The tiny maggots crawled across the cheese, and even as I stared, one jumped off the dish, and landed on the bridge of my nose.
I quickly rose, but my stomach rose faster, and all five courses of my dinner splashed over the table, the cheese, and Master Chef Angwy’s spotless front.
Faintly, I heard screaming, and sensed those at my table leaping clear. The vomiting seemed to go on for hours. At last, the only sounds in the great hall were my own agonized coughing and spluttering... and the laughter from the lower tables. I was much better entertainment than the food.
I looked up, wanting to die.
Angwy had dropped the tray and stood with disbelief and rage on her face, dripping with the contents of my stomach from chest to ankles. But beyond her, at the high table on the dais, white fury on his face, His Majesty stood.
“My Lord,” Master Chef Angwy said, icy tones ringing clear in the dead stillness. “It seems that Sorceror’s Apprentice Hanael wishes to critique your choice of menu.”
As if moving through clearest treacle, the Emperor raised his hand. Before I could think, two guards were at my shoulders, taking me, not away to the dungeons, but ever-closer to His Imperial Majesty, himself. They didn’t have to force me to my knees before him. I collapsed there. Dazed, I heard Angwy stride up behind us. “Your Majesty,” she said. “For the crime of lèse-majesté, evidenced by contempt of your great gift to us all, only death can answer.” I saw His Majesty open his mouth.
Then I heard Archmage Trelesta’s voice from behind me: “Your Majesty,” she said, with a deep bow, “My apprentice’s insult was not to you, as the Imperial Chef makes out, but to her. It is no injury to Your Majesty if her cooking sickens some.”
I stared back at her. What was she doing? I heard Angwy sputter and then say, “Are you giving me the lie, Archmage?”
“Of course not,” Trelesta said smoothly. “Apprentice Hanael is. Aren’t you?” I felt her nudge me sharply.
Grasping at the hint, though it was nonsensical, I managed to gasp, “Yes. Yes.” Didn’t she know that accusations of lying were tantamount to challenging the accused to a duel?
“So be it, filth!” Angwy snarled. “A duel it shall be.”
And that as the challenged party, Angwy would have...
“Choice of weapons?” His Majesty rapped out. His face was thunderous with rage at me, but his gaze was on Angwy.
A slow, evil smile spread across her face. “Kitchens,” she said.
Kitchens? I heard my own bewildered voice. “What shall we do? Slice each other into bits and cook one another?”
Angwy’s mouth curled contempt. “Of course not. You called lie on my word and insulted my art. Should you outdo me, you shall live. Should you not, you shall die, in the manner of my choosing. Do you know that I sometimes talk shop with the Chief Jailer? We use many of the same techniques. He only gets to use them when His Majesty is... especially displeased. We have taught each other much. What shall we prepare for Your pleasure, Your Majesty?”
His Majesty hesitated. Then he, too, smiled. “Master Chef Angwy, I believe I have always wanted to try... phoenix.”
“As Your Majesty desires,” she purred.
~o0o~
But now Angwy entered the Kitchens and stormed up to me, eyes blazing, mouth tight.
“What is this sick joke?” Her eyes shifted from me to the plucked bird in the cage between us. “That’s not phoenix,” she growled. “What are you cooking here?”
“I beg your pardon?” I said. “It most certainly is phoenix. And I haven’t seen your proposed menu either, unless you’d care to share.”
“You wouldn’t comprehend my art, you...”
“Excuse me, madam,” snapped Tywin, from behind me. We both whirled on him. Gone was the cheerful demeanor. He spoke in the crisp tones of an officer. “Do you mean to give me the lie? This bird is a phoenix, shot a day ago, by me. Now which man of your acquaintance do you so dislike as to designate your champion in such a duel?”
Angwy fumed. “Keep your tricks to yourself, then. Enjoy roasting.” She stalked off to her underchef and began screaming at him.
I shuddered.
“Now what’s got her frightened?” asked Tywin.
“Her?” I asked in disbelief. “Frightened?”
“Scared as a soldier before battle. One who’s been told that the enemy will run, and who’s now watching them advance. I’ve seen it.” The clock sounded. Fifteen minutes. Our escort appeared. My life now depended on me and Tywin and the phoenix.
~o0o~
It was Archmage Trelesta who had introduced me to Tywin. I clutched her summons in one hand and the Imperial Order in the other.
“Why did you have me challenge her?” I shrieked. I kept thinking I would awake from this nightmare, but it just went on. “It was the only way out,” she said. “If the Emperor had charged you with lèse-majesté, you would be dead now. Now, you have a chance to live.”
“By learning to cook phoenix?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t say it was a good chance.” She rapped at the door.
I stared at the Imperial Order:
His Imperial Majesty requests and requires your attendance upon the day after tomorrow at half-past six of the clock:
You shall prepare for His Majesty and two guests a simple three-course meal, consisting of an entrée, a main course, and a dessert, equaling or surpassing His Majesty’s accustomed manner of dining. All courses shall prominently feature the flesh of the phoenix. The nature of the courses shall be registered with His Majesty’s majordomo by noon, at which time you will be granted the use of the Imperial kitchens.
Cooking of the meal will be done in His Majesty’s private audience chamber, with what ingredients you please, within a space of two hours. You will be granted the assistance of one (1) sous-chef. Stoves shall be provided according to your needs. Fail not in this charge at your peril.
Peril. That word was so horrible my brain skipped right over it and fixated on the next most terrible word.
“Dessert?” I howled. “How can you serve a phoenix dessert?”
“How can you serve phoenix at all?” asked Trelesta. “If anyone will know, he lives here.”
Chief Huntsman Tywin opened the door. He was a bald man of about fifty, and he nodded to Trelesta cautiously.
“You here for breakfast?” he asked.
“For two, please,” she said, and we entered the lodge. Amazingly, it smelled like the best breakfasts of my childhood. My stomach growled. She plucked the note from me and passed it to Tywin. “What do you make of this?”
He read it, then spat: “I can make a pile of smoking ash. Burn it and bake the ashes in a pie. Say it’s phoenix. No one will know the difference.”
“I’ll know,” I gulped.
Trelesta sighed. “She is most skilled. It would be quite vexing if I had to train another apprentice so soon, just because this one is no cook,” said Trelesta. “Please see what you can do.”
Tywin stared at me. “Have you ever cooked anything?” he asked, doubtfully, crossing to where potatoes and herbs crisped on a black stove.
I blushed. “Sort of.”
“How’s that?”
“My family ran a fish-fry stall. By the seaport.”
He started. “You mean one of those dockside shacks that sells fried everything?”
“To everybody. Sailors are starving because they’ve worked so hard, and passengers are starving because they’re not throwing up for the first time in a week.”
Tywin smeared something on two plucked birds and plunged them in a pot of bubbling oil.
I blinked at them. “That... that’s how we always did fringe fries.”
“What? Those crispy potato-peels? Did people actually buy those?”
“You’d be amazed.” Suddenly, my mouth was watering. “Those smell wonderful. Are... are you a real cook?”
“Faugh, no. Just a man who’s had to eat me own cooking most of me life. First as a soldier,
then as a huntsman.”
My heart sank. “But how do you get it to smell that way?”
“Ah, that’s the herbs and spices. Eleven of them. Don’t even fry-stalls have a spice jar?”
“Vial.”
“Everyone says that, but they eat there anyway...”
“No, we bought the spices in a vial. Pre-made.”
“Pssht. I do that, too. Can’t hunt wild sage, basil, onion, garlic and marjoram every day.” He took the basket out of the oil and drained it. “But sakes, girl, Royal Cheffery isn’t any different! Your fry-stall knew what people want. Angwy knows what the highborn want. Avant-guard, they call it. Stuff you can barely stomach. Eat.”
He handed me a pheasant. My fingers sought a place cool enough to hold. Avant-garde this might not be, but it smelled like the food of the gods. I bit into it. The rich, dark flavor filled my mouth, sage and onion dancing along my tongue with an undercurrent of honey and something stronger.
Trelesta bit into hers as well, and sighed. “But the principal problem Tywin, is...”
He sighed. “You want me to shoot phoenix.”
“You owe me a try, Tywin. I do have a potion that induces sleep the instant it strikes the blood. Can you smear it on your arrows?
“Sure,” said Tywin. “Will it let a bird survive being skewered through the breastbone? Because that’s what arrows tend to do.”
“No.”
Tywin snorted. “I’ve a stonebow for pigeon and such. Fires smooth bullets; couldn’t you enchant one of them with a sleep spell or something?”
“Hardly,” Trelesta said. “Hanael?”
“Spells can only be held by living things.” I explained one of the basics of sorcery. You can’t ‘pass it on’ through dead wood or stone,” Then a thought struck me. “These stone bullets. Could you put points on them?
“They’d wobble all over the sky. No hunter in the world could do that.”
My heart was pounding in my chest. “And if you could?” I picked up the stonebow.
“You just said you couldn’t enchant anything not alive.”
“No, I just can’t transmit a spell through anything not alive.” I cast the spell over the stonebow and passed it to him.
“What’d you do to it?” Tywin growled.
Stole an Imperial military secret, I didn’t say. But Trelesta nodded. I handed him a bullet. He placed in in the groove, and it began spinning like a top.
Eyes wide, he carried the bow outside.
He test-fired it. Twice. Then he looked at me.
“That triples the aimed range. You’re giving this to me?”
“Giving?” I smiled. “I think not. It’s your salary. For being my hunter. And my sous-chef.”
“You know, stones kill. Wounding your bird is still a slim chance.”
“It is a chance we shall have to take.”
~o0o~
Watching the calcined remains of the chance “we” had taken, I imagined how I’d write the recipe down:
Phoenix Flambé
Ingredients:
One (1) medium-sized phoenix
One (1) skewer (arrow, javelin, etc.)
One (1) vocabulary (filthy)
Preparation:
Place phoenix on fireproof surface. Skewer phoenix. Allow phoenix to cook in resulting 3100 degree flame for about ten seconds (as if you had a choice). Employ vocabulary. Scrape ashes into a pile.
Out of the blue, an idea struck.
Let stand one minute, then make Scrambled Eggs Phoenix! (q.v.)
~o0o~
A gentle wind struck, too, and I turned to Tywin, panicking. “Your cloak!” I yelled. He gave me a quizzical look. “Your cloak! Hurry!”
He cast aside the bow, and my hands flew to the clasp of his cloak, which I immediately flung over the ash.
“That was a new cloak summer before last,” he observed gloomily. I ignored him. I couldn’t see any ashes escaping.
“Hunted much phoenix?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Naw. My brother shot one just to see ’im flame. Da whipped ’im. For cruelty. Well, and you could burn down a whole damn forest that way. Fortunately, it was fall and rainy then, too. If this were high summer, I’d have told you and the old witch to bugger yerselves.”
I doubted that. He owed her something. But I knew how much I needed Tywin’s good will. I felt the cloak, and was rewarded with a faint thrill of triumph.
“Then you probably haven’t had to study their biology.” I raised the cloak. The faintly golden egg shone up at me. And a few more of these might just save my life:
Scrambled Eggs Phoenix
Ingredients:
One or more (>1) medium-sized phoenix eggs
Salt and pepper to taste
Preparation:
Heat oil in frying pan. Break phoenix eggs into pan. Scramble eggs. Until cooked. Hope. Serve.
~o0o~
“No, you may not serve Scrambled Phoenix Eggs to His Majesty,” said majordomo Selzden Grammel. His fussy little mustache twitched as if something smelled bad. On second thought, that was probably me. Burnt feathers stank, and I hadn’t had time to wash.
“But sir,” I bowed. “The eggs are phoenix eggs. Logically, they must be the same thing as phoenix meat. The order states that phoenix must be in all the dishes. They do not say in what form.”
“Sorceress,” Grammel said, looking down his nose. “As any scullery maid in the lower kitchens could tell you, eggs are dairy products, while phoenix is...” he looked me up and down, “fowl.”
“Tell me,” he continued. “Did you have any other ingredients for this dish, or were you just going to scramble a mess of eggs on something hot and hope? Master Chef Angwy is preparing Slow-Roasted Phoenix for His Majesty. I think she would suggest you taste-test some... other options. Aconite, perhaps.”
“Aconite is a poison!” I blurted.
“Precisely. But faster than what the Master Chef intends for you,” he grinned.
I fled, his laughter echoing behind me.
~o0o~
Now we were entering the Emperor’s lavishly-appointed private audience room, but I found that I could look at nothing but the ovens and stoves that had been provided, and the judging table.
On the left sat the Prime Minister, a Court favorite, obviously. On the right sat a slight bald man I didn’t know with a fussy mouth and trimmed beard. His Majesty sat in the center. He favored me with a blank, closed look, and then broke into a beaming smile.
Angwy had just entered behind me.
I slumped. I was doomed. All Tywin and I had done, and all we would do, was for nothing. If I made a brave enough show of it, the Emperor might “only” banish me. Or just make Angwy kill me quickly. I’d never had a chance.
And there was an audience. One row of seats, filled by the Royal Court. There was Chief Diviner Ghislane; it probably killed him he wasn’t a judge. Tywin’s boss, the Imperial Forester. And Archmage Trelesta, looking resigned but alert. I supposed I was glad she was there. I had enjoyed working with her. I had enjoyed the whole job. Except the vomiting, obviously.
Majordomo Grammel rose. “My Lords and Ladies of the Court, Your Imperial Majesty,” he bowed. This was it. “Today, for our entertainment and culinary edification, His Majesty has commissioned a contest between The Imperial Master Chef, Dame Angwy Sabachka, and her most vocal critic, Third Assistant Sorceress Hanael Letzterhoff.”
There was a smattering of applause and muted laughter.
Grammel continued. “Assisting His Majesty in adjudging tonight’s contest will be the Lord Prime Minister Willifred Mosquwm, and His Majesty’s most admired guest, Sir Graam Ewesprach Bastich, whose Grille d’Inferne has such a following here in the capital.”
I stumbled. The Bastich? The cooking legend? I glanced at Angwy, and she was frowning. Was it possible that she’d not expected to find herself measured on such exacting scales? Then I shook myself. If she was worried, I ought to be petrified. Except I already was. And there was no tim
e for more thought. Grammel was already speaking: “Ladies, you may begin!”
I reached forward, but Tywin restrained me. “Hasty cooks ruin meals. You’ve got two hours. Slow down. One thing at a time.” I nodded. Methodically, I placed the three eggs in the basket. Grammel spoke again,
“To whet our distinguished judges’ appetites, Master Chef Angwy has elected to begin with a course entrée of chilled phoenix paté de foie gras with truffles and armagnac, cold salad and baguettes grilled.”
Gods be good, I had an appetizer with a cooking time of two minutes and the bitch was still out the gate in front of me! Cold entrée! Her sous-chef was serving the Emperor, who was licking his lips. And with an amused curl of his lip, looking at me.
~o0o~
The candlelight in Trelesta’s Library could not keep out the chill of the fall night, nor was it bright enough to ease the ache in my eyes.
It was all in front of me. Everything about the phoenix in Trelesta’s Library, and therefore everything in the Imperial Library, and therefore, quite probably, everything that was known in the entire world. In this one book by Alfredus Maximus, an obscure thaumatobiologist.
Why phoenix? Why couldn’t it have been, say, manticore? Sure, its sting or flesh would kill a man in three heartbeats, but the poison was child’s play to neutralize if you just had a mandrake root and three colors of cloth! The tiny entry mocked me with its archaic diction. I imagined what I would say to Alfredus if I’d had him in front of me:
Lytle is knoun of the lyfe and powers of the phoenix (you don’t say!). The byrd is gretely magyckal (what was your first clue?), and nigh ympossible to captvre whyle lyvinge, because unlesse handled with grete care, the phoenix tendeth to die (the news just gets better!) and vpon deathe, to yncandesce in a torrent of flaume, such that the whole byrd be redvced to ash.
Vpon mine own captvre of this most rare byrd (it’d just kill you to mention how, wouldn’t it, you poxy dead bastard?) I plvcked a single fether. Thys prooved vnwise, as the byrd died at once, sending up a grete conflagration which bvrnt many valuable materieles (and serves you right!).
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