Chapter 12
Scintillating scents filled the dining room when Rylana walked in.
Rolf, Gniknik, and Zalani were all there, tending the needs of customers seated in the booths as well as on the barstools.
In addition, a wheeled gnomish contraption circled the dining room, a tub fastened to its back so that people could set their dishes in it.
Small nozzles sprayed soapy water onto glasses and bowls as they were deposited.
So far, none of the couples seated in booths were engaged in amorous acts. Maybe Jildarin wasn’t serving soup tonight—or maybe he was refining the amounts of the spices he used so that their effects weren’t as strong.
“Let us know what he did with the freshwater conch,” Zalani said as Rylana headed toward the kitchen. “They’re so hard to get tender.”
“Er, all right,” Rylana said.
“It’s a favorite goblin food that few outside of our species can properly cook,” Rolf said. “It’s right up there with fermented freshwater shark, scorpions, and mealworms. He did a good job with those ingredients in his taste test last week. For a non-goblin.”
“Other species cook with those too,” Zalani said as she carried a water jug to one table.
“Not with the zest that goblins cook with them.”
“Goblins do most things with zest.”
“We’re a joyful species.” Rolf patted a pocket that jangled. With tips? Or had he absconded with a few purses today?
“I won’t argue that,” Zalani said.
She jangled a little bit too as she sashayed around the dining room, filling water cups and smiling at unattached men.
They both appeared to be in good spirits, maybe due to the increased patronage.
If the busyness was a result of the review in the newspaper, Yerin had done Jildarin a favor.
At the least, he’d done his job fairly when, as a competitor, he might have been tempted to sabotage others in the contest. Maybe he thought, after tasting the food, that his own was better and Jildarin wouldn’t be a threat.
Or maybe Sylin had been right, and Yerin had grown up and become honorable.
“My bicycle would be surprised by that,” Rylana murmured.
As she stepped into the hallway, the dwarf baker from across the street walked into the diner with a tray full of tiny loaves of bread, cookies, and biscuits. She looked around—in surprise?—at the full room, then walked from table to table, offering samples.
Rylana paused, wondering if she should object, but she’d spoken earlier in the day with the baker, trying to convince her that she needed to buy a gnomish oven, so maintaining a good relationship would be ideal.
Besides, it was possible this happened regularly, and the dwarf had a deal with Jildarin to do this.
Smiling, the baker reached the hallway and held her tray out toward Rylana. “Cookie? Honeyed biscuit?”
“Not right now, thanks. I haven’t eaten dinner yet.”
“Nor have I. I was told to come hungry.” She winked and lowered her tray for Rolf when he came over. “I’m Mya Stonehammer, by the way. Did I mention that this morning when we spoke? This is not my first time coming over here, but it is my first time being invited in to eat.”
“I’m Rylana. I’ve, uh, seen some of your cakes go out.”
“Naughty or nice?” Mya winked and pushed one of her red-gray braids over her shoulder.
“I admit, after I lost my husband in the mines and needed a new career to have something to do with myself now that my young ones are grown, I thought I would use my baking talents to make tasty treats for children’s birthday parties, weddings, and summer- and winter-fest galas.
But when the dragon opened his diner and started drawing people with that soup… Well, they needed desserts.”
“Naughty desserts?”
“Apparently! I do charge more for those. I’m not a prude, mind you, but it’s more of a challenge to bake and affix various somatic appendages than to simply make and frost a round or square cake.”
“I imagine the zerg sticks fall over if you’re not careful.”
“Yes, and nobody wants a limp zerg stick.” Mya pointed toward the kitchen. “Is the chef ready for us?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t invited to anything.”
“No?” Mya tilted her head. “When Jildarin-grozanarav mentioned wanting new people to try tonight’s creations, I assumed he would include you.”
“You can pronounce his full name? That’s impressive.”
“I can’t easily pronounce it, but you know how dragons feel about their clans and their heritage. I wouldn’t want to insult him. Does he allow you to simply call him Jildarin?”
“So far, he has, but he probably doesn’t expect much from someone who shot him in the war.”
Mya blinked and mouthed, “Shot?”
Maybe Rylana shouldn’t have mentioned that, but she shrugged and tapped her temple.
“Enter, diners,” Jildarin's voice boomed down the hallway. “You will sample my dishes now and not gossip outside of my kitchen.”
“I’ll take that,” Rolf said cheerfully, pulling Mya’s tray out of her hands, some cookies and miniature loaves remaining, “and finish handing out your samples.”
“Hm,” Mya said, though she let the goblin depart with her goods so she could walk obediently into the kitchen.
Rolf had already shoved two loaves into his mouth by the time Rylana followed the dwarf through the swinging door.
She doubted many more samples would be handed out.
It was impressive that goblins could have such lean musculature despite a propensity to eat as much as dragons. And far more sweets than dragons.
Jildarin scrutinized Rylana and Mya before nodding to himself and pointing toward the table in the back.
“I have placed sample plates under cloches, much as they will be delivered to the judges at the Golden Whisk. Of course, you know that I made the dishes—as long as everything is done according to the rules of the contest, the judges won’t know which chefs prepared which items—but I will not tell you what the dishes are or about the ingredients, thus to not predispose you to certain opinions. ”
“I’ve already heard about some of the ingredients,” Rylana murmured, eyeing the small silver cloches clustered in front of the stools, numbers written with a charcoal stick atop each.
Three seats were set at the table, each with a torn-off piece of butcher paper next to the cloches.
Rylana wondered who else Jildarin expected to join them.
“You will sample each dish and rate them on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most excellent.” Jildarin guided Rylana and Mya to the table.
“The lengths I go to for free food,” Mya murmured, taking the seat by the wall.
“You have a thriving business,” Rylana said. “You can’t need free food.”
“No, but I’ve been curious about the fare here for a while. And the owner.” Mya looked over her shoulder, lips twisted thoughtfully. “He is a quirky dragon, is he not?”
“Those of us who survived the war all are, I think. If we weren’t before, all the years of fighting and death made us so.” Rylana had meant it as a joke, but it wasn’t really, even if quirky wasn’t quite the appropriate word to describe the survivors. Damaged, maybe.
“In order to be of most assistance,” Jildarin said, “you should keep your conversation centered on the food.”
“I’m not sure war can explain him,” Mya said.
“You may discuss the dishes,” Jildarin said, as if he couldn’t hear the comments about him, “but I suggest you first independently rate them on your own. Someone else’s strong opinion might sway your own.”
“Thanks for the life advice,” Rylana said dryly.
“Certainly. Begin when you wish, but where is your elf comrade? I’ve been told there will be two elves among the judges, so I desire to test my fare on her palate as well.”
“She had to leave, and her name is Sylin.”
“You did not introduce me to her, so it is not a cultural error that I do not know how to address her.” Jildarin pointed his spoon at Rylana.
“That’s fair. I didn’t think you’d want an introduction or to formally meet someone who was a mercenary with me and… may have targeted your kind during the war.”
“I did not even wish to formally meet you.”
“But now you’re delighted to have made my acquaintance, right?” Rylana smiled at him.
“How many gnomish commercial ovens did you sell today?”
“I haven’t closed a deal yet today, but I did propose to Mya here that she could use a new one. She already has one, though, so she needs to think about it and consider her books first.”
Mya, who had lifted a couple of her cloches and was sniffing the food with appreciation, didn’t answer.
Jildarin squinted at Rylana. “I will determine whether or not I have delight over your acquaintance after you judge the food. Sit, Miss Rylana.” He patted the empty stool beside Mya, then walked toward the doorway and peered left and right down the hall.
“That’s the first time he’s used my name,” Rylana mused.
“What does he usually call you?” Mya removed the rest of her cloches and set them aside, revealing more of a tasting arrangement of small dishes than a traditional meal, but there was plenty of food to fill a belly.
“Sometimes bookkeeper. More often my enemy.”
“I suppose if you’d shot me, I might have a similar appellation for you. One surrounded by more adjectives.”
“It was during the war.”
“Miss Zalani,” Jildarin called toward the dining room. “I require you for a tasting.”
“He doesn’t usually call her miss anything, that I’ve heard.” Rylana removed her own cloches and stacked them nearby. “Maybe he’s learned the human custom of flattering the judges.”
“That’s a custom among most of the intelligent species, I believe.
” Mya picked up a spoon and pointed it toward a tiny bowl.
“Do you think that’s one of his legendary soups?
I’m not sure if I dare try it. With my husband passed, I don’t have anyone available to, ah, satisfy my urges.
What if I’m moved to spring upon the goblin male who stole my sample tray? ”