Chapter 8
When Zilek’s fancy gilded carriage came to a stop a couple of miles up the hill from the lake, Rylana grabbed the bottle of wine and hopped out before either of her escorts could offer her a hand down—if dragons thought to do such things.
They were on a fastidiously cleaned cobblestone street, not a single horse dropping permitted to linger, in front of a large but surprisingly unassuming brick building.
Above the main entrance, a sign made from gearwheels, springs, and whirligigs artfully formed the words: The Tinkerer’s Laboratory.
To one side, wide flagstone stairs led below street level to a basement door without a sign. Looking around in the dwindling daylight, Rylana almost bumped into a hulking ogre female guarding the entrance to those stairs.
Maybe she’d been wrong; maybe there was a bouncer. Since ogre females were as muscled as their male counterparts, this one could doubtless fill the role.
“Guests only,” she rumbled, towering over Rylana. She then looked at Jildarin, taking in his white chef’s coat, and added, “Staff may use the side entrance in the alley.”
“Staff.” Jildarin rose to his full height—more than two feet below that of the ogre—and stared defiantly at the bouncer. “I am Jildarin-grozanarav of Clan Killcrusher, winner of the Golden Whisk.”
The ogre stepped back. “A dragon.”
“Yes.”
“Dragons are always welcome at the wine conclave.”
Huh. Someone else used that pretentious word to describe the club.
“You’re being extra pompous this evening,” Rylana murmured to Jildarin as Zilek stepped out of the carriage. “Does your brother bring that out in you?”
Jildarin gave her a sidelong squint, then sighed. “We did grow up as rivals in many areas of life.”
“So he vexes you regularly.”
“Especially when he seeks to outperform me. Or manipulate me into something. I’ve yet to forgive him for his attempts to coerce me into mating with those female dragons.”
“I only do so because Mother wishes it,” Zilek said, catching the end of the conversation. “And it’s for the good of the clan.”
Jildarin bared his teeth and growled at him.
Zilek brought out the savage side of Jildarin as well as the pompous side. Since Rylana understood perfectly about having manipulative family members, she couldn’t blame him too much for substandard behavior. She even clasped his hand and said, “I’ll tell you later about my cousin’s visit.”
Jildarin didn’t object to her touch and seemed to understand right away what the words implied. “Your father seeks to use a family member to manipulate you? Into leaving the diner and working for his business?”
“Yeah, but don’t incinerate him, please.”
“It is against the ways of the clan to slay family members,” he said.
“I’ve seen you bite and spew fire at your aunt.”
“But not in an attempt to slay her. I only sought to warn her away from you.”
“I did appreciate that.”
“Yes.” His eyelids drooped, his earlier savagery gone as he smiled slightly. That expression always bestirred her libido, though she knew he didn’t mean it to.
“Two dragons,” the ogre bouncer said.
She’d been diverted momentarily, checking a calligraphy-filled invitation that a well-dressed gnome couple had arrived with, then directing them down the stairs. But now, she looked from Zilek and Jildarin and finally to Rylana. “You have two dragon companions.”
Was that reverence in her voice? Maybe Zalani wasn’t the only adventurous one who thought the brothers looked more like a fun night than a lot of work.
“Do you want one?” Rylana offered, pointing at Zilek.
“Really,” he murmured dryly, then led the way down the stairs.
Apparently familiar with him, the ogre stepped aside and let him pass without further comment. But did she check out his ass? Or was that Rylana’s imagination? No, she also checked out Jildarin’s ass. Goodness.
Rylana followed them down the steps and into a spacious stone-walled cellar, the air a touch chill.
No wonder Zilek liked the place. Between the stone walls, flagstone floor, and cool temperature, it had a definite cave vibe.
But it was far from dank with the air smelling of sandalwood, leather, and aged wine.
Numerous leather sofas and wide inviting chairs demarcated seating areas, and a long wooden bar in the back hosted high chairs, also upholstered with rich leather.
“Is that the dragon chef?” a woman whispered loudly.
Jildarin had paused inside the doorway and stood gazing around, as if searching for threats, but his chin lifted as he looked toward a group of gnomish, elven, and human women. One of the latter had spoken.
“It is,” she continued. A bronze-skinned, black-haired woman in a flowing white dress swept toward Jildarin, an elf and a gnome also coming along. “I’ve heard such wonderful things about your soup, Chef.”
“I’ve had the soup,” the gnome said. “And my male tinkering mate also called it wonderful,” she added with a laugh.
“I’ve had the mushrooms,” the elf female said as the gaggle gathered around Jildarin.
“Will you come talk about your legendary boarroot and tarragon sauce?” one asked, daring to touch his arm and try to draw him toward the rest of their group.
Feet planted, Jildarin looked at Rylana. Did he want permission to go off with them? Surely not, but maybe he was silently asking if she needed his help first. And if she was comfortable being left alone with Zilek, who was watching the gathering of admirers with a bemused expression.
Since the cellar was sparsely populated this early in the evening and Rylana didn’t see Aztor, she gave him a go-ahead gesture.
Jildarin nodded and allowed the females to draw him away, questions about his recipes filling the air.
It reminded Rylana of the impromptu meeting on the path in the elven enclave where numerous female elders had flocked to him.
Would these people also put in orders for his soup?
Or did they just want to chat with him because of his inherent appeal?
“It is not only female dragons who are drawn to him.” Zilek didn’t sound jealous or annoyed but perhaps a touch confused and maybe exasperated. “They cannot even know of his legendary fighting prowess during the war.” He looked at Rylana, as if she might be able to explain the situation.
“There’s nothing sexier than a man who can make a quality boarroot and tarragon sauce,” she said, though it was the coffee-rubbed bacon that prompted her to forget Jildarin’s pomposity and want to help him succeed in the world.
“That can’t be true.”
A male half-elf wearing a black-and-white uniform walked up and held out his hands. “I am the sommelier, Oskan. May I take your offerings?”
Zilek held out a bag, his bottle nestled inside among aromatic wood shavings. To Rylana, it looked like nesting material for a gerbil rather than something designed to insulate wine, but she kept the thought to herself.
“Excellent, Lord Dragon,” the sommelier said after peeking at the label.
Rylana offered the unadorned bottle that Zalani had plucked from the pantry. Oskan gasped and stepped back without touching it. She might have received a similar reaction if she’d handed him bagged droppings from one of the log-inspecting hounds.
“Why don’t you keep that?” Oskan turned away with Zilek’s bottle. Under his breath, he muttered, “In case there’s a years-long famine or siege of the city, and there’s nothing else to consume.”
“Ridiculous,” Zilek murmured.
“You found him pretentious too?” Rylana was surprised Zilek had noticed. Was the fish aware of the water it swam in?
“The notion that Tranquility could withstand a siege is what’s ridiculous. It has no walls.”
“The pillars can knock you handily on your ass.”
“They were insufficient in dealing with the troll-god curse.”
“That was outside the breadth of their magical programming, I believe. One did zap a dragon nicely.”
Perhaps Rylana shouldn’t have smiled approvingly as she said that. Zilek’s eyelids descended as he regarded her.
“One of my relatives?” he asked.
“I believe it was your aunt.”
“Puzzling that she wants you dead.”
“She started it.” Rylana refused to feel petulant after making the comment. It was true, after all.
Zilek snorted, so maybe he wasn’t that offended on his aunt’s behalf. He took the wine bottle from her and set it on a shelf. “It’s amazing that my brother can cook with such swill and win contests.”
“I think he uses it to deglaze his saucepans.”
“Does that mean he employs it as a solvent and cleans with it?”
“Not exactly.”
“You,” a woman of about forty said, glancing at Zilek but walking up to Rylana with a frown.
Her black hair was swept back and restrained by bejeweled elven garden tongs, her full lips were pinched together, and her cheeks were pink, either with rouge or the flush of irritation.
She looked like she might throw a punch at any moment, though it was hard to imagine the clientele here settling affairs with fisticuffs.
“Me?” Rylana touched her chest before looking at Zilek.
Surely, the pompous dragon was more likely to deserve someone’s ire.
“You’re Rylana Avandar, aren’t you? I remember you running around outside our castle without pants.”
Rylana blinked a few times as she tried to place the woman, but she couldn’t imagine she’d been more than a few years old at the time she might have engaged in such an activity.
“Without pants?” Zilek asked with amusement. “Such as in a dress?”
“Such as half naked,” the woman said.
Zilek looked speculatively toward Rylana’s lower half. Fortunately, her dress covered that area respectably now.
“After her mother died,” the woman continued, “and her father refused to hire a maid to care for the children, they were like wild animals roaming the neighborhood.”
“This is Lady Evalla Mistika,” Zilek said, taking pity on Rylana’s failing memory.
“Oh!” Rylana had been quite young when she’d visited their estate with her brother. “Dylina’s older sister, right?”
“Of course.”