A Dash of Dragon

by Heidi Lang

  The voices were getting closer now. In this district with the weird metal buildings, sound echoed in strange ways. Lailu wasn’t sure exactly which way to go. She scrambled back, stopping to pick up her shoes in her free hand, then padded along barefoot.

  “As it turns out, the thief may have done us a favor,” the woman continued. “I knew the specimen had been growing unstable, but this is a level of desperation I had not anticipated.”

  “But how is that a favor?”

  Lailu ducked down a side street, practically holding her breath.

  “It tells me that our experiments won’t be properly funded for much longer,” the woman said. Was her voice getting louder? Lailu hesitated, worried she was actually moving closer to the pair. “And since we are running low on mal-cantation powder, it might be time to abort this experiment.”

  “But our progress—”

  “Better to abort than risk exposure. We can always find new specimens later. We have better connections now, after all.”

  Lailu turned another corner, caught a glimpse of two silhouettes, and ducked back, her heart hammering. Had they seen her? She waited, but there was no outcry. They must have been too busy with their conversation.

  “I hope I don’t regret this,” the woman sighed, “but I want you to be the one to see the process through.”

  “Me? Mama, you really mean it? You trust me to do this?” The girl sounded almost painfully happy.

  “I trust no one. But you have the proper skills for this job, and you need to learn.” A brief pause. “Besides, here’s your chance to prove that your acting classes were not a waste.”

  Lailu pressed her back against the building behind her as the two figures strolled into view.

  “And what about the thief?” the smaller figure asked.

  “He will be dealt with. One way or another.” The woman’s voice was still cool, but there was iron under it now, as hard and unyielding as one of Lailu’s favorite cooking pans.

  Lailu held her breath, but they walked past her side street without giving her a glance. From this angle she could only see one of the figures clearly: a tall woman with very red hair, her cheekbones sharp as steak knives. She strode purposefully, her slender body wrapped in a tailored suit, the jacket billowing out in the hint of a skirt.

  Lailu choked down a gasp. She knew that person. She could still recall the exact moment she’d met her, a little over two years ago. The academy had held a special unveiling ceremony, a line of brand-new steam-powered stoves. And at the front of the crowded room, a tall woman with reddish hair spoke confidently: “This will change your lives, and it will revolutionize cooking.” She’d been elegant, her voice cool with just a bit of an accent, her face full of enthusiasm.

  And she’d smiled right at Lailu. “You,” she had said, “have the eyes of a true chef.”

  Lailu’s chest filled with warmth even now as she thought of that moment.

  She blinked and the woman was gone, the warmth of the memory fading. Lailu bit her lip. Why was Starling Volan—the most brilliant inventor in Savoria—skulking around the Industrial District at night?

  Mr. Boss is bankrupting himself to buy this junk from the scientists.

  Lailu stared at her jar of bubbling liquid as the sun finished its slow descent, plunging the world into darkness. Only the Industrial District stayed illuminated, its false light buzzing and humming. Mr. Boss . . . and the scientists. What in the name of cutlery had she stumbled into?

  12

  HANNAH’S SECRET

  Lailu did not sleep well that night. Her head was full of questions about Starling Volan and Brennon. Even after she’d temporarily stashed the mystery jar out of sight in an old pixy paprika spice container, she kept thinking of Brennon’s words, of the desperation in his eyes, the way he’d whispered about his family. She still missed her family greatly, but for the first time she was glad they lived so far away. The only one who could be used against her easily was Hannah. Hannah, who did not return that night.

  The next morning, trying not to feel sick even as her stomach wriggled and writhed like a nest of slythers, Lailu forced herself to go downstairs and begin cooking. But no matter how much she told herself Hannah was just back at school, her mind was not on the job. Twice she almost put the wrong seasonings on her batyrdactyl slices, and her sun-dried cherry sauce was definitely not shaping up to be her best work.

  The door chimed, and Lailu’s eyes widened at the sight of a family of four in her doorway, the father clutching a black-and-white flyer.

  “A-are you open?” The father anxiously shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “I told you it said lunch and dinner only,” his wife hissed next to him.

  Lailu debated for a second, knowing that Slipshod wouldn’t be down to help for at least an hour, but in the end customers were customers. “Welcome to Mystic Cooking,” she told the family, adding, “Today we’re open for breakfast, too. Table for four?”

  “Yes, please.” The father looked relieved as Lailu seated them at a comfortable table near the window.

  “It will be a bit of a wait.” Lailu headed into her kitchen, her mind racing. If she was going to get breakfast served by herself and also have time to start lunch and dinner preparations, she would have to move, and move fast. Mentally she went over all her ingredients and was just deciding on a course of action when the bell above the door chimed again. More customers! What the spatula was going on? Were Hannah’s flyers really that effective?

  After the breakfast and lunch rush ended, Lailu flipped over the sign on their window to CLOSED. She sank into a nearby chair, glad of the break until dinner. Their busiest day yet, and she had managed to handle it all by herself. She felt a twinge of pride battling with annoyance at her mentor for choosing to sleep in so late. On the other hand, he’d covered for her yesterday. Maybe this was just fair.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. Lailu’s heart lurched and, for the first time ever, she hoped it wasn’t a customer. She had no food left to feed anyone.

  The knock came again, more hesitantly this time. Lailu pushed herself to her feet, pulling the door open just a crack to reveal a young boy, his huge blue eyes partially obscured by a mop of blond hair. “Are you the owner of Mystic Cooking?”

  “More or less,” Lailu said slowly, opening the door wider. The boy was dressed very nicely for this section of the city, in a purple tunic belted over baggy breeches, fine silk stockings, and shiny black shoes. A page? Here?

  “Then I’m supposed to give you this.” He held out a scroll. When she hesitated, he added, “From my lord Elister.”

  Lailu gingerly took the scroll, her muscles turning to jelly. Why would Elister be sending her something? The boy bowed, then shut the door quietly behind him. Lailu barely noticed he had gone, too intent on the rolled-up parchment in her hand.

  She wandered over to a nearby table, about to sit down to read, when she noticed a tall figure reclining in the far corner, his feet propped up insolently on the table in front of him. He wore brown camouflage tucked into knee-high brown boots, and gold rings glinted all the way up one of his long, pointed ears. “Finally noticed me, I see.” He bared his sharp white teeth in a dreadfully familiar smile.

  Lailu felt the blood drain right out of her face. He put aside the bandanna, but there was no mistaking that cascade of long golden braids or the icy blue eyes. It was the elf who had barged into her restaurant on opening day. The one who’d threatened her. She swallowed. At least this time he was alone. Hopefully. “S-sorry, Mystic Cooking is closed.”

  He cocked his head. “And yet the door is unlocked.”

  “Well, yes. But I mean, we’re not serving food right now.”

  “I’m not here for food.”

  Lailu’s fear increased, buzzing until her whole body seemed to thrum with it. “W-what,” she began. She took a breath, let it out, tried again. “What are you here for?”

  “Something far more valuable than food.” He stood so
suddenly that Lailu staggered back a step. “You appear to be in quite a predicament in regard to our mutual acquaintance, Victor Boss. I could help you out of that predicament.”

  “How?” The word came out as barely more than a whisper.

  The elf ran a finger down the row of golden rings in his ear, considering. “Years ago I would have offered you wealth in exchange for your imagination.”

  “My what?”

  “Or maybe just the warmth of all your summer days. Or the memory of your parents’ love. Or . . . let’s see.” He tapped his chin. “Your ability to dream. Yes. That would have been worth a nice pile of gold.”

  “Y-you can’t have any of that!” Lailu took another step back and crossed her arms protectively.

  “No, I can’t,” the elf grumbled. “Fahr, in his misguided wisdom, has decreed that we are not to take Intangibles from you mortals anymore. It only works on children, and he has decided it is . . . in poor taste. Instead, I am authorized only to deal in a trade of years. So. I could offer you the money you owe Victor in exchange for, say . . . five years?”

  “Five years of what?”

  “Of life,” he answered. “The last five years you wouldn’t even know you missed.”

  Lailu’s jaw dropped.

  “Don’t look so shocked. It’s a fairly common arrangement in this part of town.” His smile was back, colder than ever. “We give money to the poor unfortunates who come crawling to us, and in exchange we take the years at the end of their lives.”

  “For what?”

  “Magic isn’t free.” He spread his long-fingered hands. “Nothing is free.”

  “So . . . you steal years to create your magic?” Lailu had known elven magic was evil, but this was more horrifying than she’d ever have guessed.

  “Oh no, little chef, you have it all wrong. These years must be freely given, not taken by force.” He tilted his head, his braids whispering down his back. “So. Do we have a deal?”

  Lailu shook her head.

  “Pity. It would have saved more than just yourself.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Does Hannah live here now?”

  Lailu wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her apron, surprised by the sudden change of subject. “No.”

  His face went still, a beautiful, glittering mask. “Are you sure about that?”

  It wasn’t a good idea to lie to them. Elves were incapable of lying themselves, but Lailu heard they could also sense the lies of others, too. Staring into those pitiless blue eyes, eyes that seemed to go straight through her, Lailu believed it. “She doesn’t live here, but she’s over here often,” she amended.

  “Good. Then tell her I expect to see her three days from now with the item she took from us.”

  “What item?”

  “She’ll know what I’m talking about.” And then he was gone, the bell above the door chiming softly behind him.

  Lailu let herself sag into a chair. She would have stayed there all afternoon, but someone had to do the dishes.

  13

  ANGRY WORDS

  Lailu was busy reducing the hodgepodge of fresh vegetables and spices from her latest market delivery into something edible for the dinner crowd when Master Slipshod finally appeared in the kitchen, blurry-eyed and tousle-haired.

  “Late night.” Master Slipshod yawned hugely, pouring mandrake oil into a pan and tossing in the last of the kraken. The mixture hissed and spit, filling the kitchen with the delicious smell of cooking fish. “I managed to add to our money collection, though.”

  “How? Are you gambling again?” Lailu failed to keep the anger from her voice.

  Master Slipshod shrugged. “It’s only gambling if you’re losing, Pigtails. Remember that.”

  Lailu started to argue with that ridiculous statement when the door chimed and Hannah waltzed in, all smiles. “Hey there.”

  Lailu put down her knife. “Hey there,” she repeated flatly.

  Hannah plopped down in the chair like nothing was wrong. “So, what’s going on?” She adjusted the ornate chopsticks holding back half her dark locks.

  “What’s going on?” Lailu slammed the bowl of cut vegetables down next to the stove, then grabbed handfuls and tossed them into the pan, on top of the crackling kraken. She sprinkled in rather more spices than usual, her irritation making her careless, which in turn made her more irritated.

  “Easy on the spices.” Slipshod glanced at Hannah, then back at Lailu, and sighed. “I’ll be in the dining room.”

  “You seem a little . . . tense,” Hannah said when he was gone. “Is this about Greg? Because I thought if you just saw him again, the two of you would be able to work things out.”

  Lailu’s jaw dropped. “When has that ever worked?”

  Hannah waved a hand halfheartedly. “It was a spontaneous plan. Anyhow, I’m sorry for meddling.”

  “Well, Greg’s not the problem . . . at the moment.” Truthfully, she’d forgotten all about Greg, along with Hannah’s little message trick.

  “Hmm. It’s just, you seem like you’re wound tighter than Madame Pompadour’s horribly permed hair.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” Lailu dropped her lebinola spice jar on the counter with a sharp clank. “Maybe because we’re just about out of food and don’t have time to hunt more before the dinner rush. Or maybe it’s because, even though we’re getting busier, there’s no way we’re going to have enough money to pay Mr. Boss back before the next moon. Or maybe,” she said, slamming the spatula down on the counter, “it’s because we’ve just been invited to cater a meal for Elister the Bloody at his mansion on Gilded Island in two days.”

  “Cater a meal for Lord Elister? Wow, you’re in the big time, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know! I mean, why would he choose us? After all, the king has over a dozen master chefs in his household, and I’m sure Lord Elister has his own too. Why look outside of it?” Lailu shook her head, then dove into her cupboards for the rice.

  “Will the king be there?”

  Lailu bumped her head on a shelf in the cupboard. She hadn’t even considered that the king might be there. What a terrifying thought. Of course, he was just a young king, hardly older than she was . . .

  She got ahold of the bag of rice and closed the cupboard with a snap. “I don’t think he’ll be there,” she said slowly. “I don’t think he really leaves the academy. The Scholar Academy requires six years of training before students move on to their apprenticeships, and he’s pretty deep into his studies now; I doubt he’d leave for some dinner party.”

  “That is a pity.” Hannah sighed deeply. “He’s supposed to be so handsome. I was hoping you could check him out and report back.” She grinned, but at Lailu’s tense look her smile faltered and then slipped off altogether. “Er, well, I can see how all that might be stressful,” she added.

  “Oh, I haven’t even gotten to the stressful part yet.” Lailu dumped the rice in a pot of boiling water. “No,” she continued, her voice tight, “the stressful part is when a visitor came here for you earlier today.”

  Hannah stiffened. “Who?” she breathed.

  “It was one of the elves. He said they wanted the item returned three days from today.”

  Hannah seemed to melt into the chair like a cake left out on a hot day. “Oh no. Oh no.”

  “What item, Hannah? What is he talking about?”

  Hannah straightened, her face ashen, her hands fluttering around her head. “I . . . borrowed . . . a haircomb. Missing.”

  “Borrowed?” Lailu recalled that emerald haircomb Hannah had been asking about. And then her eyes narrowed as she studied those chopsticks in Hannah’s hair. Chopsticks she knew Hannah did not have money for, and suddenly she remembered other items: Neon’s pocket watch . . . all those expensive haircombs she’d brought over . . . all the shiny jewelry Hannah couldn’t possibly afford. Lailu staggered. “No, not borrowed, was it?” One look at Hannah and she knew all her suspicions were correct.
“Oh, Hannah, I can’t believe you. You’ve been stealing. And from the elves? Why? I mean, how stupid can you get?”

  “Like you’re one to talk.” Hannah rose in a flurry of dark hair and crimson skirts.

  “Oh no. Unlike you, I’m actually trying to make something of my life!” Even as the words left Lailu’s mouth, she knew they were harsh, but she couldn’t help it. She shook with anger, her hands curled into fists.

  “You’re in over your head with this restaurant, so don’t go around pretending you’re better than I am. Because you’re not.” Hannah stomped out of the kitchen.

  “And where do you think you’re going now?” Lailu demanded, following her.

  “To school!” Hannah slammed the door shut behind her.

  Slipshod glanced up from the paper he was reading in the corner, his eyebrows raised, but wisely he did not comment. He just stood and headed back into the kitchen, the paper tucked under his arm. Lailu caught a headline proclaiming: TWO MORE MISSING IN POSSIBLE MOUNTAIN DRAGON ATTACK, but for once she didn’t care.

  Even under her anger, her stomach twisted itself into knots. She’d never fought with Hannah before, not like this. “I never said I was better,” she whispered, but she knew that wasn’t true. She hadn’t said those words out loud, but she’d thought them, hadn’t she? She’d always considered Hannah a flake, a pretty little thing flitting through life without a care, expecting the people around her to help her out. “Well, it’s true.” Lailu scowled furiously, turning back to the kitchen. But she still felt terrible, and all through the dinner rush she kept glancing up, hoping to see Hannah appear through the door, but she never did.

  The cool night air wrapped around Lailu as she lost herself among the trees.

  “See what I mean, Pigtails? There’s nothing quite like a little nighttime hunting to take your mind off things,” Master Slipshod said, trotting next to her like a large white shadow.

  Lailu didn’t answer. She kept thinking of her fight with Hannah that afternoon, the words she’d hurled at her friend echoing over and over and over in her head until her stomach felt sick with guilt. Hannah had always been there for her. Always.