Chapter 10 #3
Rylana borrowed from the extensive variety of goblin hand gestures to make an appropriately scathing one as he walked off.
He was lucky because, if not for Tranquility’s peace laws and the lurking gnomes, she would have found something to hurl at the back of his head.
Her aim was, after all, impeccable. Instead, she was left staring after him and wondering if he would be more trouble.
“Probably,” she muttered and stepped inside.
She almost walked into Jildarin. He was peering out the window, watching his food critic depart, but his gaze shifted to her. She braced herself, expecting him to comment on her departure in the middle of the day for coffee with a man.
“That food critic is Yerin Molingvar,” Jildarin stated, barely acknowledging her as he continued to look out the window, though the two men had disappeared from view.
“Yes. Did he introduce himself?”
“He did not.”
“But you know him?” Rylana asked in surprise, though she supposed it would make sense that he would read restaurant reviews in the newspaper and have heard of a food critic.
“He is also Chef Yerin Molingvar who works up the hill at Celestial Ceremony.”
Rylana had never been to the fancy restaurant but recognized the name.
It was the kind of upscale place people of her father’s ilk visited when they deigned to cross the lake to take in the food and culture of Tranquility.
It was considered an honor to work there and even the servers and kitchen help came from well-off families.
“One would think having a restaurant review column would be considered a conflict of interest for him.”
Jildarin waved away the suggestion and said what must have been more important to him. “He is one of the chefs who passed the preliminary rounds and was accepted into the Golden Whisk competition.”
Ah, that was why Jildarin knew him.
“So, he’s one of your archnemeses.”
“I would not suggest that precisely. After all, he has never shot me.” Jildarin looked pointedly at her.
Rylana sighed, suspecting it would be a long road to win Jildarin's trust—and forgiveness.
While he was looking at her, his gaze drifted upward. “Why did the assistant of Chef Molingvar comment on your hair?”
Rylana almost laughed at the idea of Vormalt being someone’s assistant, but she didn’t correct Jildarin. “Because he’s a pompous ass.”
“Would not long hair be impractical when battling enemies? It could easily be grabbed in a fight, yes?”
“Yes. That’s why I cut it when I became a mercenary. That’s exactly what happened.”
“Practical.” Jildarin nodded. “You will not depart the premises during work hours. My understanding of human, dwarf, and gnome culture suggests that is not desirable behavior from an employee.”
“It’s not,” Rylana admitted, though her first instinct was to bristle with indignation. He wasn’t wrong. Even Captain Maverick would have made her do push-ups, if not help Cook scour pans, for leaving the unit without permission.
The door opened behind her, and Rylana stepped out of the way. The coffee-shop owners, Brella and Tezilly, stepped into the diner together, carrying a bag of coins.
They looked heavy. Were they gold coins?
“We’re here to purchase the gnomish commercial oven,” Brella said.
Jildarin's mouth drooped open in surprise.
“There’s more than one, and they’re in the storeroom back there.” Rylana pointed. “You can take your pick.”
“Which is closest to where the dragon sleeps?” Tezilly asked.
“I’m sure his body hasn’t really exuded magic that will improve the oven,” Brella said with an eye roll.
“Hush. We’ve already discussed this.” Tezilly lifted a hand to her partner’s lips and pinched them shut. “I’ve researched that such things are possible.”
After sharing another eye roll, Brella stepped back to free her lips. “You read two chapters in the book on dragons that we usually use to level the wobbly table near the lavatory.”
“Research.”
“Foolproof, I’m sure.”
With a hair flip, Tezilly turned back to Rylana. “The oven?”
“I’ll show you.” Hoping Jildarin wouldn’t object to Rylana leading strangers to what was his lair as well as the storeroom, she hurried back without checking with him first. Even if he wouldn’t make a profit, he would be able to pay the back rent in full with the coins from the sale of the oven.
The ladies followed her and oohed and aahed at the ovens. They were gleaming without a speck of dust on them, and Rylana pointed out a couple next to the spot where Jildarin slept.
“This one, please.” Tezilly patted it lovingly. “I absolutely believe there’s dragon magic in it.”
“That’s silly,” her partner said, “but it is gnomish, so we know it’ll be of high quality.
” She handed the bag of coins to Jildarin, who’d followed them back but hadn’t said anything to imply he was offended by their presence.
He probably wanted to sell the ovens, even if it meant an intrusion upon his lair.
“We’ll have it delivered,” Rylana said.
“Yes.” Jildarin nodded.
“Perfect,” Brella said.
Rylana had imagined the entire staff banding together, perhaps with the use of a wagon, to carry the oven across the street, but Jildarin pushed open the carriage doors, squatted, and hefted the large heavy appliance by himself.
Rylana gaped. Two hells, dragons truly did retain a lot of their strength when they shifted into human form.
Was he going to carry it all the way around the block like that? He headed for the doors, so apparently so. Before walking out, he looked back at Rylana.
“You may depart during work hours any time you wish,” he stated.
“I… thank you.”
“He’s warming up to you,” Sylin said, appearing in the hallway with a piece of spruce-tip-encrusted bacon in hand.
“I’m a quality employee.”