by Kumo Kagyu
For a second, every eye in the tavern turned to him, and conversation stopped, but the chatter was quickly revived.
The grimy leather armor, the cheap-looking steel helmet, the small, round shield on his arm, and the sword of a strange length at his hip.
He walked through the Guild building, heading outside. He did not even look in the direction of the tavern.
As if I would let you get away!
Padfoot Waitress rushed to stand in front of him and fixed him with a finger.
“Sir, today’s special is beef stew!”
“Is it?”
“What would you like to order?!”
“Nothing,” Goblin Slayer said. “I’m fine for today.”
§
“I thought you said he liked beef stew!”
“I said it was just something I’d heard.”
It was midnight.
In the scant light of the lamp, Apprentice Boy seemed quite pleased with the tureen of beef stew she had brought him.
This did not exactly offend Padfoot Waitress, but she pursed her lips and glared at him just the same.
“Ooh, potato chunks. Perfect.”
“…Are you sure you didn’t say it just because you wanted some beef stew?”
“No way. Well, maybe just a little.” Apprentice Boy grinned at her.
The well-boiled meat was so soft you could have cut it with a spoon. But it wasn’t limp; it still felt just right to bite into. And the juices spurting out each time it was chewed, the oil and soup base, were delicious even if they were a little cold.
As for the vegetables—he did like them chunky and heavy.
“So, what are you doing?”
“I’m collecting the filings from when we did the sharpening.”
Padfoot Waitress watched him with genuine interest, and he answered as he gave her back the tureen.
He swept at a corner of the smithy shop with a broom, all the while thinking it didn’t become him.
“You get plenty, even from knives.” He didn’t point out that some people considered swords to be nothing more than oversized knives.
Sharpening was accomplished by grinding the metal against a whetstone the shape of a cart wheel, so the process produced plenty of metal shavings. Making sure these were properly cleaned up was one of an apprentice’s various important jobs.
Besides, there was also the fact that mixing them with certain metals would make their material last longer. At times, they also used the shavings when a rush job called for more supplies than they had.
What I really want is to hurry up and do some smithing, though…
As an apprentice, he was still learning. Obviously, no one would trust him with the all-important production of weapons and armor.
So, he believed, he would simply have to devote his utmost to what he was given to do.
It’s not as if I don’t get it—that feeling of seeing your efforts completely ignored.
What if he displayed weapons he had made—in the future, of course—and they were summarily ignored?
“You want to at least know why, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah, exactly! I can’t accept it this way—acceptance is so important!”
“Hmmm,” the apprentice muttered, his arms crossed. Then he suddenly uncrossed them and clapped his hands, exclaiming, “Hey, that’s it!”
“What is it? Had an idea, O future master smith? Fill me in!”
As Padfoot Waitress leaned in toward him, a fragrance of some kind drifted from her hair. It was the smell of the kitchen’s cooking, the grassy scent that was unique to Padfoot’s, soap—and something else, something sweet. Apprentice Boy swallowed heavily and waved his hands.
“J-just ask! Ask someone who knows better.”
“What, you mean like Pops in the kitchen?”
“No,” he said. “I mean that farm girl.”
§
“What’s that? Stew?”
“Uh-huh!”
It was late morning, at the delivery entrance behind the Guild.
Cow Girl had unloaded the cargo with a “Hhup!” and now she blinked at Padfoot Waitress.
Her generous bosom bounced as she let out a breath and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
Padfoot Waitress was well aware that she herself was about average—actually, maybe a little more than average; certainly not less. But still…
Maybe they’re full of milk?
She couldn’t keep the sordid thought from crossing her mind.
According to the office gossip, Guild Girl worked nonstop to maintain her figure—in that respect, Padfoot Waitress was still okay.
“I’m sure you’re a better cook than I am.” Cow Girl flushed and laced her fingers together in front of her chest awkwardly. “I only know how to do stuff you can make at home…”
“It’s not about whether or not you’re good at cooking.” Padfoot Waitress seated herself on a barrel with a catlike lightness. She ran her pen along the receipt she held in a clipboard in her hand. Money matters were the work of the reception staff, but vetting the order was her job.
“I know I ask this every time, but are you sure you don’t want to look inside?”
“My nose knows. It’s all right.”
Padfoot Waitress gave a proud little chuckle and stuck out her chest that pressed against her apron. Knowing, of course, that she could never win that contest, she quickly waved her hand to change the subject:
“Like I said. It’s not about whether you can cook. There’s this guy who doesn’t eat, and I’ve really been stewing about it.”
“There’s an adventurer who doesn’t eat?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No…” Cow Girl gave a troubled smile and scratched her cheek. “…He doesn’t mean any harm.”
“That’s the whole problem!”
“Hmm…” Cow Girl sounded a bit lost at Padfoot Waitress’s insistence. She wiped away beading sweat with her arm, then took a seat herself on a nearby box.
She let her legs dangle, carefree, then fixed Padfoot Waitress with a stare.
“Is that all?”
To a human or the like, her tone would have sounded no different from normal. But not so for Padfoot Waitress. Her sharp ears detected the ever-so-slight tremble in Cow Girl’s voice.
“Is what all?” She cocked her head, pretending not to notice anything.
“Well, um, you know.” Cow Girl couldn’t quite get the words out, her eyes darting this way and that. She took a deep breath. “…Do you want to give it to someone you like or something?”
“Ohhh, no, nothing like that.”
Padfoot Waitress gave a hearty laugh and waved her hand like she had just heard a silly joke.
“I don’t have anyone to cook for besides the customers…”
Her hand stopped moving.
Well, maybe one person.
Before she knew it, her face fell, and she covered it with one padded hand.
There was one person to whom she always gave the food she made.
“…I guess I might give some to that guy at the workshop.”
“…”
Cow Girl looked hard at Padfoot Waitress’s face. Her frank, light red eyes seemed to pin the padfoot girl in place.
“Wh-what is it…?” Padfoot Waitress asked, but for a moment, Cow Girl didn’t say anything.
“…Well, okay, then,” she said indifferently after a time, and Padfoot Waitress found herself letting out a breath. “I’ll tell you. You have something to write with?”
“Right here,” Padfoot Waitress said, turning over the paperwork. She grabbed her pen and said, “Go ahead.” Cow Girl gave a helpless smile.
“Umm, all right. The way you make it is…”
And then she explained the recipe in detail.
Stew, really, was a boiled meat dish, not a soup. But the food she described used plenty of milk. And in a word, the impression it made was…
“Surprisingly…normal?”
/> “Right,” Cow Girl nodded with a smile. “It’s totally normal.”
“I mean, it’s just a regular stew, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” she said, never letting her smile slip. “Just a regular stew.”
It was unexpected, to say the least.
The waitress had been sure there was something more…unique to the recipe. She rubbed her temple with the end of her pen.
“Is it some kind of heirloom recipe, passed down in your family for generations?”
“Ha-ha-ha. I guess so, kind of.” Cow Girl smiled lightly and jumped down from the box. She smacked her hands to get the dust off, then gave a big stretch, pushing out her ample chest. “Not that I learned it from my mother… Although I wish I had.”
Padfoot Waitress tilted her head at the faint murmur.
“Your relatives, then?”
“A neighbor.” Cow Girl looked up at the blue sky and narrowed her eyes. The wind ran through her red hair. “The older girl who lived next door.”
§
“Hello, welcome!”
“Heyo. Get us three ales and two lemon waters—for starters!”
“Certainly!”
“And, uh…eh, the steamed potato platter will do. For five!”
“Coming right up!”
The tavern at twilight. Padfoot Waitress wove her way through the back-and-forth conversations of adventurers.
It was the same liveliness as ever. The same faces. It was wonderful.
Another day on which they could return home to delicious food and drink. That alone was enough to motivate everyone.
“Order coming, Pops!”
“Sure thing. Try not to let ’em get cold—or drop ’em!”
Such was the favorite rejoinder of Rhea Chef.
She peeked in the kitchen, where soup was boiling noisily, a frying pan was sizzling, and a knife flashed among ingredients.
And of course, the chef was in the middle of it all, his short arms moving ceaselessly.
He does a lot with that little body.
She never got tired of watching him, even though she saw him every day.
When the plates came out, Padfoot Waitress stacked them on both arms, glancing toward the stockpot deeper in the kitchen as she did so.
“Is that okay? It hasn’t boiled over?”
“What, are you telling me how to cook? This from the culinary equivalent of a five-year-old!”
“I know, I know. I was just checking.”
Feeling a lecture coming on, she straightened her tail and skirt and trotted away.
This was always Padfoot Waitress’s favorite time at the tavern.
She could welcome adventurers as they came home, see their relief at getting back.
There were those adventurers who couldn’t come home, too. She had faith that they were off traveling somewhere.
What happened to an adventurer, and where, was something only the bravest could say…
“…Mmm?”
Padfoot Waitress’s ears suddenly twitched. They had picked up bold, almost violent, nonchalant footsteps coming closer.
The grimy leather armor, the cheap-looking steel helmet, the small, round shield on his arm, and the sword of a strange length at his hip.
And at Goblin Slayer’s appearance, of course, the tavern fell silent for an instant.
“Sir?!”
“…Reception told me to be sure to stop by the tavern.” The steel helmet tilted a little at the sound of surprise that escaped her. “What is it? Have goblins shown up here?”
“Oh, no! Sir, please wait there a moment.”
“All right.”
Leaving the strange, but nodding, man where he was, Padfoot Waitress hurried off to the kitchen.
“Oh— Oh-ho! What’s this, now?”
“Get me a dish, Pops! Just a small one!”
“Tell it to the person who washed them!”
“That was me!”
She snatched a dish from the shelf of tableware as they squawked at each other. She spooned some stew into it, then rushed back into the tavern so she could serve it while it was still hot.
“A taster!”
“…” Goblin Slayer looked doubtfully at the dish Padfoot Waitress slid in front of him. “Stew?”
“That’s right!”
“For me to taste?”
“That’s right!”
“…I see.”
He took the dish reluctantly, but then expertly gulped it down through his visor.
So much for Padfoot Waitress’s expectation that he might take his helmet off while he ate. But…
Goblin Slayer let out a faintly surprised “Mm.”
The waitress’s ears were not as good as an elf’s, but they didn’t miss that.
She’d done it. A less than gracious smile came over her face as she asked triumphantly, “What do you think? Pretty good, huh?”
“Yes,” Goblin Slayer nodded. “Not bad.”
“Yeeeesss!!”
She found herself pumping her fist in the air and giving a cheer of victory. She didn’t even mind the other adventurers who looked over, trying to figure out what was going on.
“Yes! Awesome! I did it!” She spun around, the hem of her skirt billowing, then said happily, “So you eating tonight, right, sir? What’s your order? Stew?”
“Nothing,” Goblin Slayer said. “I’m fine for today.”
“What?! Why?!”
Padfoot Waitress was so taken aback that she nearly dropped the dish, scrambling to keep ahold of it. Goblin Slayer said, “Someone is waiting for me.”
His voice was curt, dispassionate and cold, almost mechanical.
But Padfoot Waitress blinked at the words. She stared intently at the helmet.
In her mind, the red eye gazing back from inside it overlapped with another, lighter red eye.
Oh…
So that’s how it was.
“What’s wrong?” Goblin Slayer had tilted his head questioningly at Padfoot Waitress, who had suddenly smiled.
She could see it now. Looking at it like this, it was unmistakable.
“Nothing. I was just thinking, sir, you don’t mean any harm.”
“Is that so?” Goblin Slayer nodded firmly and then said, “Are you done?”
“I guess so,” Padfoot Waitress said, to which he predictably replied, “Is that so?” and turned away. “In that case, I will go.”
“Sure, good to have you, our treat.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Goblin Slayer shook his head and walked through the tavern with a bold but quick stride.
“Hey, Goblin Slayer! Kill some more goblins?”
“How about you fight something else for once? You’ve gotta hunt big game like me!”
“Aww, by yourself today? No cute little priestess or sexy elf?”
Replying “Yes” or “Is that so?” and the like to the teasing voices around him, Goblin Slayer opened the door.
And then, leaving only the jangle of the bell behind him, he went out into the town, into the night.
Well, that wasn’t exactly accurate.
His adventure over, he was going back. To his home.
“Sheesh. If that was what he was up to, he could have just said something!”
Padfoot Waitress laughed, realizing how one-sided her competition had been.
Then she let out an “All right!” and gave her cheeks a good smack with her padded hands.
The cheer refreshed her, and she retied the apron strings at her back, ready to work.
“Today’s special is stew I poured my heart and soul into! Any takers?”
Hands went up. People called out. As each order came in, Padfoot Waitress smiled and wrote them down, calling out, “Sure thing!”
But she had chosen an awfully large stockpot to make her stew. There was no maybe about it: there were sure to be leftovers.
And in that case…
“I can just make him eat them!”
&
nbsp; If she could make food she liked, how she liked, and feed it to a person she liked, that was enough.
Padfoot Waitress hurried out into the furor of the tavern.
For this goblin, everything was just the worst, the worst, the worst.
They were deep in a claustrophobic little hole that could not be called comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. And he had been posted in front of a door that reeked with a raw stench.
“No! D-don’t, stoppit— St-stoooagh!”
He peeked in through the crack left by the ill-fitting wooden door to find his companion smack in the middle of his business. He had no desire to see another goblin’s dirty little behind, but the behind of the female who was presently being held down, kicking at the sky—that he did want to see.
“…? GROB! GBROOB!”
But the other goblin noticed him watching and screeched at him, whereupon he quickly turned back around.
This was how it always was. You’re the sentry, so stand guard, they would say, and he would be left to wait for his turn. They could at least let him watch.
Those were the thoughts that ran through his head as he scrutinized the spear he was holding. It had a metal tip and an oak wood shaft, but the shaft had been viciously snapped halfway down.
It was the goblin who had broken it. He had felt it was too long and too heavy to use, and if he broke it, then he would have two spears.
The weapon had been practically shiny when he got it, but now point and shaft were covered in a crimson grime.
He had been happy when he had received the job of sentry along with the spear they had taken from this woman, but…
“GBBORB…”
He didn’t have the slightest idea how he was supposed to get this stain off. Now that he thought about it, maybe the nice, neat belt that other goblin had gotten would have been better. That goblin had such a fine belt yet had the gall to steal glances at this spear.
He could barely stand it. That belt suited him more than that other goblin! Yeah. No belt would fit that lout.
He’s part of my family, so if he died, I could have it.
In a horde, almost everyone was related by blood, but that didn’t cross his mind. His shortsighted little brain begin fuming at the thought of something he couldn’t have.
“E-eeeeyaaaaaghh!”
Like the female.
Each time he saw the others enjoying themselves, doing as they pleased with her, jealousy burned in his heart.