and perfumes filled the room, tickling her nose. She tried to ignore it, waiting for sleep; then, when sleep didn’t come, she waited for the sounds of her mentor returning so they could hunt. And waited. And waited. Then her thoughts started drifting to Greg, lines out the door of his own place . . .
“That’s it,” she muttered, easing herself out of bed. She was done lying around, waiting for her mentor as if she were some child. She was practically a master chef in her own right, and she could hunt by herself.
She smoothed down her black hair and gathered it back into pigtails, then dressed quietly in formfitting knit trousers and a matching long-sleeved top, both black. Grabbing her grappling hook and a belt of knives, she spared one last glance at her snoring friend before pulling a hat on over her ears and slipping out of the room.
Outside, the air had turned dark and crisp. A single lamp flickered across the street, illuminating a man staggering home from work to an old brick apartment building nearby. He looked defeated, his clothing worn and patched, his shoulders slumped, his bowl of a hat partially crumpled under one arm. It was a look shared by most of the citizens living this far on the outskirts of town, just yards away from the Velvet Forest.
Savoria was a wild country, full of the mystic beasts that Lailu used for her recipes. This made it a wonderful place for mystic chefs, but not as wonderful for farmers and village people just trying to live their lives. Many of them had slowly moved into the cities, where protection was provided either by local garrisons or, in the case of Savoria’s capital city of Twin Rivers, the Heroes Academy. But the protection of the city came at a high price. Most poor citizens who wanted the safety of these city walls were eventually forced to deal with loan sharks like Mr. Boss or to bargain with the elves. It was hard to know which situation was worse or more dangerous: dealing with the beasts outside, or the ones inside.
When Lailu had first envisioned Mystic Cooking, she pictured it resting in a more populated area of the city, not shunted off to edge into the elves’ territory. But it didn’t matter; even here people would learn of their restaurant. They would have customers tomorrow. They had to have customers.
With a parting look at her small two-story restaurant, Lailu turned and slipped into the forest.
3
SOLO HUNT
Shivering, Lailu steadied herself on a branch as she pulled her grappling hook out of the tangle above her. Up in the thinner branches of the oak trees, the wind whipped her pigtails into her face. She swung the hook gently in small loops, building up momentum, then stopped when she heard a sudden noise behind her.
It was a low screeching sound, increasing in pitch until it ended in a burbling shriek: the batyrdactyls’ hunting call. The sound chilled her to her core, even though she had known she was getting close to their lair when she found a second bird corpse completely drained of blood.
Lailu turned, trying to make no noise as she balanced carefully on the branch. There was just enough light to make out the leathery snout, the bright red eyes, the teeth. The moonlight seemed to emphasize those teeth, all four of them, all unnaturally white and long and narrow, as the batyrdactyl settled on the tree behind her. Small gray feathers covered its plump body, while two large, leathery wings folded at its sides, both ending in hooked talons.
Lailu pulled a knife out of her leather belt. The batyrdactyl’s wings opened slightly as it adjusted its claws on a branch not five feet away from her. It was a little on the short side, only about three feet tall, but it would make an excellent roast. She already had a special blend of seasonings mixed, not to mention plenty of sage and garlic. The leftover pieces would go well in a tasty soup, its bones flavoring the broth in a delightfully exotic way, a perfect appetizer. Her mouth watered thinking about it.
A scratching noise sounded behind her, and then another at her side, and Lailu pulled herself back into the present. There were now four batyrdactyls surrounding her, staring with those eerie red eyes. Most batyrdactyls hunted in smaller gaggles of only two or three; she hadn’t been expecting to take on a group this size. Maybe she should have listened to her mentor and waited.
Lailu ignored her growing sense of unease and put the knife in her teeth, then pulled
a second knife out. The forest seemed to hold its breath, a whole ocean of branches whispering quietly while the batyrdactyls watched her in the darkness.
Lailu turned back to the first creature, took aim, and threw her knife. As the blade left her hand, a screeching batyrdactyl slammed into her, raking her arms with its claws. Lailu threw herself to the side, flipping around upside down on her branch, and another one flew at her, its rubbery snout right against her face.
Her heart racing furiously, Lailu dropped down to the branch beneath her, ducking under the larger of the two creatures. She grabbed the knife from between her teeth and slashed at it, but as it fell, another one took its place, and suddenly it was like the forest was alive with batyrdactyls, all screeching that horrible burbling sound. Buffeted on all sides by wings and scraped by claws, Lailu turned and twisted, swinging her grappling hook in a circle around her, her knife clutched in her other hand. She could smell her own blood and knew it was drawing more of them. She was way too exposed up here.
Her hook jerked out of her hands and became embedded in the side of one of the circling creatures. The batyrdactyl howled and lunged at her. Lailu threw her knife, catching it neatly in one beady red eye. As it fell, she went for a third knife, but another batyrdactyl slammed into her from behind, knocking her forward. She caught the branch and wrapped her arms and legs around it. Sudden pain stabbed through the side of her neck as a batyrdactyl latched its teeth through her skin and slurped greedily, feeding on her blood.
Lailu screamed. Thrashing and flailing, she knew she’d never be able to get it off her that way. There was only one thing to do. She threw all her weight to the side and let go of the branch.
Lailu twisted as she fell, knocking the batyrdactyl away. She twisted again, reaching her hands out, desperately trying to hold on to branches that snapped and broke beneath her. She felt like she was falling forever, landing on a branch only to have it give under her.
A few seconds passed before Lailu realized she’d finally stopped falling. As she lay blinking up at the broken branches, she felt for the ground under her, but her bloody fingers dug into ropes instead.
