The problem, of course, was that I didn’t know the first thing about cooking anything other than a lizard-on-a-stick, unless it was a rabbit-on-a-stick, or maybe sun-fried-egg-on-flat-rock, although that one was mostly a novelty trick, just because parts of the desert really did get that hot.
I looked around at the mysterious culinary implements lining the counters and the walls, wondered at their use, remembered my last few projects in here, and decided that what Isha would probably most like for breakfast was to not have his kitchen burned down.
Instead, I left La Baliene to its quiet hush and went to see if I could find Hel. She was not at her usual spot in Miners’ Square, so I asked around, and eventually one of the guards offered to escort me inside the Guard House. The Guard House was misnamed; it was not a house so much as several large, interconnected buildings that formed a maze of hallways, tunnels, rooms and receiving areas. Offices which looked like converted cells pigeonholed long hallways, though the iron bars had (mostly) been removed, and sudden stairways led up, down, and around what appeared to be both natural and worked stone. Everywhere was crowded with busy people in some variation of the City Guard uniform. The young man who was guiding me finally pointed me inside of a comparatively larger conference room, which seemed by the mismatched stonework to have had its ceiling raised at some point in the not-too-distant past. Hel stood at a large, sturdy table, her hands flat around a map, while two dwarves argued.
“…currently in a dispute with the Temple about it. You don’t need to convince me we’ve got to send a cleric in with the repair crews, and like I keep telling them, it’s cheaper than potions anyway. But they claim they’re too short staffed and won’t assign me one unless I can convince them we can get in and out fast. And now you’re telling me the godsdamned goblins are collapsing the tunnels.”
“A lot o’ my best won’t even go in without divine backup, and even if I was willin’ to send ‘em, without priority access to the Fever Breakers, the experts we need will get put out o’ commission anyway. Them sewers ain’t just drainage, this is the foundations of Triport we’re talkin’ about.”
Hel stood up and pinched the bridge of her nose. “How many crews can a single cleric cover?”
The dwarves looked at each other and shrugged.
“Depends on the divine, I guess.” said the one not in a guard’s uniform. “Most of ‘em potent enough to do diseases can cover a crew or two at least, but it depends on how fubared the mission goes. You say your agent survived two cave ins?”
“Yes.” I interrupted. Everyone looked up at me, and Hel looked especially relieved.
“Sam!” She motioned me over to the table. “Can you please help us decipher this?”
My own much scribbled map was on the table, along with a few other, more detailed diagrams of the sewers. Between the four of us, I was able to help the dwarves figure out exactly what was going on in the sections I had explored. One of them made very exact notations on the bigger map, and I tried to memorize the shorthand for future use.
[Intelligence check: Success]
“Wait, back up there a minute.” Hel stopped me at one point. “You say the pit was full of rabid rats?”
“Yes, why?”
Hel swore. “Rats don’t usually carry rabies, for some reason. We’ve been operating on the assumption that this current outbreak is coming from some other carrier, but if what you saw was any indication, the disease is somehow passing from rodent to rodent. No wonder Health Services hasn’t had any luck getting ahead of this thing.”
“Does the Temple even know?” asked the dwarven guard.
“Beats me. I’ll pass this up the line to the captain, maybe he’ll have better luck getting an audience with one of the priests.”
“Actually,” said the engineer, “this could be good for us.”
The whole table stared at him.
“If our clerics have to treat every rat bite, one at a time, it’s damn expensive on their mana. But they’ve got another spell, what’s it called, Protection from Pests. It makes a barrier that keeps out any small critters; bugs, spiders, snakes. They can do critters up to the size o’ rats. One o’ my cousins, rich bastard, had a permanent one put on his basement.”
The table continued to stare.
“It’s a more difficult spell, but if we had a cleric that could do it, one divine could cover a dozen crews, so long as they could move freely from crew to crew. Find a section that needs repairs, cast a Protection From Pests, and then move on, and the crew can work in peace.”
“Except for the goblins.”
“True.” said Hel. “But fighters who can kill a goblin are easier to come by than a full fledged cleric. I have a few more adventurers that might return today, hopefully with maps as good as Sam’s here.”
The discussion quickly turned technical as the dwarves plotted out routes through the sewers that minimized divine intervention. Hel and I left them to it as she escorted me out of the building. Buildings. Complex. Whatever.
“Sam, you’ve been invaluable. I bet we’ll be sending in the first of the repair crews down in a day or two, and we’re going to need some tough fighters to go with them. Are you quite recovered from your last ordeal?”
“I will be.”
She smiled at me. “Glad to hear it. Now, I have the unenviable job of trying to harangue my captain into making sure your information gets passed up the line to the people who most need it. Rats and goblins! How do such small things lead to such potential for disaster?” She shook her head. “Keep showing up,” she told me, “and I’ll keep finding you work.”
[Reputation Points earned: 10 (City Guard)]
On my way back to the restaurant I wondered if Isha would like a permanent Protection from Pests, and how expensive it might be. Maybe it would keep out any more giant centipedes out of his basement. On the other hand, the queen had been bigger than I was, and it would be no good if the spell kept halflings out, so… perhaps not. Maybe I would just ask Isha himself.
Ishàmae himself turned out to be in no shape to discuss the pros and cons of permanent magical alterations to his property. When I came back, he was propped up by the stove, which had been lit, frying an egg in hissing bacon grease. He had a clean, white apron on (courtesy of Marissa, no doubt) but otherwise looked to have slept in his clothes.
As I watched, he used the over easy egg to crown a small pyramid of food consisting of a plate sized pancake topped with bacon topped with butter and maple syrup and ground beef. He then folded up the pancake and proceeded to eat the concoction like a burrito, as Marissa silently placed a tall glass of juice beside the plate.
“Now,” she said firmly, “you drink that first, and I’ll make us a nice pot of tea. There’s nothing better for a headache than a nice pot of whiteleaf tea.”
Ishas only acknowledgement of this was an enigmatic grunt, which she chose to interpret as agreement.
“Sami!” She smiled when she saw me, and I smiled back. It’s amazing how nice it was to see someone who was pleased to see you. “Come, come, girl, have a glass of orange juice while I have the presser out.”
In order to best see what she was doing, I had a seat on the counter next to her, but she didn’t mind. As I watched, she sliced up an orange, placed half of it on a metal hemisphere which looked a bit like the unopened bud of some exotic flower, and then placed a metal cap on top of it and cranked the entire contraption down with a hand lever. The metal cap pressed inevitably downward, the flower bud spun, and the pulverized fruit gave up its juice through a spout and into a waiting cup, which she handed to me. I took a sip and decided orange juice was right up there with hot baths as far as arguments for civilization. I was about to tell her so when pounding feet outside the door mate
rialized into Sarah, out of breath and exultant.
“I did it!” she exclaimed. “I got my exams scheduled! A week from today!”
Marissa gave a most undignified shriek and ran to hug her daughter. “Oh honey, congratulations! But only a week? You won’t have any time to study! That’s a bit harsh of them, on a new student!”
Sarah was still laughing, undeterred by this maternal babble. “It’ll be fine. Unlike the second year student I traded my spot to, I have been studying for a year. A few more days wont do anything I haven’t done for myself already.”
“You can trade your exam spot?” I asked, infected by the excitement.
Sarah turned her rare, bright smile on me. “It’s how I was able to afford the exams at all. They’re so expensive! It took the last copper of our savings even for the spot I had, and I was lucky to find one of the scholarship kids who didn’t want the spot he’d signed up for last year.” At this, Sarah’s smile faded a bit. “I don’t know how we’re going to afford the actual tuition, once I start.”
“Don’t you worry about that, dear! We’ll manage, we always do. The cold months are good for business, anyway. You just worry about acing your exams, yes, that’s what you do!”
All this excitement even managed to bestir Ishàmae. He stood up, looming, but steady on his feet. He waved his juice cup imperiously about the kitchen. “Congratulations.” he announced. “This is a most worthy achievement, yes, and most worthy achievements deserve most worthy celebrations. And for a most worthy celebration, we need… a cake.”
Sarah and Marissa cheered. I cheered too, even though the only cake I had ever been near I had smashed to pieces with a boarox bus.
Isha set his glass down firmly on the marble countertop, it rang like a bell. He grabbed his medium sized hat and planted it on his head.
“Marissa!”
“Yes, chef!” She grinned at me, conspiratorially.
“Get me the white flour, yes, and some almonds. No, almond flour instead, and extract.”
“Yes, chef!”
“Sarah!”
“Yes chef?”
“The maple sugar, and the butter! Lots and lots of butter! Samiel!”
“Yes Ish—err, chef?”
He smiled down at me, a mad twinkle in his eye, and I grinned back. “You have a most steady hand, retrieve those eggs, yes?”
I scampered up the shelves after the eggs, and soon the kitchen was a flurry of flour and laughter and activity. Sarah showed me how to stoke the oven, Marissa converted the orange juice maker into something that pulverized sugar, and Ishàmae presided over it all, never setting down his mixing bowl, into which various amazing smelling ingredients were poured, folded, sprinkled or whipped.
Finally he pronounced the batter ready, and poured it with great ceremony into three greased pans, which Marissa put into the oven. She offered Sarah and I the large, batter-caked mixing spoons, but Sarah declined. “I’m saving room for the cake!” she chirped, taking the bucket outside to water the herb garden with.
“Do you want me to wash this?” I asked, but Marissa laughed.
“Eventually, yes, but let’s not let this good batter go to waste, eh?” She winked at me, and understanding finally dawned. I stuck the entire spoon in my mouth in one go, even though I had to slide my jaw around a bit to make it fit. Marissa collected the egg shells and leftover orange peels and went to dispose of them in the compost heap.
After spending some time wondering how the cake could possibly taste better than the batter already did, I managed to get the spoon out of my mouth. Isha was mixing together butter and powdered sugar in a new mixing bowl, carefully adding small drops of some intense, dark brown elixir.
“Have you ever heard of a spell called Protection from Pests?” I asked him.
“I have.” he replied. “It is a variation of the Death Shell spell, an anti-life aura. Why do you ask?”
I was again momentarily surprised at Ishàmae’s breadth of knowledge, and not just of wines and food. I wondered how old he really was, anyway. “I heard of some rich bast—err, dwarf, who had one permanently put on his basement. I was wondering if you ever thought of doing something like that for La Baliene. To keep out bugs and stuff.”
“No.” he said firmly. “I will not have necromancy cast here. A Protection from Pests will certainly repel vermin, yes, and other small creatures, but it is not good to live inside one. Anyway,” he sniffed, and emptied the last drops of almond elixir into the frosting, “the bread would not rise.”
“Oh.” I said. “I didn’t know it was necromancy. Hel said she’d ask for a divine to come do one… I didn’t know there were clerics like that.” I trailed off.
“Did you not know that divines also know death magic?” Ishàmae turned to look at me. “Some wizards or sorcerers might, with training, approach the dark arts, but all divines know it. They must, of course. One cannot learn to heal without also knowing how to harm.” He paused a moment while I digested this, and then added, contemplatively, “The reverse, however, is not true.” I started in on the second spoon. “Is something bothering you, Samiel?”
“It’s just, today at the guard house they were saying—
I was interrupted by a startled shriek from the back yard.
The Talarian Sandals beat out Isha’s mile long legs, and I made it to the door first. Out back, Sarah was hurrying to her mother, who looked as if she were furiously swatting her own nose off her face.
Not her nose. I realized with a sinking feeling.
I bounded forward just as Sarah arrived and Marissa finally got ahold of the rat and hurled it to the ground. Sarah tossed the remainder of the water at it, and it scrabbled madly away from the wet.
“Filthy thing!” she swore.
“Mother, are you alright?”
I came up, took aim, and impaled the rat to the dirt with one of my daggers.
“Yes, yes, don’t worry.” Marissa was calming down now, and put a dish rag up to her bleeding face. “It’s not too deep, just gave me a scare, that’s all! I’ll be fine,” she continued to her daughter’s doubtful fussing.
I walked over and retrieved my dagger-turned-rat-kabob. I couldn’t taste the cake batter any more, only something sour.
“No.” I said.
Everyone turned and looked at me.
I held up the dead rodent, it’s matted fur, and blood soaked, foaming mouth. “No.” I said again. “There’s something wrong, down in the sewers, and the rats are all sick. They’re passing the disease amongst themselves, somehow. And now this one has it too.”
“What disease, Samiel?”
I gulped down the lump in my throat, wishing I had a more glib tongue. As if I might wrap up the news in something prettier, and take the sting out. As if with the right words I might make it untrue.
“Rabies.” I said, quietly.
I watched their expressions as the dread sunk in, with all of its nightmare of implications. Ishàmae was first, and he just went very, very blank. Only his eyes seemed to say Not again, not another one. Marissa went from uncomprehending almost straight to resigned, only passing briefly by denial. But then, she was a practical woman. It was Sarah that went from gut-punched to angry and then right out the other side into stubborn determination.
“No.” she said. “Absolutely not. We can fix this. The Temple will have potions of Cure Disease. We’ll just, we’ll just… we can go buy one.”
“With what money, darling?” Marissa was daubing at her nose with the rag, and maybe her eyes as well.
“I’ll go get a refund on my admission spot. That should be enough. If not, we can pawn…something.” Sarah nodded, firmly, a course of action now plotted through the seas of panic.
“Not your exams! Everything we’ve done has been to get you in there. And you know this is the last year you can apply. Honey, you have to keep your exam spot!”
“Mother, don’t be absurd!” Sarah was almost shouting now. “Going to school isn’t a life or death matt
er! This is!”
“I’m saying, don’t do anything rash, dear. We have some time to think of something. Err,” Marissa looked over at me. “How much time, usually?”
How did I become the resident expert on death? I wondered, bleakly. I mean, besides the obvious.
[Hunting check: Success]
“Umm, once symptoms start, you might have a week or two. But we need to fix this before then. Or else you… might not be yourself, afterwards.” I flung the slain rat onto the compost heap, and wiped my dagger in the soapy mud. There was a smell of something burning.
“The cakes!” Marissa cried. “Sara, go take out the cakes!”
“I’m not leaving you—”
“Fool girl, I am not dead yet! Now go rescue my pans before we fill the whole restaurant up with smoke! Again.”
Sarah reluctantly ran ahead, and Marissa followed. I was about to when Ishàmae gently laid a hand on my shoulder, halting me.
“You forgot to mention how long it would be before the disease shows symptoms. Is there something else we should know?”
“It depends.” I sighed. “The disease has to travel from the bite up into the brain of the host. Usually it takes a week, maybe longer, but mostly people get bit in the hands or the feet. But the nose…”
“Is much closer than the extremities.” he finished for me. “I see.”
I nodded. “We might have a day or two, if we’re really lucky. Once the fever starts in on her brain… we might lose Marissa even if we cure the disease.”
Back in the kitchen, Sarah was scraping burnt cake out of the pan and into the slop bucket. Marissa was on a step stool, bent over the sink, washing her face thoroughly with soap and water.
“…at least find out how much a potion is, before you sell your exam spot entirely.”
Sarah shook her head. “That will just take time. If I’m to get a good deal, I have to get back there first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe some desperate latecomer will take my place.”
A Fist Full of Sand: A Book of Cerulea (Sam's Song 1) Page 20