Cooking Hot

by Pam Uphoff

  ***

  “Stranger’s Earth and Earth Bogota Nuke both have this game called baseball.” Epic slipped on the disposable gloves and started loading the veggie plates. “They played against each other, then got the crowd in to try it. Pretty fun. Weird food. A bland sausage on a soft roll, these knotted up breadsticks with salt on them, beer, and sodas. They both considered it the traditional food to eat while watching baseball.”

  Sophy rolled her eyes. “We had tea and scones in the British Empire. They did a horse drill, too, with marching guards and a band. You wouldn’t believe the hats they wore.”

  Arwen nodded. “It seemed very civilized. I looked for the two escaped Hors de Combat,” she blushed, “But I didn’t spot anyone that might have been them.”

  ***

  "Ashe, it looks like your idea is playing out well." President Orde savored a bite of tender beef in a delicious sauce.

  Ashe nodded. "Yes, in fact it is exceeding my expectations." The ambassador’s gaze strayed off to where Qayg, the president’s Princess was listening to a string quartet. "I do wish the One had sent me a mature and sensible Princess. Pity my plan has nothing to do with getting rid of the little shrew."

  Orde tried to feel sympathetic, rather than gratified. "One wonders sometimes if the One ought not be so ambitious to cover every influential politician. The . . . quality seems to be suffering."

  Behind him, Urfa snorted.

  Yeah, Urfa got a really good one, in Puur. The second time around. Competent and professional . . . and sort of softening up and edging toward personal. Lucky Man.

  Orde looked around. "Is your Princess Qyyr here? I've never met her."

  "Somewhere. Last seen chasing some grubby fellow. No accounting for tastes." Ashe nodded the other direction. "Worse than Rael chasing after Wolfson. At least Rael's useful. I ought to be trying to steal her from you, instead of a chef from the Directorate."

  Orde grinned. "Useful? I think that's the mildest descriptor I've ever heard used in her vicinity, and unusually devoid of emotion."

  Ashe chuckled. "She does seem to rouse emotions of one sort or another. I was delighted to hear that Agni's appearance this morning was brief."

  "Me too." Orde grinned. "My guards threatened to sit on me if I tried to come while he was still around."

  Ashe nodded. "I did notice that they seemed to think highly of you."

  "Overprotective mother hens. Mind you, they'll zealously guard whoever is in office. But at one point I did get the impression that they were hoping for a threat so they could throw themselves on . . . someone and knock him flat."

  "With several of them landing on top? Yes, I could see that."

  A sigh from behind him. Rael. "And I missed it all."

  The tall woman with her rolled her eyes. "So to speak, Rael, dear."

  "Madam Xaum, you're looking as beautiful as ever. I didn't know you knew Rael." Orde bowed slightly over her hand.

  "Oh, Rael's sister was my hated rival in high school. But that nuisancey little brat of a sister of hers was good for some laughs. Our parents are good friends." She cast a fond glance at her husband. "Ashe and I visit regularly; he's addicted to a restaurant down in the museum district."

  Qayg drifted up to Orde's other side, with a pointed glance at her watch.

  The president sighed. "I have apparently exceeded my stand-and-chat allowance. Good idea, this fair of yours. Congratulations."

  ***

  A brief hiatus, plenty of sampler plates out and plenty of cooked and cut up meat keeping warm . . . "Guys, hold the fort, I'm going to check out some more of the competition."

  Ebsa stripped off the hat and apron and headed out. Gave Master Chef Unsa a bare nod as he strolled past. The Cove Island sailing ship was docked at a booth serving fish bits and roasted pineapple skewers. The Arbolians were setting up mats and braced poles . . . "Circus of the Little Gods" according to the sign . . .

  A drum roll and bouncy music and a dozen small men tumbled out of the Arbolian Embassy and on to the mats. Stacked themselves four high to deliver the top man to the trapeze on one side, then teetered precariously, with a gravitationally impossible lean to their tower of dwarves, to deliver another dwarf to the other side.

  The high dwarves proceeded to start swinging, while on the ground the rest coordinated gymnastics that started out difficult and progressed to comically absurd, and definitely magically enhanced. The trapeze artists jumped back and forth, threw in a flip . . . and missed the catch.

  The gymnasts below "just happened" to be in two three-dwarf towers. They caught the falling man between them and tossed him back up. To be caught, and then tossed spinning in mid-air for much too long before his own swing got to within reach. Then a tower of dwarves started trying to catch the flying dwarves, and got caught instead and tossed around . . .

  Ebsa was open mouthed at the smooth expertise, the blend of athleticism and magic, and clapped enthusiastically as the Little Gods took a bow and promised to come back in an hour.

  He tried to ignore some catcalls and insults, many of which were coming from the Cove Islanders. Elitists! Ebsa winced as he spotted some Oners joining them. I hadn't realized the Fallen were as bad as Oners about physical . . . irregularities.

  He caught the clatter of iron shod hooves on stone and hustled back to the corner where he could see the Black Horse Drill Team trot out, four abreast, between his booth and Unsa's. The Gran' Parade music started and the prancing horses curved away in four lines and circled back to join up, spin, split and pass through.

  Behind him, voices were rising above the music and ringing sound of hooves.

  And suddenly "Nasty little perverted morons!" was overridden by cries of "Hoist the Jolly Roger!" And "Take ‘em lads!"

  Ebsa turned to see the Little Gods, now in pirate garb, running, tumbling and leaping past—and over and off—the crowd of jeerers and onto the sailing cart.

  "Hoist the mainsail!" "Weigh the anchor and cast off!" "How much does it weigh?" "Dunno, don't think there is one, so I'll just release the brake!"

  The sail billowed and the cart started moving. Leaping Dwarves repelled Cove Islanders as the cart picked up speed, weaving through the laughing crowd.

  I'm not at all sure this is planned entertainment!

  A Cove Islander got aboard and tackled the helmsman . . . and they both fell overboard.

  Ebsa backed away hastily, as the cart accelerated. He glanced over his shoulder at the dancing horses . . . that the cart was headed toward . . .

  "Yfda! Incoming!" Ebsa yelled.

  The head of the Drill Team looked up. Eyes widened. "Orders! Split! Rotate outside!" The parade ground bellow produced instant obedience, and the line of horses split and wheeled as the sailing cart cruised through.

  More orders and the horses were back in formation to applause from the bystanders.

  The sailing cart wobbled, someone grabbed the helm and got them around the corner. Wobbling toward the Kitchen Witch Booth. The three witches stepped out and glared. The ship wobbled away, a crosswind caught the sail, and it tipped . . . across the entrance to the Comet Fall Embassy.

  The embassy guards looked stern. The pirates abandoned ship and disappeared into the crowd, as their illusionary pirate costumes faded. The Cove Islanders cursed, but refrained from pursuit. They righted their ship and sailed away in a much more controlled fashion.

  Ebsa hustled around the drill area as the Honor Guard finished their presentation. And got back to cooking.

  Snickered at the sound of sappy disco music, and laughed out loud as the Disco personnel, in glittery costumes, danced down the steps, a large multi-faceted mirrored ball spinning overhead . . .

  Gunfire from the south . . . was suddenly matching the beat of the dance music.

  :: The Purps are faking a gunfight. :: Ra'd sounded amused.

  :: Something "Old Western" from their early colonial history. :: Paer joined in.

  Ebsa frowned. :: I thought they were exiles? ::
<
br />   :: They were two separate colonial organizations, one a club for kids with purple hair, and one group of fans of the mystique of some pioneer historical period. According to the Purps I've talked to, the only thing the Exile did was speed up the process of getting a world, and throw the two groups together. :: Paer giggled mentally. :: The only thing they argue about now is which group took over the other. At the time they apparently got on just fine. ::

  :: I wonder if they're syncing with the music on purpose? Might be subconscious . . . :: Ebsa trailed off.

  :: What? ::

  :: Well, this guy, :: Ebsa sent a mental picture of the gray-haired man, :: might be the Comet Fall God of Music. ::

  A mental snort from Ra'd. :: He's here, but I refuse to believe. In fact I ought to be over watching Nighthawk . . . God, that dance is . . . ::

  Ebsa edged out to where he could see the dance . . . with Nighthawk pulling Ra'd out to the floor. And there was Rael, bouncing and twirling into a dramatic pose, and back into action. Didn't realize a Dancer could dance!

  He hastily flipped his chicken and got his attention back where it ought to be.

  The Black Horse horses, well, maybe a quarter of them, were tied up behind a rail, where people could admire and pet them. The ones they are dead certain won't bite!

  He spotted Paer heading that way and waved his green spatula at her. He hadn't actually used it, plastic not being ideal on an open charcoal grill, so he slotted it back in his bucketful of utensils and grabbed a knife to cube more steak.

  ***

  The Master Chef stalked over and stared down at the plates, disappearing as fast as Ebsa and company could fill them.

  “You . . . hid more plates, didn’t you?”

  “After you were unreasonable about those two? Yes. I did. Have you run out?” Ebsa stepped over to the handles in the corner. Nighthawk had swapped the pencil bubble out for one with handles as tall as the door, which made access so much easier . . .

  Ebsa fetched out two more boxes, trying to not laugh at the Master Chef as he gawped at Ebsa’s door into nowhere. “Here you go.” He ducked under the side bunting and set the boxes next to Unsa’s booth. Flashed a smile. “How’s the emu? People enjoying it?”

  Unsa hissed something impolite under his breath.

  Ebsa turned away so he could let the grin out and got back to cooking.

  “Ebsa!” Epic looked puzzled. “Are you helping him?”

  “Yep. And he’s hating every second of it.”

  ***

  Four in the Afternoon, and no one's been injured, killed, or poisoned. Lon Hackathorn gazed around the peaceful plaza. This might turn out to be a good idea yet!

  He spotted a hurrying form—Oh, the Farley woman—he turned toward the One Embassy . . . Shit, that French Chef, Emil something-or-other, was looking over the Black Horse horses and saying something offensive, to judge by the stiffness of the guard.

  Lon sighed and lengthened his stride.

  ". . . even you could be so offensive!"

  The Chef kept his back turned to the woman as he gestured at the horse in front of him. ". . . this one would have excellent marbling all through the rump roast, and the filet . . . Mwah. But what I'd really like is to buy one of the Comet Fall horses."

  Lon lunged and grabbed Farley's fist before it connected. "Please! If you must come to blows, take it back to the Earth embassy. Emil? Your clientele might be able to afford a steak off of one of these horses, but if you try that with one of the Comet Fall horses . . . well, they're highly genetically engineered, and close to ten percent human genes . . . and cannibalism is such an ugly term, isn't it? I think you need to go home and sober up."

  Emil Whatever stuck his nose up in the air and marched off.

  "Ms. Farley? Have you tried the vegetarian dish the Directorate is serving? I thought it was excellent." Lon kept an eye on Emil, who was indeed wobbling in his path across the plaza, as he led Farley around to try the asparagus and mushrooms in almond cream sauce.

  The smell of beef searing over charcoal almost brought tears to his eyes.

  What I do to keep the peace!

  ***

  The next time Ebsa spotted Paer, she was sitting at a table . . . with his mother.

  "Oh, One! I have to get out there!" Ebsa dropped his knife and squeezed between the work tables.

  "Oh look, it's the cook who put on airs!" Ebsa blinked at the guy in civvies, but with a military haircut.

  With friends.

  "Since when does some Directorate wimp start parading around making a mockery of the Warrior's agal?" Buzz cut continued

  "And what makes him think nobody's going to take offence?" The one with the tiger tattoos stepped out to flank him

  "I'm surprised you're not serving fried giant spider. You put the entire multiverse at risk, coming back from a place like that!" The third guy was big and black.

  "We are observing a careful quarantine." Ebsa grit his teeth and did not envision giant poisonous spiders digging up from their underground hatching nests to chow down on this innocent crowd. He did not!

  "Yeah. No noble sacrifice from you, Closey." Tattoos glared.

  "There have been no spiders on the quarantine world." Thank the One! Else I'd probably agree with them.

  The fourth one stepped up and made a looming grab at his hat. "Take it off now!"

  Ebsa stepped back, a quick glance behind and he spotted Ra'd stepping into the path of a half dozen more men.

  Oh, let's not escalate this too much!

  He reached back and plucked out his green spatula. Stepped out and faced his foursome, spatula out like a sword. "Let's settle this like gentlemen" Away from my booth!

  He circled to the left, backing up as they snickered and followed.

  Buzz Cut took a swing. Ebsa ducked, bounced in to slap the flat of the spatula against his ear as he swept a foot out to hook the next guy's ankle and added a bit of Pull to complete the man's pratfall. He turned to face Tattoos, who looked like he preferred wrestling . . . and felt the rush of the fourth man coming up fast behind him . . . threw himself flat and rolled under a flying kick that flattened Tattoos.

  Ebsa rolled to his feet and blocked a couple of punches, spiked his Speed to hit Big and Black’s lower ribs with bruising force, spun, spanked him with the spatula, lifted an elbow to the jaw of the next fellow . . . and they were all flat on the ground, but still moving.

  Ebsa swept the spatula around in an elaborate bow to the alarmed watchers, and while he was bent over, hissed. "Now get up, and bow to the audience! Or I'll start breaking bones."

  Buzz Cut, the guy with the reddened ear, eyed him, then climbed to his feet and bowed. The other three followed his lead.

  Ebsa watched them try to walk away with dignity . . . past the eight fellows who were facing Ra'd, shocked expressions on their faces as they looked from Ebsa to Ra'd and back.

  I wonder if Ra’d had to do anything besides looking at them?

  Then Ebsa turned to face the music.

  His mother's arms were crossed and one toe was tapping.

  "You can't fool me, Young Man! That was no low class street entertainment! I didn’t raise you to brawl in the streets like a common thug!"

  “Umm, Mom . . .”

  “I should never have let you run around with those low class boys in high school . . .”

  “Umm . . .”

  “And in front of this sweet young lady, whom you have failed altogether to bring home and introduce to me!"

  Paer had one hand over her mouth, and the other arm wrapped around her ribs as she tried to stifle laughter. Her glow was escaping control with little explosions of mental laughter.

  “Mom . . .” Ebsa gave up and just stepped up and hugged her. “I love you. Now come tell me what you think of this vegan cream sauce. Not that your clientele has the faintest interest in vegetarian meals . . .”

  “Cream! You can’t use cream in vegan . . .”

  Paer, giggling, took his mother’s ot
her side and steered her toward the booth. “He used almond milk. I didn’t even know,” snicker, “that you could milk almonds . . .”

  Which thank the One got his mother laughing.

  And the charcoal grilled veggies with almond milk cream sauce gained her approval.

  “You should try the trilobite the *Zolts are serving.” Ebsa nodded toward the neighboring booth, and back at the lack of cooked beef . . . “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  ***

  "Where is he!"

  Oh crap, the nasty Princess is back.

  "Where's who?" Damn, looks like she's been rolling in the grass all day.

  "He got away and I want him back!"

  "The dirty old man?" Ebsa eyed her. "You want him? For what? If you have a criminal complaint, Disco is the best . . ."

  "Criminal! You moron! That man's the sexiest thing in existence. I've never felt like that in my life. Not even close. I want him!"

  Oh. My. One. The poor exhausted man must have fled for his life.

  "Then ask in the Comet Fall West embassy."

  "I did! Oh, you're worthless!" She turned and stalked away.

  Ebsa couldn't stop himself. "You might want to go home and clean up!"

  If she heard him, she ignored him.

  ***

  “Madam Castellanos! What a pleasure to see you here.”

  Ebsa glanced over just in time to catch a nasty grin from Ambassador Ashe.

  “Enjoying yourself? There’s a lot of good food on display, here.” Ashe waved at the plaza.

  “True, true, this was a brilliant idea you had. And stiff competition. Thank you so much for inviting me."

  The ambassador sported a grin worthy of an alligator, as he glanced toward Ebsa.

  "Pity we can’t import those trilobites." His Mom gave a dismissive wave across the plaza. ”The Earth’s offerings were pathetic, and for all the talk you’d think Comet Fall could have found some tenderer meat. Bison? Lizard! One, it was horrible!"