Sweep in Peace

by Ilona Andrews

  “Hello, Gorvar,” I said.

  At my feet Beast opened its mouth and growled low.

  “Who is it?” A man walked in from the other room. Tall, grizzled and still fit, he moved like Sean, with the natural easy grace. His greying hair fell to his shoulders, and as his eyes caught the light from the doorway, pale gold rolled over his irises.

  “Hello, Wilmos.” I smiled.

  “Ah yes, Dina, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I happened to be in a neighborhood and stopped by to check on Sean. Haven’t seen him for a while.” There, that didn’t sound too desperate.

  “He’s out on a cruise with Solar Shipping freighter,” Wilmos said. “He owed me a favor, and I owed a friend of mine. The friend has a shipping route and picks up credit vouchers from a couple of leisure planets, so he gets boarded a lot. He needed a good security person, so I gave him Sean for a year. It’s good for him. He wanted to see the glory of the Universe and now he gets a tour.”

  “You want me to get a word to him?” Wilmos asked. “I can probably leave a message for him. I’ve got the codes for the freighter.”

  Hmmm. I gave him a nice sweet smile. “Sure! That would be great.”

  Wilmos tapped the glass of the nearest counter. It turned dark and a small circle with glowing symbols appeared in the corner. “Sorry, it will have to be text only. They’re too far out for face to face.” He tapped the circle, spinning it with his fingertips. An English keyboard ignited at the bottom of the rectangle. I was about to send an interstellar text.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  I had to send something that only Sean would know. At least I would find out if he was dead or alive. I typed It’s Dina. The apple trees recovered.

  Wilmos touched a glowing symbol. The message flashed brighter and dimmed. Seconds ticked by. I kept my smile on.

  A message flashed in response to mine. I told you I wasn’t poisonous.

  Sean was alive. Nobody else would know that I nearly brained him with my broom for marking his territory in my orchard.

  “Anything else?” Wimos asked. He was trying to be nonchalant, but he was watching me very carefully.

  “No, that was it. Much appreciated.”

  “Any time. I’m sure he’ll visit when he gets shore leave.”

  “He’s welcome any time and you as well. Come on, Beast.”

  Beast gave Gorvar one last parting snarl and we walked out of the shop, joined the crowd and kept going down the street.

  It made no sense. Wilmos built and sold weapons. Some of the gear in his shop looked too new to be antique. He must’ve had a lot of connections in the soldier for hire world. When Wilmos recognized Sean, he’d become unglued. Sean was a natural biological child of two alpha strain werewolves, who weren’t supposed to have survived the destruction of their planet. A normal werewolf was bad news, but Sean was stronger, faster, and more deadly than ninety nine percent of werewolf refuges strewn across the Galaxy. Wilmos had acted as if Sean was a miracle.

  “You don’t stick a miracle onto a freighter where he’ll be a security guard,” I told Beast. ‘There are more exciting ways to see the glory of the universe.”

  It was like finding the last known Tasmanian tiger and selling him to some rich guy to be a pet in his back yard. It just didn’t add up.

  Wilmos didn’t want me to know what Sean was doing. I didn’t know why, and I really wanted to find out.

  ***

  It took me almost half an hour to get to the Quillonian’s place. The shop owners pointed the door out to me, but it was three floors up and I had to find the way up and then the right set of stone bridges to get to the terrace. Quillonians were a reclusive race, proud, prone to drama, and violent when cornered. A couple of them stayed at my parents’ inn and as long as everything went their way, they were perfectly cordial, but the moment any small problem appeared, they would start putting exclamation marks at the end of all of their sentences. My mother didn’t like dealing with them. She was very practical. If you brought a problem to her, she’d take it apart and figure out how best to resolve it. From what I remembered, Quillonians didn’t always want their problems resolved. They wanted a chance to shake their clawed fists at the sky, invoke their gods, and act as if the world was ending.

  My father was brilliant at handling them. Before he became an innkeeper, he was a very good conman, excellent at reading his marks, and he finessed our more difficult guests. Before long, they were eating out of his hand. I tried to remember what he’d said to me about it. What was it? Something about plays…

  I crossed the terrace to a stone bridge. The bridge had no rail and was barely two feet wide. At the other side, the bridge terminated in a narrow balcony with a dark wooden door. Deep gouges scoured the wood as if something with superhuman strength and razor sharp claws had attacked the door in a frenzy. I squinted. The scratches blended into a phrase repeated in several languages. KEEP OUT. Wonderful.

  I leaned and looked over the side. At least a fifty foot drop to the street. If the Quillonian jumped out of his door and knocked me off the bridge, I would die for sure. I’d be a Dina pancake. Beast whined.

  I picked her up and started across the bridge, taking my time. I didn’t mind heights but I would’ve liked something to hold on to.

  Step, another step. I stepped onto the balcony and knocked. Before I could get the second knock in, the door flew open. A dark shape filled the doorway. I saw two glowing white eyes and a mouth studded with sharp teeth.

  The mouth gaped open and a deep voice roared, “Go away!”

  The door slammed shut inches from my face.

  I blinked. Really, now. I think he actually blew my hair back with that. I knocked again.

  The door sprung open, jerked aside by a powerful hand and teeth snapped in my face. “What? What is it? Do I owe you money? Is that it? There is no money! I have nothing!”

  “I need a chef.”

  There was an outraged pause. “So that’s it. You have come to mock me.” The dark lips that hid the teeth rose, baring fangs the size of my pinkies. “Maybe I shall COOK YOU FOR DINNER!”

  Beast’s fur stood straight up. Wicked claws slid from her feet. Her mouth gaped open, unnaturally wide, displaying four rows of razor sharp teeth. She snapped her teeth and let out a piercing howl. “Awwwreeerooo!”

  The Quillonian leaned back, shocked, and roared.

  Beast snapped her teeth, lightning fast, biting the air, and struggling in my arms. If he slammed the door in our face now, she’d shred it like confetti.

  “Stop it, both of you!” I barked.

  Beast closed her mouth. The Quillonian sagged against the doorway. “What is it you want?”

  “I need a chef.”

  “Holy Mother of Vengeance, fine. Come inside. You can bring your small demon as well.”

  I followed him through the doorway into a narrow hallway. The wall were filthy with grime, baked into the plaster by time. The hallway opened into an equally grimy living room. The glass in the windows had been shattered long ego, and a single dark shard stuck out from the top of the frame. Dirt lay in the corners, gathered against the wall like dunes in a dessert. A filthy couch sat in the middle of the floor. Soiled high-tech foam stuck out through rips in its upholstery. A pile of wooden slivers filled a singed metal bucket in front of the couch. He must’ve made a fire in the bucket when he got cold.

  The draft brought a sour revolting stench. I glanced through the window as I followed him. Below us stood huge concrete vats. One was filled with what had to be lime and the other with some dark substance. The other three vats held red, blue and yellow dyes. Tall bird-like beings waded through the dye vats, stirring something with their feet. It had to be a tannery, which probably meant the substance in the other vat was bird dung. The wind flung another dose of stink at me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and nose and squeezed through the next doorway.

  A pristine kitchen
lay before me. Its cheap wooden cabinets were so clean, they glowed. The counter top, a single slab of simple stone, was polished to a near mirror shine. A butcher block carved with a knife out of a plain block of wood held three knives in the corner next to an ancient but clean stove. The contrast was so sudden, I stole a glance at the living room to make sure were still in the same place.

  The Quillonian turned toward me and I finally saw him in the light. Even slightly stooped, he was seven feet tall. Chocolate-brown short fur covered his muscled body in the front, flowing into a dense forest of foot-long spikes on his back. That’s why the innkeepers called them Quillonians. Their real name was too difficult to pronounce.

  His torso was vaguely humanoid, but his thick muscular neck was long and protruded forward. His head was triangular, with predatory canine muzzle terminating in a sensitive black nose. His hands had four fingers and two thumbs, each digit long and elegant. Two-inch long black claws tipped the fingers. Quillonians were a predatory species, my memory reminded me. They didn’t hunt humans, but they wouldn’t mind ripping one apart.

  “What do you know?” The Quillonian fixed me with his stare. At the door his eyes appeared completely white but now I saw a pale turquoise iris with a narrow black pupil.

  “You were a Red Cleaver, but you were stripped of your certification because you might have poisoned someone.”

  “I did not poison anyone.” The Quillonian shook his head, his quills rustling. “I will explain, and then you can leave and slam the door behind you. I worked at the Blue Jewel on Buharpoor. I don’t expect you to know what it is or where it is, so trust me when I say it was a glittering jewel of a restaurant in a hotel of mind-boggling luxury.”

  I could believe it. The implant that let him speak English was clearly high quality.

  “We were hosting a gala for the neighboring system. Three thousand beings. I was responsible for all of it. It was going splendidly until my sous chef took a bribe and served one of the princes a poisoned soup. The prince collapsed during the dinner and died.”

  “So you didn’t actually poison anyone?” Why did they strip him of his rank, then?

  “That is not the point!” The Quillonian threw his hands up. “I have two million taste buds. I can taste a drop of syrup in a pool of water the size of this building. I know thousands of poisons by taste. Had I sampled the dish before it left my kitchen, I would’ve detected the poison within it. But I did not taste it. I tasted the ingredients for freshness, I tasted the soup during the preparation, but Soo had worked with me for ten years and we were serving a banquet to three thousand beings, and I let the soup go. In the moment that the poison’s presence was detected, the entire Galaxy knew that I let a dish go out of my kitchen without tasting it.”

  He slumped against the wall, defeated, one hand over his eyes.

  “So let me get it straight. They took your Cleaver because you did not taste the soup?”

  “Yes. I did it. I let it go. I waved it on.” The Quillonian waved his hand. “Now you know my shame. Two decades of training, a decade of apprenticeship, two decades of being a chef. Accolades I received, dishes I created… I was a rising star and I threw it all away. I hope you enjoyed tormenting me. Door is that way.”

  Now it made sense. He was punishing himself. He lived in this hovel above tannery, but his kitchen was still spotless, because as much as he wanted to degrade himself, his professional pride wouldn’t let him dishonor the kitchen.

  “I still need a chef,” I told him.

  He bared his teeth at me. “Did you not hear? There is no chef here.”

  “I’m an innkeeper from Earth. I run a very small inn and I’m hosting a peace summit. I’m desperate for a chef.”

  The quills on his back stood straight up. “There. Is. No. Chef. Here.”

  I finally remembered what my father told me. It just popped into my head. Shakespeare said, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. So, Dina, let them have their monologue.

  My future chef was an oversized hysterical hedgehog with a martyr complex. He obviously loved what he did. I had to lure him with work and I had to let him play his part and show him that it was time to let the martyr go. There was a new role to be played, that of an underdog winning the race.

  “Three parties to the summit,” I said. “At least six members each, probably more. The Holy Anocracy represented by Clan Krahr and others, with at least one Marshall in attendance. All of them are used to finest cuisine available.” That wasn’t exactly true. Vampires were a predatory species. Their cuisine was sophisticated, but they were perfectly happy to bite through the neck of some random woodland creature, pop it on a stick, and scorch it over the fire.

  The Quillonian looked at me. I had his attention.

  “The second party to the summit is the Hope Crushing Horde. The Khanum will be present.”

  The Quillonian blinked. “Herself?”

  “Herself, and with some Under-Khans.”

  His eyes widened. He was thinking about it. Maybe…

  The Quillonian slumped against the wall and shook his head. “No. Just no. I am not who I once was.”

  That’s okay. “Also, the Merchants of Baha-char. They are spoiled with wealth and their palate is very refined.”

  “Which clan?”

  “The Nuan Cee’s family. In addition to them the Arbiter and his party.”

  I could almost feel the calculation in his head. “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said honestly.

  “What’s the budget?”

  “Ten thousand to start.”

  “Earth currency, the dollar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Perhaps for an ordinary cook. But not for a Red Cleaver chef.”

  “I am not longer that.” He rolled his eyes to sky. “Somewhere the gods are laughing at me.”

  Here is hoping I read him correctly. “It’s not a joke. It’s a challenge.”

  His eyes went completely white. He stared at me. Come on, take the bait.

  “I can’t.” He closed his eyes and shook. “I just can’t. The shame, it’s too…”

  “I understand. You’re right, it is too much for anyone but a true master of his art.”

  He whipped around. “Are you implying I am anything less?”

  “Are you?”

  He sighed. “What happened to your previous chef?”

  “Usually I cook. But this is beyond my abilities. I will be very busy trying to keep our esteemed guests from murdering each other.”

  “What about the front of the house?” he asked.

  “We won’t need it. The inn will serve the dinner following your commands.”

  He opened his mouth.

  “I came here to find a chef,” I said. “I’m not leaving without one.”

  “My spirit is broken.”

  I held my hands up. “This kitchen says otherwise.”

  He looked around, as if seeing the kitchen for the first time.

  “It may not be Blue Jewel, but it is the kitchen of a chef who takes pride in his work. You can come with me and triumph against impossible odds or you can reject the challenge of the gods and stay here. Would you rather be a hero or a martyr? What will it be?”

  The Quillonian surveyed my kitchen. I wasn’t familiar enough with Quillonian faces to identify his expression with one hundred percent accuracy, but if I had to guess, it would fall somewhere between shock, disgust, and despair.

  The Quillonian heaved a deep sigh. “You expect me to cook here?”

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Pantry?” he asked, his eyes still closed.

  “Through here.” I pointed at the door in the wall.

  He opened his eyes, glanced at the doorway through which we came and which showed the wall to be about six inches wide, and stared at the door. “Is this a joke?”

  “No.”
/>   His clawed hand closed over the handle and he resolutely flung it open. A five hundred square foot space stretched in front of him, its nine foot high walls lined with metal shelves supporting an assortments of pots, pans, dishes, and cooking utensils. Dry goods waited like soldiers on parade, each in a clear plastic container with a label. An industrial size chest freezer sat against the wall next to two refrigerators.

  The Quillonian closed the door, marched back to the doorway, examined the wall, came back, and opened the door again. He stared at the pantry for a long moment, shut the door quickly, and jerked it open. The pantry was still there. Magic was a wonderful thing.

  The Quillonian carefully extended his left leg and put his foot onto the floor of the pantry as if expecting it to grow teeth and gulp him down. Contrary to his expectations, the floor remained solid.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “It will suffice,” he said. “Who shall I expect to serve this morning?”

  “Me and Caldenia. Possibly the Arbiter and his party as well. He mentioned three people.”

  “Caldenia?” His spikes stood up. “Caldenia ka ret Magren? Letere Olivione?”

  “Yes. Will that be a problem?”

  “I have never had the pleasure to serve her, but I certainly know of her. She’s one of the most renowned gastronomes in the Galaxy. Her palate is the definition of refinement.”

  I wondered what he would say if he knew the owner of this refined palate frequently indulged in binging on Mello Yello and Funyuns. “The inn will help you. If you need something, ask for it.” I raised my voice. “I need a two liter pot, please.”

  The correct pot slid to the front of the middle shelf.

  “I’ll need a gastronomical coagulator, please,” the Quillonian said.

  Nothing moved. The Quillonian glanced at me. “Nothing’s happening.”

  “We don’t have one.” The only coagulator I knew about was used in surgeries.