by Heidi Lang
Dong . . . dong . . . dong . . . dong . . . dong!
Lailu clapped her hands over her ears but could still feel the noise grating in her bones until the fifth ring finally died away.
So that’s what Mr. Mustache was babbling on about, she thought irritably, wishing he had given her a little more warning of what to expect. Her panic rose as she realized she had no idea when to expect the sixth and seventh bells. She hadn’t even begun cooking yet! She still had to lightly sear the fish, mix up the sauce, and make the appetizer and dessert.
A small side door opened, and a skinny girl with curly strawberry-blond hair stepped inside. Her nose was slightly on the wide side, and so was her mouth, but she still managed to look cute and delicate in her rose-colored evening dress and long white gloves. She appeared no more than ten or eleven, but thanks to Lailu’s friend Sandy from the Chef Academy, she knew the coppery-headed ones tended to look younger than they actually were.
“Can I help you?” Lailu asked.
“Actually, I was sent here to see if you needed help with anything.” The girl sounded about as young as she looked. “You know, help with the gadgets in here and stuff.” She smiled, showing off her dimples. “I’m Wren.”
“Lailu,” Lailu said, studying the slight girl. She looked familiar, and sounded even more familiar. “Have we met before?”
Wren shook her head. “I would remember meeting a master chef as young as you.”
Lailu couldn’t decide whether that was a compliment or an insult.
“So?” Wren shifted. “Do you need help, or no?”
“Um, sure. Which one of these stove thingamajigs would be the best for me to use?”
“It all depends what you are used to.” The girl marched farther into the room. “This one here gets warm really quickly; this one here is better for a slow-cook dish; this one here is just terrible—seriously, don’t use it; and this one here is most like the older steam modules used by many chefs in their own households.” Lailu noticed that they all had an engraved starling in a triangle on them, the signature mark of a Starling Volan stove. “So . . . is it true you don’t work for a household?”
“It’s true.”
“What do you do, then?”
Lailu smiled. “My mentor and I have a restaurant, where we get to cook whatever we want, and people come in just to eat. You should come and try it sometime.”
“Sounds really nice, and I would like to, but . . .” Wren stared down at the engraving of a starling on the nearest stove. “It’s my mom.” She twined her hands behind her back.
“Your mom?”
Wren nodded. “She doesn’t like me doing anything she feels is unnecessary.”
“That’s a strange attitude.”
“I know, right? I mean, I used to take these acting and dancing classes, back before we moved here, and she’d always make these comments about how I was wasting my life. It got so . . . well . . .” Wren stopped.
“You can tell me,” Lailu said, trying to be encouraging. She got the impression Wren didn’t get a chance to vent much.
“I shouldn’t be complaining.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of constructive complaining,” Lailu said firmly.
Wren gave her a weak smile. “Well, eventually my mom stopped making those comments to me. She stopped talking to me entirely, actually. So”—Wren traced her finger along the starling—“I stopped studying the arts and started helping her with her work instead.”
“Oh.” Lailu said uncertainly. “Er, what sort of work do you and your mom do, then?”
Wren jerked her chin at all the equipment. Lailu stared at her, not comprehending, and finally Wren muttered, “The stoves. The ovens. My mom invented almost all of them.”
Lailu’s jaw dropped. “Really? Your mom is Starling Volan? I mean, the Starling Volan?”
Wren sighed. “Yes, yes.” She ran a hand back through her brightly colored hair.
“But that’s amazing! She completely revolutionized the cooking world with her steam-powered tools.” Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that kind of business? The only thing better than creating all these wonderful stoves, in Lailu’s opinion, was cooking on them. “Wow. Just . . . wow.”
And then it clicked. She had seen Wren before! Or at least she’d heard her. Back in the Industrial District a few nights ago, talking about . . . Lailu hesitated. Talking about a thief. And an experiment. Lailu desperately wanted to ask about it, but she didn’t want to admit she’d been eavesdropping. “Er,” Lailu tried. “Are you and your mom working on any new experiments now?”
“My mom is always working on new experiments,” Wren said. “That’s what she does.”
Lailu brightened. “So is it true, then, that everyone from Beolann is a scientist?”
Wren scowled. “No. We’re not all scientists.” She looked away, toward another contraption in the far corner. “Want to see how this works?”
“Um, yeah. Of course.” Even with her limited ability for tact, Lailu understood that Wren didn’t want to talk about her mom or her old home anymore. Reluctantly, she let it drop, even though she had so many questions. Not just about the conversation she’d overheard, but about Starling in general. All Lailu knew about the inventor was that she was the first person to ever leave her home country of Beolann, taking her band of scientists with her. But why she left and what she was trying to accomplish here were all mysteries.
Wren turned out to be quite helpful, showing Lailu all the useful gadgets and explaining how the bell system was set to ring at each hour. She even assisted in preparing the fish, and Lailu managed to finish everything in plenty of time.
“Well, Wren, thanks.”
“Oh, no problem. I like being helpful.” Wren smiled, dimples on full display, and Lailu found herself smiling back.
The main door flew open and Mustache stomped inside.
“Chef.” He jerked a fat finger in Lailu’s direction. “They’re ready for you.”
“Good luck,” Wren called as Lailu followed the bodyguard out the door.
Lailu carefully wheeled Mr. Frosty, the prepared basilisk fish with its carper fish appetizer laid out elegantly in a platter on top. With Wren’s help, she felt she had prepared perhaps her best mystic seafood dish ever. Even her special dragon herb sauce with a dash of pixie paprika turned out better than usual and was dribbled artistically on the silver fish. Slipshod would have been proud.
Mustache finally stopped in front of a pair of mighty oak doors at the end of another long hallway. A steady buzz seeped from the cracks under the door, and Lailu swallowed, her pulse quickening under her high-collared shirt. As the doors swung open, she straightened her chef’s hat and stood as tall as her limited height would let her. It was time to face Elister and his Gilded Island friends.
17
SKULDUGGERY AT THE DINNER PARTY
All talk ceased as the doors swung shut behind Lailu. She froze, her ears ringing, hands clenched around the handle of her cart. Everyone looked so far away, and it seemed like there were hundreds of them, all sitting there, all staring at her. All those eyes . . .
“Ah, excellent. Dinner.” Elister’s voice broke through the tableau, and Lailu realized there were only the dozen people she’d been told to prepare food for, not hundreds. She released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and pushed her cart forward.
Elister looked particularly elegant today in a crimson velvet shirt with a black cravat, and Lailu was forced to admit that, executioner or not, the man had style. Even so, it was the man next to Elister who really captured Lailu’s attention.
Dressed in a body-hugging green silk shirt, with his long, crow-black hair brushed neatly back from his delicate face, he was almost breathtakingly beautiful. His eyes were a light gray-blue that seemed to be silently laughing above his high cheekbones, narrow chin, and long, pointed ears.
An elf? Here? She knew they were technically free to roam anywhere in the city, but they us
ually stuck to the poorer districts. So what would an elf be doing at Elister’s fancy dinner party?
“Where is Master Slipshod?” Elister asked.
Lailu gave herself a little mental shake. “He was . . . unable to make it today.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Elister didn’t sound like he cared particularly much. “And what are we having?”
Lailu forced a smile. “Today’s s-special,” she began, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “Today’s special . . . is an appetizer of carper ceviche, followed by basilisk fish served over a wild rice bed, with a nice mandrake herb sauce and a side of sautéed vegetables.”
“Basilisk fish? Really?” the man across from Elister asked.
“Oh, but the girl is joking, of course!” laughed a skinny brunette farther down the table, her head bowed beneath the weight of a gaudy comb so oversized even Hannah would have found it ridiculous.
“A chef never jokes about food.” Lailu wheeled Mr. Frosty closer, carefully serving everyone. When the last platter was down, she stepped back. “Enjoy. And please, let me know if you need anything else.”
“I have every faith that the meal will be more than adequate. But . . .” Elister smiled. “I’m sure we could all do with some wine.”
Lailu flushed. The wine! How had she forgotten? Slipshod would never have forgotten an important detail like that. “Y-yes, of course.” She scurried out of the dining room and down the hall, then slipped inside the darkened kitchen.
“Everything going all right?”
Lailu jumped, nearly toppling over her cart. “Wren!” she yelped. “What are you doing, lurking in here in the dark?”
“Hiding,” Wren said calmly.
“Hiding?” Lailu’s eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, until she could just make out Wren sitting on a counter, swinging her feet back and forth. “Hiding from what?”
Wren slipped down off the counter. “I’m supposed to be making myself useful to Lord Elister. You know, showing him how to use all the new inventions my mother installed in here.”
“Are you living here, then?” Lailu shivered at the thought of trying to sleep in the same house as Elister the Bloody, but Wren was already shaking her head.
“No, I’m just helping out a little. I am currently a ‘disposable resource.’ ” Wren made a face. “My mom’s words.”
“I guessed.”
“She’s making me go to this thing for her tonight, too. Actually, I should probably start heading over.”
“But you’re hiding instead?”
“Well, I don’t want to go. It’s in kind of a creepy place.”
“Where?” Lailu was instantly curious.
Wren shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. So, did you need anything? Or are you hiding now too?”
“I wish. But no, I just forgot the wine.”
“Well, that was awfully silly of you.”
“Tell me about it,” Lailu muttered.
“Wine is a necessity when having a dinner party, especially with fancy food. To not bring the wine out in the first place will lead to complaints, not to mention—”
“Wren!” Lailu snapped. “I know I shouldn’t have forgotten the wine, so you can stop already.”
Wren was silent for a second before mumbling, “You told me to tell you about it.”
“Well, I didn’t mean literally,” Lailu said, feeling harassed. She felt a pang of guilt immediately afterward, though. Wren had been a huge help to her today. “Sorry, nerves are making me grouchy. Well, grouchier, I guess.”
“That’s all right.” Wren smiled, showing off her dimples. “I forgive you. You’re much more fun than the people I’m normally stuck working with. I’d be willing to help you again, if you wanted.”
“Oh, uh, thanks.” Lailu finished stocking her cart with the bottles of wine she had set in Elister’s icebox to chill. “Good luck at, well, being useful,” she called as she headed out the door.
“Thanks,” Wren said sadly.
Lailu snuck back inside the dining room, then slipped among the guests, pouring wine and listening hard. She needed something to tell Mr. Boss tonight, after all.
At first she didn’t hear anything interesting. But then she made her way over to Elister’s side of the table.
“How many?” Elister asked, not looking at the elf.
“Seven. One of them taken just a few days ago, in fact.”
A flicker of worry crossed Elister’s distinguished face as Lailu filled his wineglass. “Young or old?”
Lailu casually slid the elf’s glass in front of him. “Young ones,” he admitted, picking it up and staring into it. His eyes were very serious, the rest of his face still as a mask. “All under a hundred. But old enough that no ordinary means would have been able to . . .”
“So you suspect what, exactly?” Elister asked.
Lailu stood behind him, holding her breath.
The elf leaned in closer to Elister, his words so soft Lailu had to inch forward to hear them. “There must be a traitor inside our camp. And I believe this traitor is working with your beloved scientists.”
Elister tossed his napkin on the table and sighed. “Fahr, I am growing tired of your petty bickering. You know I have recently started backing Starling and her people, and this accusation of yours stinks of jealousy.”
“What’s there to be jealous of? Their science can never compare to the wonders of elven magic.” Fahr’s voice dripped contempt. “But where their so-called science is legal, our magic is not. As you well know.”
“Yes, well, you’re half the reason I helped draft that magic prohibition law,” Elister said irritably. “You’re just lucky you weren’t banned from the city permanently. As it is, I still get regular reports of magical interference left over from your turf war, and it’s preventing my people from repairing the western travel district. And that’s not even mentioning the now-deceased goblin population.”
“There are still pockets of them elsewhere. . . . Treacherous, lying little creatures—”
“They were useful!” Elister paused, then continued in a much softer voice, “The threat of their alchemy along with your magic was enough to keep the Krigaen Empire away from our borders. Thanks to your little rivalry, we now need to find another source of power to keep them away.”
Fahr shrugged. “But your law does leave us at a bit of a disadvantage.”
Elister ran one hand across his temple. “I suppose,” he conceded. “In any case, my friend, I believe your traitor is someone else. A certain loan shark we both know.”
Lailu bit her lip to stop herself from gasping. Mr. Boss? It had to be.
“We haven’t found any proof of that yet.”
“No? Then I suppose it’s time I helped you.” Elister turned.
Lailu felt like she’d been plunged in a lake of ice water as his green eyes locked on her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away, and she wondered if the word spy was written all over her face. His eyes narrowed, and she knew it must be. He knew what she’d been up to. And he would make her pay for it.
18
CAUGHT
Elister stood in one smooth motion, and all talk at the table ceased. “Please, enjoy your meals. I’ll just be a moment. I need a private chat with our chef.” Slowly the pairs of eyes turned away, and he faced Lailu, his smile vanishing. “Get your cart.”
She got her cart, trembling so badly it rattled the whole way out of the dining hall and down to the kitchen. She could feel Elister walking behind her, her shoulder blades prickling as she waited for him to do something. Could she make a run for it? No, he’d catch her before she went two steps. Maybe she could explain herself . . . but no. Elister was not known for his mercy. A man who cold-bloodedly removed all possible rivals to the throne in a single night was not a merciful man. Efficient, yes. Methodical, definitely. But understanding? Lailu doubted it.
Swallowing hard, Lailu pushed the kitchen door open and wheeled the cart in after her.
Elister tapped something on the wall, and the lights in the kitchen sprang to life. Lailu shrank away, still holding on to Mr. Frosty as if it could somehow save her.
“So. Victor sent you to spy on me?”
Lailu hesitated, then nodded, her blood roaring in her ears.
“Normally I dispose of spies immediately.”
“I remember,” she croaked.
Elister frowned, then his expression cleared. “Ah, yes. That unfortunate incident at the academy last year.”
Unfortunate incident? Elister had cut a man to pieces!
Elister must have seen her face. “He was part of the Krigaen Empire, as I’m sure you now know. He deserved his fate.” Lailu had heard enough about the cruelty of their country and the ruthless queens who ruled it to believe this, especially with her village so close to the border between the kingdoms. Sometimes the Krigs managed to sneak through the mountain passes and trickle into Clear Lakes and the surrounding villages. They’d steal livestock and anything else that caught their eye, and murder anyone who got in their way before melting back into the shadows and vanishing like the summer snows. The last attack had been before Lailu was born, but her father bore several scars from it, and she’d lost an uncle and two aunts.
And yet, that man had had such a way with spices that it was hard to believe he’d really been a Krig.
Elister tapped his fingers together, studying her. “Still . . . you have nerve, Miss Loganberry.”
“W-what are you going to do to me?” Lailu let go of her cart. Even Mr. Frosty couldn’t help her now.
“That depends on you, doesn’t it?” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. He opened his mouth, but before he could add anything, the bells started clanging in loud, vibrating tones.
“I always hated those bells,” Elister confided as the last tone faded away.
Lailu’s jaw dropped. He almost sounded . . . human.
“Still, they’re useful. Keeps the house on track.” He sighed. “But as I was going to say, it just so happens I need a spy myself.” He gave Lailu a pointed look and she stepped back.