Chapter 5
Jildarin had left one of the carriage doors open, and Rylana was about to venture into the storeroom when Sylin walked out of the alley with their belongings and joined her. She looked down the street to an intersection where Zilek was disappearing around the corner.
“Other than arranging meals, you didn’t discuss salary or benefits,” Sylin said.
“How long were you spying on us?” Rylana asked, though it wasn’t as if she could be affronted when she’d spied on the dragon brothers for twenty minutes herself.
“I was observing potential targets to determine if my blade services might be needed to protect a colleague.”
“So… five minutes? Ten?”
“You should be grateful that I care enough to bother. Except when orders from a superior officer were involved, I’ve bestirred myself for few others.”
“Was your bestirring prompted because you got kicked out of the coffee shop?”
“Certainly not. I’m a polite, quiet, and well-paying customer.”
Rylana squinted at her.
“An elf walked in,” Sylin said. “Though he didn’t speak to me, he gave me a long, thoughtful look, so I decided to leave. After seeing an enemy recognize you, I judged it possible that even in this northern locale, many hundreds of miles from the war, I might also be recognized.”
“And you don’t need the entire elven enclave after you.” Rylana took her bow, quiver, sword scabbard, and pack from her friend. “I’m going to look at Jildarin's books. I trust that won’t interest you.”
“Unless you refer to mystery, history, or adventure books, not in the least.”
“Financial books.” Rylana mimicked a pencil solving equations in the air.
“I will leave those to you. But did you get a sense that you’ll be safe in there with him? Alone?” Sylin arched her eyebrows. “Tranquility law allows dragons to change into their native form within their lairs, doesn’t it? And it sounds like he’s sleeping in there.”
Rylana hesitated. Was it possible Jildarin had invited her in simply so he could change without alarms going off? And then blast her with fire and chomp down on her with that great fang-filled maw?
“He seemed more concerned about me attempting to kill him,” she said.
“We accuse others most often of what we’ve contemplated doing ourselves, that which is top of mind.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Sylin cocked her head. “Why?”
“I told you why.”
“Guilt?”
“Yeah. It’s a powerful human emotion. So is a desire for bacon.” Rylana had been intrigued when the brother had mentioned seasonings. And a bourbon rub?
“If you say so. I’ll leave you and check a few more hostels to see if there are any rooms available. If not, I suppose we can sleep in a park or in the woods or farmlands outside the city. It isn’t as if we’ve gone without shelter before.”
“True, but it rains and snows a lot up here. A roof would be nice.”
“There’s always your family’s castle.”
“I told you I’m not going over there, not even to sleep on the lawn outside.”
“Maybe the dragon will let you stay in his lair. Ask him that when you’re inquiring about benefits.”
“Oh, I’ll be sure to. Salary, sick days, vacation pay, and whether it’s acceptable to sleep sprawled across the gnomish ovens are all things that should be covered during a job interview, right?”
“I believe so, yes.” Sylin saluted her, then headed off down the street.
Rylana stepped into the storeroom, hoping she hadn’t irritated Jildarin further by keeping him waiting. But he hadn’t remained in the crate-, keg-, sack-, and oven-filled space.
In the hallway at the other end, she spotted a goblin peering through a side door—that was the kitchen, wasn’t it?—and speaking with someone. Jildarin?
Rylana left her belongings beside the carriage doors, trusting thieves didn’t venture into a dragon’s lair often, and walked slowly past the crates and sacks, reading labels and starting a mental inventory of items. The goblin watched her curiously before scurrying toward the dining room where a couple of new customers had arrived.
Before reaching the kitchen, Rylana passed a tiny office with a desk and filing cabinets, but there weren’t any papers or logbooks in sight.
Unlike the packed storeroom, it was tidy with the trash bin empty.
The kitchen door opened easily on hinges that let it swing in both directions.
Though the spacious room undoubtedly saw a lot more use than the office—with pots, knife blocks, utensils, and stacks of plates out on and above counters—it was also tidy.
Surprisingly so, given the number of jars and pouches of spices and other ingredients scattered about with meal preparations in various stages of progress.
Jildarin stood at a butcher block, slicing potatoes. Scintillating scents wafted from a stockpot with the flames burning low. Alas, Rylana didn’t see any bacon being fried or left over from the morning meal. She might have to wait until breakfast rolled around for a sample.
Without pausing cutting, Jildarin looked over at her. His expression wasn’t any more inviting than before, and Sylin’s question came to mind. Why was Rylana doing this?
Yes, she needed a job, but she didn’t know if this one would pay.
And Rylana had never been the type to do foolish things for the sake of a man, even an appealingly handsome one.
Given what Jildarin was, his handsomeness was irrelevant.
Humans and dragons didn’t have relationships, even when they weren’t former enemies.
Besides, she was still getting over Mav.
She wasn’t looking for a relationship with anyone.
“What are you doing, my enemy?” Jildarin asked.
Why had she thought former enemy? He clearly believed she was still one.
“You said I could come in and look over your numbers, but I didn’t see any ledgers in your office. Where are you keeping track of inventory and profit and losses?”
Jildarin stopped chopping for long enough to touch his index finger to his temple.
“I’m beginning to see why there’s a problem,” Rylana said.
“There’s not a problem.”
“You’re behind on your rent.”
“Are there any conversations I’ve had today that you haven’t spied upon?”
“You had the rent one in the open with your landlord. And the other… Well, you had it by an open door.”
“I am a fool for allowing you into my diner.” Jildarin growled and returned to slicing his potatoes. Vigorously. The knife went thunk, thunk, thunk on the cutting board.
“It’s a good idea to keep written records of everything for your business,” Rylana said.
“I trust someone is tallying sales at the end of the day, right? Do you have any papers at all? Or at least an empty ledger I can get started with? It would be a good idea to record all your existing inventory and figure out what orders you need to make on a regular basis and how much your typical ingredients and expenses are. That’ll help you figure out how much to charge for meals. ”
Jildarin eyed her. “What is a ledger?”
“An empty book for recording debits and credits.”
He looked blankly at her.
“I could start with some paper, I suppose,” she said. “You do have that, don’t you? And pencils?”
Jildarin looked around the kitchen thoughtfully, then walked to a locker door in the back, a magical button beside it glowing a soft orange.
He tapped it, and the door swung open, a cool draft wafting out.
He grabbed a frozen slab of meat that had been wrapped by a butcher and clunked it down on a metal counter.
Rylana watched with bemusement as he unwrapped the meat and handed her the slightly bloodstained brown paper.
Then he fished in a drawer of thermometers, shears, and other kitchen utensils and plucked out a half-used charcoal stick.
“You can write with this,” he said.
“I may need something a little more sophisticated. Even as a mercenary living in a tent, I had ledgers and pencils. One Winterfest, Mav got me an abacus, though the kinds of calculations we did for ordering weren’t that sophisticated, and I could do them in my head.”
Jildarin, having provided what he apparently deemed suitable materials, returned to cutting potatoes.
“I know where a stationery store is,” Rylana said. “Why don’t I buy what I need and put it down as an expense for the business? Maybe you can pay me back once we sell your extra ovens.”
Jildarin grunted without looking at her.
As Rylana headed for the dining room, she decided she wouldn’t ask about a salary until she’d proven herself.
For now, if Jildarin believed she was scheming his demise, he wouldn’t give her money or anything else.
Once she helped him turn a profit on his business and catch up on his rent, he might be more cooperative.
“Do you work here?” a middle-aged man asked when Rylana stepped into the dining room. He was seated at the bar with a woman about the same age, both wearing brown dockworker uniforms and matching marriage bracelets.
Rylana started to shake her head, but hadn’t she just talked herself into a job? Sort of?
“Yes, but I’m new. Very new. And I’m the accountant. You probably need…” Rylana looked around for the gnome she’d seen earlier. His toolbox and pile of parts were in the corner, but she didn’t see him.
“We don’t need anyone in particular.” The man glanced at the woman—his wife?—and lowered his voice. “We’re looking for two orders of the special soup. Well, really only one is necessary, but we’d both like to try it. We’re hoping to rekindle sparks. With, uhm, kindling.”
The wife rolled her eyes. “He has trouble getting his zerg stick up these days and is hoping magic will help.”
“It couldn’t hurt, and don’t tell strangers that, Mulivy. By the old and new gods.” He rubbed his face, including reddening cheeks.
“I’m not sure…” Rylana looked down the hall, thinking of how Jildarin had thrown out the earlier amorous couple.