Chapter 21
When Rylana returned to the diner, a surprising number of people were inside.
They weren’t eating but wielding paintbrushes, brooms, and mops.
Gniknik and two gnomes she hadn’t seen before squatted in the middle of the floor around a rumbling bronze box with hoses protruding in all directions like octopus tentacles.
Some wavered in the air and others drifted across the floor, twisting under tables and between chair legs.
“Gnomish combination air purifier and vacuum,” Gniknik explained when Rylana paused to stare at the contraption. “It sucks in smoke, ashes, dander, dirt, and pollen, then incinerates the particles while outputting fresh, pure air, perfect for a dining experience.”
The air did smell better than when Rylana had left. One of the waving hoses floated over and attached itself to her leg, trying to suck her trouser material into the box.
“I don’t want my pants incinerated.” She stepped back to break the connection.
“How about purified?” Gniknik winked.
“I thought I’d pay the laundromat to handle that.
Who are all these people? I’ll run some calculations, but I don’t think we can afford to hire handymen.
” As Rylana waved around the room, looking at faces, she realized she recognized many of them.
Wasn’t that handsome broad-faced man with a paintbrush the fellow Zalani had been with in the kitchen the night before?
And there was the couple who’d come in for soup to help with the husband’s impotency problem.
He appeared quite cheerful as he fixed a table leg that had been wobbly even before the fire.
“They’re volunteering their time,” Zalani said, walking out of the hallway with two mop buckets of fresh water. “They’re customers who heard about the fire and want to see the Dragon Diner reopened as soon as possible. They like the food.”
“Because the food is delicious.” Gniknik beamed a smile toward the kitchen.
“Chef Jildarin is making smoked-fish and fiddlehead-fern frittatas and black-pepper bacon this morning. He said he would also fry up some of the mesquite bacon he just cured. And the stuff rubbed with his signature onion-garlic-three-peppers blend. That’s so tasty. ”
“I won’t disagree with that,” Rylana said.
When it came to ingredients, she was as suspicious of fiddlehead ferns as spruce tips, but her mouth watered, regardless.
With thoughts of bacon in mind, she headed toward the kitchen, hoping to snag a few pieces for herself.
She found it encouraging that Jildarin was cooking.
The night before, he’d been so dejected that she’d wondered if he might leave the city forever and return to a normal life for a dragon. The thought saddened her.
“You were not here this morning to receive my list of requirements for replacing storeroom ingredients and equipment.” Jildarin gave her a sour look from the stove when she walked in, the scents of frying bacon luring her closer.
“You can give them to me after breakfast. I left early to research something for you.”
“Did it involve swilling flavored water across the street?”
“It did not. I asked an alchemist about the contents of that pouch. Someone wants you to change into a dragon.”
“We’ve known that for days.”
“Yeah, but the other methods haven’t worked, have they?
The gritty stuff in the pouch was an anti-magic concoction, supposedly, and makes those who have used their power to shift into another form return to their native bodies.
I think maybe, after the fire was started, you were supposed to run outside to look for the perpetrator, get pelted with the substance, and turn into a dragon in the street—outside the permissible sanctuary of your lair—as the peacekeepers happened to be in the area.
” Rylana remembered the pair of uniformed gnomes that had trotted inside during the chaos of the fire.
They’d returned later to get a description of the arsonist, and had promised to look for him—as proper peacekeepers should—but she doubted chance had put them in the area when the fire started.
Jildarin didn’t answer right away, instead focusing on his cooking. The tantalizing aromas made Rylana's stomach rumble, and she wanted to grab a plate and scoop piles of hot food onto it.
He grabbed a plate and used tongs to arrange several varieties of perfectly cooked bacon on it next to a slice of the frittata.
He also plucked a honey-glazed biscuit from a basket that had been covered with a cloth.
A ramekin of freshly whipped butter was nestled in it, and her stomach rumbled even more.
“Your reason for being missing is acceptable.” Jildarin handed her the plate.
“I’m glad you think so. And I’m extra glad that you’re giving me this.” Rylana grinned, stuck a piece of bacon into her mouth, and picked up a fork for the eggs. She didn’t mind his pomposity when he was handing her delicious food.
“Yes. Did your research reveal who the someone is that wants me to change so that the peacekeepers will expel me from Tranquility?” His eyes burned with intensity this morning, suggesting he had decided to stay and fight instead of giving up and leaving.
“I don’t have proof, but I have a hunch. You remember the food critic, Yerin?”
“Yes. As I told you, he was also selected to compete in the Golden Whisk.”
Rylana nodded. “He sees you as a threat to win, and I think he wants to get rid of you before the contest.”
“It wouldn’t be honorable to seek the expulsion of a strong competitor.”
“No, it wouldn’t, but I’m sure he’s doing it anyway.
” Rylana bit into the warm biscuit, savoring the rich buttery layers and a hint of salt with that honey glaze.
Oh, that was fabulous. She wanted to grab another biscuit from the basket before she’d finished the first. Considering dragons apparently didn’t crave sweets the way humans did, Jildarin had a deft touch with a honey wand.
“He should desire to fairly beat the best competitors,” Jildarin said, “else his victory would be meaningless.”
“I know, but he wants to win at any cost.”
“Because of the monetary prize?”
“I doubt it.” Rylana cut a piece of the frittata, eyeing the green spirals dubiously, but when she popped it into her mouth, everything blended well together and tasted wonderful.
And was that goat cheese in there? Perfect.
“Yerin’s family has money, and he’s spending who knows how much to hire goblins to assault your diner. ”
“My diner is being assaulted,” Jildarin growled. “If one of my rivals is responsible, I will… Cursed golems, I can’t do anything, not in this city.”
“You can win the competition. In Tranquility, the best revenge is personal triumph.”
“Without my spices—”
“You can still win.” Rylana speared a piece of frittata with her fork and held it up. “Trust me.”
Jildarin squinted at her, and she expected him to remind her that he did not trust her. “By your calculations, you believe this could be possible?”
She almost laughed at the expression, recognizing it as her own. “By my tastebuds, I do.”
“Taste is subjective. Your calculations interest me more.” Jildarin walked to the pantry.
He or the volunteers had already cleaned it out, replaced the shelving, and tucked the newly purchased ingredients inside.
He gripped his chin and perused them thoughtfully.
“If I will not have use of dragon spices, I must take other spices with me to the competition.”
“You’ve decided to stay in it, then?”
“I will not be chased out of the Golden Whisk by a dishonorable competitor who sends goblins to do his dirty work.”
“Good.” A loud vroom came from the dining room. The combination air-purifier-vacuum? “Everyone knows gnomes are more reliable for dirty work anyway.”
“Yes. I have traditional dwarven, elven, orcish, and human spices, staples of the various species. Many people enjoy the favored spices of other species, but, whether they consciously realize it or not, they have grown up with their own and usually find them more palatable.”
“That makes sense.” Rylana wondered what calculations he wanted from her.
“Traditionally, there are nine judges at the Golden Whisk. Two dwarves, two elves, two orcs, two humans, and often a half-ogre or -troll—someone with mixed blood who’s meant to have a less predictable palate.”
“No goblin judges?”
“Goblins will eat anything. Their palates cannot be trusted.”
“But ogres and trolls are more refined.”
“They at least have a culinary tradition. Goblins scavenge from other species.” Jildarin walked along the shelves, touching jars of spices.
“The generally given advice for chefs is to make your best dishes in the contest without worrying about which species will be sampling them, but it’s common for contestants to select spices that appeal to certain species, hoping to sway those judges, in particular.
One might use elven spices in the first round, dwarven in the second, and orcish in the third, for example.
Each judge rates each round separately. The totals are added and averaged to determine the winner.
I do not fully understand the math, but I’m told it is possible for someone who didn’t win any of the rounds to win the overall competition because of their average.
” He looked at her with his eyebrows raised.
“Yes, that makes sense. Someone might get second in every round and receive a better total score than someone who got first once and fourth twice, for example.”
“Correct. Do you have any thoughts about how the math might suggest I choose spices in an attempt to appeal to the various species?”
Rylana straightened, realizing how he wanted her to help.
She was honored that he believed she could be of assistance, but she didn’t think math could reliably be applied to tastebuds, at least not in this instance.
If there had been far more elves than humans among the judges, he could have leaned toward them, but whoever had set up the contest had been going for a panel that didn’t favor anyone.
“Do any of the species share favored spices?” she asked.
“The dwarves have eccentric spices that often have different varieties of rocks pulverized in, so they share their preferences with no other species.”
“Dwarves eat rocks? Is that true?” Rylana had heard that before but always assumed it was a joke.
“Only in very fine amounts, but it is apparently for the mineral content. Their bodies crave higher amounts than those of the other species.” Jildarin selected a jar with a grinder attachment, the label reading calcium salts.
“Most species find these to be bitter, metallic, and astringent. Dwarves love them, but it takes a talented chef to use them in meals that all will find palatable.”
“Maybe leave out the rock spices and hope for the best with the dwarves. What about elves and humans? We like a lot of the same stuff, don’t we?”
“Yes. And orcs and ogres also enjoy many of the same seasonings as your kind.”
“Who would have thought we have similar tastebuds? Especially since orc tongues are blue.”
“Indeed.”
“I think you should cook your favorite dishes,” Rylana said, “and season everything to your taste, because it’s excellent.
If you want to take a few spices that the greatest number of judges might especially like, it sounds like those favored by humans and also enjoyed by orcs and ogres would be safest.”
Jildarin returned the calcium salts to the shelf. “Yes. I will ensure my dishes have an inherent appeal to as many judges as possible.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re going to do this. I hope you kick Yerin’s ass.”
“Since the competition takes place within the borders of Tranquility, physical altercations will not be permitted.”
“I know. I meant his metaphorical ass.”
“Yes.” Jildarin waved for her to take her plate out of the kitchen. “Finish eating elsewhere. I must practice and prepare.”
Since Rylana had wanted him to stay in the contest, she didn’t complain about being dismissed. She did take several more slices of bacon on the way out. For having to deal with such a pompous employer, she deserved a second helping.