A Dash of Dragon

by Heidi Lang

  “You slapped me!”

  “You were in a state of shock! You didn’t have to kick me.”

  “Yeah well, you were in a state of deserving it.” Lailu slid the chair over, kicked the rug out of the way, and grabbed the handle to the cellar trapdoor. “You’re not allowed back here,” she told Ryon.

  He followed her down the narrow stairs anyway. She sighed but didn’t argue. “We don’t have LaSilvian. I wasn’t lying about that.”

  “Really? I would think all chefs carried LaSilvian wine. Best in the land.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Lailu sniffed. “Master Slipshod and I prefer Debonair wine.” Actually, Master Slipshod preferred LaSilvian, but he’d chosen to purchase Debonair as a sign of support for Lailu.

  Ryon shrugged. “Almost as good, I suppose.” When Lailu scowled, he waved his hands at her as if to say get on with it.

  Still scowling, Lailu grabbed a basket off a hook and scanned the wine shelf, ignoring the large gaps between bottles. Someday they’d have enough money to fill the whole rack with wine from all across the land. She chose one of their better bottles of wine, a Debonair red, gold label, which was every bit as good as that junk LaSilvian made. Hesitating, she grabbed a second and third bottle, just in case. She didn’t want to take chances, not with that man sitting out there.

  “What is Elister the Bloody doing here?” she asked, laying the bottles carefully in her basket.

  Ryon’s eyes widened. “Don’t call him that.”

  “It’s his title. It’s what everyone calls him, ever since—”

  “Shh.”

  Lailu lowered her voice. “Ever since that night.” It had been four years ago; old King Salivar had died, and that same night Elister had taken it upon himself to execute two power-hungry uncles and a cousin so that Salivar’s son’s path to the throne would be clear and unchallenged. There had been some grumbling at the time. The nobles hadn’t expected Elister to take his title of executioner quite so literally, but no one stepped forward to challenge him. No one dared. Especially after the queen herself gave him an official pardon.

  Nowadays it was simply referred to as “that night,” always in hushed tones.

  “Yes, well, since people who call him that often disappear under mysterious and terrifying circumstances, let’s just not, okay?” Ryon glanced nervously at the stairs, then back at her. “How do you know him?”

  “I went to the Chef Academy, remember?”

  “So?”

  “So, we got to meet all the royal citizens. Including the king’s executioner.” And the king’s spy, assassin, and dirty worker, she added silently. “I got to see his . . . work. Firsthand.” She shivered. She could still remember the way he had moved that day, in front of all the students and teachers of every branch of the academy. Everyone from the heroes and chefs to the scholars and artists, but it was the chefs who had the front-row view. Lailu recalled the sharp glint of steel from Elister’s twin curved blades, and the feeling of blood, warm and thick, spattering across her face from what had once been a teacher at the academy. Of course, he’d really been a spy for the Krigaen Empire, but still, the man certainly knew how to use rosemary to spice up a meal. Yet there had been no mercy for him when Elister the Bloody came to call.

  “Let’s go.” Ryon put a hand on her back.

  “Don’t push me out of my own cellar.” Lailu twisted away from his touch but climbed the stairs anyway. After all, she couldn’t hide down there forever, much as she might want to. She shut the trapdoor and kicked the rug over it.

  Ryon caught her shoulder as she turned to leave.

  “What?” she asked, shrugging him off.

  He glanced around, then leaned in. “Just keep your ears open, would you?”

  Lailu frowned. “Is it even possible to close your ears?”

  “Don’t be cute. Something is going on with Mr. Boss.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ryon hesitated, then whispered, “He’s having trouble paying his people.”

  “He is? Why?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Lailu recalled the sum he had loaned Master Slipshod. “I thought he had a lot of money,” she said.

  Ryon shrugged. “That’s what I’m looking into.”

  Lailu narrowed her eyes. Why was Ryon telling her all this? “Aren’t you supposed to be working for him?”

  “Theoretically,” he said with a wink. “After you.” He swept a hand in front of him, and Lailu swallowed her questions as she pushed through the curtain, the basket handle clutched in her clammy fingers.

  “Ah, there it is,” Mr. Boss said with forced cheer.

  “No LaSilvian,” Ryon told Mr. Boss as he took his seat. “I checked. This is the best stuff they have.”

  Mr. Boss frowned, but Elister merely said, “Debonair is good enough.”

  Lailu put down the basket and opened two bottles, her hands shaking. Master Slipshod gently took them from her. “Why don’t you fetch the appetizers?” he murmured as he poured the wine.

  Lailu gratefully retreated to the nice, safe kitchen. She wished she could stay there, surrounded by the deliciously comforting smells of cooking spices and meat, but too soon the appetizers were ready to go.

  Breathing deeply, Lailu put them on a tray and headed into the dining room, where Mr. Boss was talking very animatedly to a bored-looking Elister. “. . . like this restaurant,” Lailu heard, pricking up her ears as she served everyone. “Seventeen businesses!” he continued. “And this is just the beginning. With your backing, and of course you’d get a cut of the profits from each one, I could take over this whole side of town within a year, two years tops.”

  “Why do you need my backing?” Elister asked. “If you’re doing so well on your own, that is.”

  “I would be doing well, but it’s those lousy elves.”

  “The elves?” Elister raised one brow. “Are they really causing so much trouble for you?”

  “Oh, you know,” Mr. Boss began, waving his cane causally.

  “I assure you that I do not.”

  Mr. Boss frowned. “Well, they are demanding a cut of everything I own.”

  Lailu pulled a rag from her apron pocket and began wiping down a nearby table, listening carefully. Across from her, Master Slipshod picked up the empty tray and tucked it under one arm, clearly listening just as hard.

  Elister shifted on his chair. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you. You want me to back you, and in return for my backing, you will give me a cut of the businesses you have. But you already have this arrangement with the elves, do you not? And yet paying them is clearly chafing you. I don’t see how paying me would be any different for you.”

  Mr. Boss’s face reddened. “They are also repeatedly searching my establishments. Without cause, I might add. It’s bad for business.”

  “Is that so?” Elister’s long fingers tapped against the glossy wood of his table. “That is interesting. Perhaps I should ask them why.”

  “Th-that will not be necessary,” Mr. Boss said quickly. “I know you’re a busy man, and I hardly think you’d get the truth out of those creatures.”

  Elister’s fingers stopped moving. “Those creatures?” His voice went so quiet Lailu found herself holding her breath. “As you know, those creatures”—his mouth twisted around the words—“are incapable of lying. Unlike certain humans I know.”

  “Yes, well, that is . . .” Mr. Boss slid a finger down his cravat, loosening it. “It would be a lot different with you as my backer. The elves may not be able to lie, but that hardly makes them honest. And I know you to be an honorable man.”

  “Ah, and that is, I’m afraid, where the real problem lies.” Elister smiled, his green eyes cold. “You, Victor, are a rat. An overstuffed, overly pompous, social-climbing rat. I don’t like rats. I don’t want them clinging to my coattails, trying to scrape their way out of the sewers by attaching themselves to me. Do you understand?”

  Mr. Boss’s fin
gers tightened on his cane, and Havoc’s hand went to his hip. The two men next to Havoc leaned forward eagerly. Brennon just looked frightened, his eyes rolling, those horrifying hands of his curling into little rodent fists, while at the other end of the table both bodyguards had come instantly alert. Only Ryon remained the same, reclining in his chair and sipping delicately at his wine.

  “I said, do you understand me?” Elister repeated, his voice sharp.

  “I . . . understand,” Mr. Boss choked, quivering with fury.

  Elister’s smile widened, almost reaching his eyes. “Good. Now that that’s settled, let’s eat.” And he slurped a large spoonful of batyrdactyl-and-roasted-herb soup.

  Lailu was so distracted watching him that she dropped her towel, and when she went to pick it up, she accidentally slammed her head into a table. “This soup is amazing,” Elister said, and Lailu slammed her head into the table a second time as she straightened up. “Where’s the chef?”

  “That would be my talented apprentice here,” Master Slipshod said proudly, pushing Lailu forward.

  Lailu adjusted her chef’s hat and stared hard at her shoes. Her heart swelled with pride at Master Slipshod’s compliment, but she was terrified of Elister’s attention focused so intently on her.

  “Come here, child,” Elister ordered, and Lailu crept closer. He seemed to notice every detail about her, from the scratches down her neck to the hair escaping from her pigtails. Lailu reddened but lifted her chin. If she had known the king’s royal executioner was coming into her restaurant, she would have cleaned herself up better. As it was, he got what he got.

  “You’re much younger than I would have expected. How old are you? Fourteen?”

  “Thirteen. Sir,” she added quickly. She wondered if she should curtsy, but her knees were locked in place.

  “Thirteen and a master chef. Impressive. What’s your name, girl?”

  “Lailu, sir.”

  “Lailu Loganberry?”

  Lailu started, surprised he knew her last name. “Yes.”

  Elister nodded. “I knew your mother. Enchanting woman. You take after her, except for the hair.”

  Lailu almost fell over in shock. The idea of this man knowing her eccentric mother was just too much. But why would he lie?

  “H-how, sir?”

  “Oh, she visited me once. In the city.” And his eyes got a faraway look.

  Lailu felt like he’d stabbed her in the heart. Her mom had visited Twin Rivers and never told her about it? She mustered a weak smile. She shouldn’t be surprised, really. Her mom often disappeared for months on end, her nomadic blood calling to her, urging her to travel. That was one of the reasons Lailu had gotten into cooking in the first place. Her father and brothers were terrible at it, and Lailu was tired of eating only bland stews or crusty sandwiches every time her mother vanished. She supposed she should be thankful to her mother for helping her find her one true passion, but like those crusty sandwiches, it was hard to swallow.

  “I look forward to trying your main course.” Elister smiled at Lailu like she was a favorite niece. “Make mine to go, if you please.”

  Lailu watched in relief as Elister left their restaurant, trailed closely by his muscle men. At least that was over with. And then she caught sight of Mr. Boss’s ugly expression and knew the worst part of her night was just beginning.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he started, his dinner lying untouched in front of him, “that perhaps I might have given you too good of an arrangement for this place.”

  Lailu froze. Next to her, Slipshod’s breath caught in a wheezy gasp.

  “Yes,” Mr. Boss continued, his voice oozing from his lips like oil. “I was thinking that a year is way too long to pay off your loan. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “We signed a contract,” Master Slipshod croaked.

  “Did we? I don’t remember signing anything like that.”

  “But you showed me the contract,” Lailu said quickly. “Right here, in this restaurant, you showed me.”

  Mr. Boss waved off their protests with one veiny hand. “Do either of you have a copy of this alleged contract?”

  “A-a copy?” Lailu and Master Slipshod exchanged terrified glances.

  “Yes, a copy,” Mr. Boss repeated, carefully enunciating as if they were very foolish. At the moment, Lailu thought they must be. She shook her head.

  Mr. Boss’s lips stretched in a mockery of a smile. “That’s what I thought. But I, on the other hand, have my own copy. A copy that says how much you owe me, as well as what you’re prepared to give me if, that is to say when, you renege on your loan.” He paused, letting those words sink in. “I think by the end of this moon cycle would be a good time for me to receive my payment . . . in full. What do you say?”

  “I would say you are a lying weasel!” Lailu’s hands curled into fists.

  “Shh, Lailu,” Master Slipshod cautioned.

  “Don’t shh me! He told us we would have an entire year before we had to pay, and we haven’t even been here a week.”

  “No, I believe we agreed on payment by this moon cycle,” Mr. Boss said. “Which gives you, what, almost three weeks?”

  “Two,” Lailu burst out. “Only two weeks.”

  “Well, there you go. That should be plenty of time. And if you can’t pay up, well, I guess you’ll just be working for me.”

  “No, I won’t.” Lailu had made up her mind. Legally binding contract or no, she wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t work for a man like Mr. Boss.

  “Lailu, we have no choice.” Master Slipshod put a hand on her arm.

  She yanked her arm free. “There’s always a choice.”

  “Oh yes, my dear chef, there is always a choice.” Mr. Boss leaned forward, a cold, hard rage filling his usually dead eyes. Lailu backed up half a step, suddenly afraid. “You can choose to work for me as you are, or you can choose to work for me in pieces. After all, a chef doesn’t really need both ears, both eyes, both kidneys. . . .”

  Lailu’s mind filled with images of herself in chains, Mr. Boss holding the ends. She couldn’t think of a way out of this, couldn’t think of any way to save herself. All she could think was what a huge mistake Master Slipshod had made, going into business with this monster and dragging her down with him.

  Mr. Boss must have taken her shocked silence for acceptance. “Good. I’m glad we could take care of that in such a dignified manner.” He smiled wide, and Lailu saw with a start that he was missing his gold molars.

  She took another step back as he stood, his chair scraping across the floor. At the door, he turned back one last time. “Remember, I always collect my debts. Always.” The word hung in the air, a promise, a threat. Then the bell above the door chimed softly as they all filed out into the night. Brennon paused to shoot her and Slipshod a strange, hopeless look before the door slammed shut, leaving Lailu alone with her mentor.

  9

  THE SCIENTISTS

  The restaurant closed in around Lailu, its walls like a prison cell rather than the freedom they first represented.

  “D-don’t worry, Pigtails. I told your father I’d take care of you, and I will,” Master Slipshod said.

  Her father. For one fleeting second Lailu thought of writing to him, begging him to come get her and take her away from this. But no. Her contract with Master Slipshod was as legally binding as his contract with Mr. Boss, and if she wanted to be a true master chef, she couldn’t run away at the first obstacle. No matter what, she would see this through.

  “How, then?” she asked as she followed Master Slipshod into the kitchen. “How are you going to fix this?”

  He glanced at her, his forehead beaded in sweat. “I . . . do have a plan,” he admitted. “But you won’t like it.”

  “What? Why?”

  Instead of answering, Master Slipshod turned and raced up the stairs. She could hear rustling from one of the bedrooms above her, and then a minute later he was back with a small bag tucked under one arm. “I need to leave you again,
” he said gruffly, “but I’ll be back early tomorrow morning.”

  “Wait, what kind of plan? Why won’t I like it?” Lailu’s heart lurched at the idea of being alone. She could still hear Mr. Boss threatening to take her unnecessary organs, and she had to force herself not to clutch at Slipshod as he headed to the door.

  “I’ll tell you later.” He gave her a stern look. “No hunting this time while I’m gone, you hear me? The last thing I need right now is a dead apprentice.” And then he was gone.

  Lailu stood frozen in place as the minutes trickled by. She had no idea what to do, so when the front door opened again, she almost melted into a puddle of relief. “Hannah,” she gasped.

  “Hey.” Hannah shut the door softly, her golden complexion pale, her eyes wide and wild. She had a small bag slung over one shoulder. “Mind if I leave some more things here?”

  “Uh, sure, that’s fine,” Lailu said, momentarily forgetting her own troubles in the face of Hannah’s obvious exhaustion. “Tough day at school?”

  “Me? Pishposh.” Hannah waved away the comment and started up the stairs. “How about you? You look way worse. No offense,” she added quickly, “but what’s going on?”

  As they settled into her room upstairs, Lailu filled Hannah in on the night’s events, from Elister the Bloody sitting at her table to Mr. Boss demanding full payment by the end of the current moon cycle. She left out the threat about him taking a kidney, eye, or ear, though. Hannah didn’t really need to know all the grisly details.

  Hannah frowned as she listened, her hands busy artfully arranging her pile of shiny haircombs and jewelry on the nightstand. She had a much larger collection than Lailu would have expected.

  “Full payment,” Hannah mused as she adjusted the angle of a butterfly comb. “Well, how much money is that?”

  Lailu told her.

  Hannah fell over.

  “You don’t need to be so dramatic about it.” Lailu yanked her friend back up. “It’s not that much money.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Hannah looked more serious than Lailu had ever seen her. “Lailu, honey, four hundred gold nuggets? That’s a small fortune.” Hannah shook her head, her haircombs clacking. “He really took you both for a ride, you know that?”