Chapter 17
“We could go around the house to the backyard,” Sylin offered when the butler didn’t return. “There’s not a gate, a bramble patch, a dog with long fangs, or any of the other typical deterrents.”
“True.”
And the scents of roasting meat were coming from that direction. Maybe Yerin was back there, attending to a rotisserie spit over a fire.
They padded across the well-trimmed lawn, rounded a great stone chimney, and walked into the backyard and onto flagstone pavers with moss growing between them.
The paver patio stretched across the length of the back of the manor, and dozens of people stood and visited while holding small plates and tankards or wineglasses.
Most were human, but a few dwarves and gnomes dotted the gathering.
No elves, fortunately, for Sylin’s sake.
A large fire did indeed burn in a rectangular stone pit with a full pig roasting over it, a yawning servant rotating it.
Beside him stood Yerin, basting the meat with a large brush.
Before Rylana could wave to draw his attention, he frowned into his saucepan, shook his head vigorously, then strode toward a back door. He went inside without noticing them.
“At least we know he’s home,” Rylana said.
“As is that roasting pig.” Sylin’s nose lifted into the air. “Perhaps we should visit it while we wait for him to return.”
“Visit it with a knife and fork?”
“Naturally.”
More interested in her mission than the food, Rylana headed for the same door that Yerin had used. Sylin followed but also plucked up a small plate and wineglass that someone had abandoned, a few morsels remaining.
“You might want to put down your hood if you’re going to pretend to be a guest,” Rylana suggested, though she didn’t know if that was Sylin’s plan or if she only meant to consume the leftovers.
After all, she wasn’t being paid in free food from the diner.
“It’s a nice spring day,” Rylana added, “and nobody else is skulking about in assassin’s garb. ”
“In this crowd, my pointed ears might stand out more than a hood.”
“Nah, elves often get invited to parties hosted by the rich. Their innate regal elegance makes them ideal to add a degree of pomposity.”
“I don’t necessarily disagree with that description of my people, but I’ll point out that your family’s castle is more pompous than the most grandiose elven enclave.”
“Maybe so, but elves carry their pomposity with them. Much like dragons.”
“That must be what drew our kinds to fight together during the war. Maybe it had nothing to do with protecting resources.”
“I believe scientific experiments have proved that pomposity attracts like.”
As Rylana neared the door, a woman in a black-and-white uniform stepped outside.
She carried a tray laden with more of the small dishes, featuring delicious-looking trolled eggs, glazed ham curls, caviar-smeared crackers, and other appetizers.
Though the woman barely glanced their way, Rylana turned away, feigning interest in a bronze rain chain dangling from a gutter.
Sylin’s gaze drifted back toward the roast.
The woman continued past without taking notice of them. As Rylana was about to turn again toward the door, she spotted someone familiar maneuvering through the crowd.
“Two hells.”
Sylin followed her gaze. “What?”
“That’s Vormalt. What is he doing here?” Rylana watched him browse from trays as he chatted with people near the spit. Meanwhile, she pressed herself against the cool stone wall of the house, willing shadows to hide her, but the sunny day left few of them.
“Eating,” Sylin said.
“No, he’s ruining my plans.” Rylana started to say more, but Vormalt turned in their direction, and she darted through the door.
Sylin glided inside after her, and they almost ran into another uniformed servant with a tray.
“May I help you, my lady?” the woman asked.
“I need to use the lavatory,” Rylana blurted, barely keeping herself from glancing out the door to check whether Vormalt had seen her. She’d been worried about running into her family up here. She hadn’t thought he would be lurking in the area.
“The guest toilet is down that hall. Make sure you don’t go into the kitchen. Lord Yerin is working on his masterpiece. It’ll be unveiled later, but he doesn’t want anyone to interrupt him—or see the dish before it’s ready.”
“He’s a special sort, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, my lady.” The servant winked and stepped outside with a tray. “Oh, good afternoon, Lord Vormalt.”
“Two hells,” Rylana cursed again and hurried down the hall. He must have seen her and come to find out what she was up to. What would she say?
She opened the first door she came to, not the lavatory but a closet with mops and brooms inside, as well as shelves stuffed with blankets and linens.
There wasn’t much room, but she squeezed in and squished herself against the wall to make space for Sylin to slip in with her before shutting the door most of the way.
There weren’t any windows, and little light from the hallway made it inside.
Rylana pressed her eye to the gap in the door.
“I would offer to dispatch your nemesis for you,” Sylin said quietly, her shoulder jammed against Rylana's, “but I know you can’t afford my services.”
“You don’t offer a special rate for friends and family?”
“Assassins don’t have friends, and you know I don’t have family.”
“We’re hunkered in a tiny closet together, and you don’t consider me a friend?”
“At the moment, I consider you a pest. Is that your elbow jutting into my ribs, or is the broom handle being forward?”
“Sh.”
Vormalt had come inside. Without waiting for guidance from the staff, he strode down the hall.
Rylana braced herself for him to fling open the closet door. Instead, he walked past without glancing at it and turned into a room farther down on the opposite side of the hall.
“That pig smells wonderful, Yerin,” he said, his voice drifting back to Rylana. “Will you enter it in the contest?”
The return voice was more muffled, but she made out an indignant, “The Golden Whisk is far more than a contest. And you don’t enter items that you craft ahead of time.
You have to perform on the spot, under pressure, with the audience and judges looking on and the sand in the hourglass running out. ”
The men moved too far from the hallway for Rylana to hear the following words.
“It seems Yerin is practicing too.” She opened the door a little wider, wanting to get close enough to eavesdrop, but a servant stepped into the hallway with freshly laden trays.
Rylana scooted back, her hip bumping Sylin, and she almost tripped over a mop bucket on the floor. Fortunately, she didn’t make any noise, and the servant passed without checking the closet.
“You’re going to have to reveal yourself eventually if you want to speak with him,” Sylin pointed out. “Wasn’t that your goal?”
“Yes, but if I could spy, I might learn even more.”
Too bad both men would recognize her. It wasn’t as if she could pull one of the servants into the lavatory, tie her up, and steal her uniform. And Sylin… Even if Yerin was focused on his work, he was bound to notice if one of the servers abruptly had pointed ears and green hair.
Another of the staff returned, walking up the hallway with an empty tray.
“Do you want me to make a diversion that will keep these servers occupied?” Sylin asked.
“Yes. Do you have an idea how?”
“I’m a repository of ideas. Also, I’m eager to escape this cramped closet.” Without explaining further, Sylin squeezed past and headed for the door they’d come through.
Rylana doubted they would be able to remain undiscovered for long, but it wasn’t as if the staff were carrying crossbows and would slay intruders. At the most, she would be escorted out.
After leaving the closet, Rylana crept toward the kitchen. There wasn’t a door, and warmth and appealing scents floated out, along with the murmurs of voices.
She peeked inside, spotting Yerin in a white chef’s coat similar to the one Jildarin sometimes wore.
Vormalt stood beside him, his arms folded over his chest. They faced one of two hearths burning cheerfully in the back of the kitchen, each with pots hanging over the embers.
A large woodstove rested near the stone wall between the hearths, and Yerin was stirring something in one of several saucepans on top of it.
Near the entrance to the kitchen, Rylana spotted a half-closed door to a pantry, shelves of glass and ceramic jars visible inside behind hanging pieces of cured meat.
She might be able to hide in there to keep from being noticed for longer, but then she could end up trapped.
Or someone would look in, and she would have to explain that she was looking for the lavatory among the spices and salamis.
“I’m perfecting my dishes,” Yerin said, apparently answering something Vormalt had asked before Rylana came in, “not worrying about the guest list.”
“Did you even invite Lord Avandar?” Vormalt asked.
Rylana gaped at their backs. That was her father.
“Yes, I had someone deliver an invitation two days ago.”
“Did he say he would come? Rylana's brother and his family are out of town. If Avandar leaves the premises, that would be an ideal time for me to visit unannounced and take advantage of the fact that they don’t maintain much in the way of staff. There are the magical security wards and such, but I finally found out who put in the system and paid her to draw me a map with instructions on bypassing everything.”
“Your plans for illegal trespass are less fascinating to me than you’d think,” Yerin said as Rylana kept gaping. Did Vormalt want to sneak in and steal something from her father’s castle? What and why?
“Your plans to win a stupid cooking contest aren’t that fascinating either,” Vormalt said.
The back door must have opened because the sounds of voices in the backyard drifted inside. Was one of the staff coming in with another tray?