Chapter 25
On the morning of the Golden Whisk, Rylana walked beside Jildarin as he led the way through the city to a venue she’d visited in her youth but didn’t remember well, the New God Arena.
On a rocky rise overlooking the lake, tiers of worn stone benches offered a view of a field in front of a covered outdoor stage.
In ancient times, when it had simply been called the Amphitheater, sporting events had taken place in that field.
These days, in the summer months when the weather could usually be counted on to be nice, the arena hosted many outdoor plays, operas, and symphonies.
Rylana remembered how the music could be heard from across the lake, and she felt a twinge of nostalgia, reminded of being a child and playing outside along the shoreline with her brother and their friends.
That was when Mother had still been alive and before they’d been burdened by the expectations from Father and their tutors.
“Your elven comrade is skulking along behind us,” Jildarin announced without looking back. His fingers strayed to the black knife case he carried, though the blades were for mincing vegetables and cutting meat, not deflecting attacks from assassins.
Not that Sylin would attack him. If she was indeed back there—Rylana hadn’t spotted her but wasn’t surprised by Jildarin's announcement—she was coming for the entertainment value, not to ply her trade. Rylana didn’t doubt that Sylin would find a way into the venue without an invitation or ticket.
“She’s a natural skulker.” Rylana patted Jildarin's arm, the white sleeve of his chef’s coat covering his muscles.
In addition to the knife case, he carried a leather bag that looked like a doctor’s medical kit but that housed his chosen spices, and he started to move it away from her, as if he worried she would prove she was still an enemy by swiping it, but then he relaxed his arm and left it between them.
Maybe someday, he would stop being wary around her.
“I believe the elves are still looking for her, so she’s not walking openly anywhere,” Rylana added so he wouldn’t worry that a rival had hired Sylin to go after him—or whatever was going through his mind.
“Ah. She will have weapons?”
“Tied with a tranquility ribbon, probably.”
“You did not bring your bow or your sword.” Jildarin looked at her as they turned onto a street that climbed toward the arena.
“I almost did, since I suspect Yerin will try something else, but you saw the peacekeepers tie new ribbons on when we got back to the city last night. There’s not much point in carrying weapons that can’t be used.”
“Even a bow with a ribbon may be swung as a staff.”
“You think I should have brought it to club your opponents?”
“Only if they attempt sabotage and I am too busy cooking to defend my pots.”
“You didn’t bring weapons to defend them with, did you? Other than the kitchen knives.”
As Rylana waved to Jildarin's case, she admitted the collection of blades inside could take down a small army. It was surprising the peacekeepers let him carry them around without a ribbon, but he wore his chef’s jacket and was a known competitor in the Golden Whisk—maybe the authorities had instructions to leave the contestants be.
That morning, the Lumi Lake Chronicles had featured a front-page article proclaiming that the competition would determine the city’s greatest chef.
It had listed the names of the contestants and the diners and restaurants where they worked, though Jildarin's diner had been last and his write-up the shortest, saying only that he was a dragon with an indeterminate culinary pedigree. Yerin’s name hadn’t been on the byline, but Rylana had a feeling he’d been a part of putting it together.
“A dragon is a weapon,” Jildarin said.
“Even when he’s preoccupied by stirring his soup?”
“Less so then. That is why you are coming. You will yell if you witness skulking, sabotage, or other nefarious acts being perpetrated by my rivals or their lackeys.”
“The natural duties expected of a bookkeeper.” Rylana smiled, more pleased than offended that he wanted her to watch his back.
If all he really desired was for someone to yell a warning, he could have chosen one of the employees that he’d had longer and had more reason to trust. Admittedly, Gniknik and Rolf weren’t the kinds of people she would choose to watch her back, Rolf because he would accept coin to look the other way, and Gniknik because he might be distracted by an intriguing contraption whirring past.
“A bookkeeper who once shot a dragon can handle more duties than calculations,” Jildarin said.
“I am versatile.”
Though they were arriving early, since the chefs were supposed to receive instructions and set up their stations before the audience came, the arena was already quite full.
A peacekeeper and a golem stood at each of the entrances, and a gray-haired man in a chef’s jacket was in charge of letting people in through the main gate.
Jildarin looked behind them as they stepped into a short queue. It turned into a long look, and Rylana followed his gaze. Ah, Yerin was approaching the line with a pale-green-haired elven woman, both also wearing chef’s jackets. Apparently, it was the chosen uniform for doing battle here.
The pair didn’t look toward Rylana and Jildarin, and she debated if they—Yerin, in particular—appeared nervous.
The elf did not, but their kind could stride onto a battlefield against far superior odds without looking daunted.
Yerin smiled and lifted a hand toward the door monitor.
He must have seen Jildarin but didn’t acknowledge him.
Yerin’s smile looked more confident than nervous.
“He’s got a plan,” Rylana decided as she and Jildarin faced forward again.
“To win the competition? I also have a plan.”
“I think his is a little more menacing than opting for elven, human, and orcish spices over pulverized dwarven rocks.”
Jildarin eyed her. “I did bring along some of the dwarven spices. Sometimes, their textures as well as their slightly bitter taste can play well into a recipe.”
“If you say so.”
“I am the experienced chef.”
“With an indeterminate culinary pedigree.” Rylana smirked since that line had affronted him when they’d read the article. He’d growled, saying indeterminate described tomatoes, not cooks.
“Good morning, Chef Jildarin-grozanarav,” the gray-haired man said and glanced at a clipboard. “You and your assistant may enter and set up at Station Seven. Once the competition begins, she must join the audience. None may have an assistant chef.”
“I am aware.” Jildarin nodded to the man and waved for Rylana to follow him.
As they headed for the stage, she looked around for threats.
She doubted anyone would rise up from the benches and hurl a dagger at Jildarin, not with golems and peacekeepers monitoring the competition, but she didn’t believe Yerin was done attempting to get him out of the running.
She’d lain awake most of the night, expecting another attack on the diner, and had been surprised when dawn had arrived without one.
The great stone and wood stage was elevated with plenty of room for all the cooking stations, a few feet apart from each other.
They offered counter space laden with utensils, tools, and cutting boards, amid burners, grills, and ovens that were in the process of being lit by a couple of goblins also delivering wood.
Three men and a woman in white chef’s coats had already arrived and were setting their knives out at their stations.
In addition to the cooking areas, there were iceboxes and mobile pantries behind them, presumably full of ingredients.
Mirrors above the stations had been arranged so that those seated on the benches would be able to view the chefs working.
A row of tables with chairs to the side of the stage, with Judges written on a flag, would not, however, be able to see the mirrors.
Rylana remembered Jildarin saying that the judges would assess the meals without knowing which chefs had made them.
Two people were already seated at one of the tables, one human and one elven, both older individuals.
Behind the stage lay a flat field with folding chairs set up, and a few men and women with press badges sat back there. Enough people had meandered into the arena that vendors were already walking around, selling snacks off trays hanging from straps around their necks.
A couple of geese flew over the lake beyond the tiers of benches, honking and making Rylana wonder why an outdoor venue had been chosen. The weather was decent, but what if it had been a rainy day?
“I will find my station.” Jildarin lifted his knife case and pointed to the stage while nodding for her to head to the benches.
Rylana did so, climbing to the top row. A goose had visited that one personally at some point during the setup, and she started to avoid the droppings it had left, but changed her mind and sat next to the spot.
Maybe it would keep other spectators from getting close and distracting her.
From the elevated perch, she looked all around, taking her self-appointed duty to watch out for Jildarin seriously.
As more people filtered into the arena—chefs, judges, and audience members—she eyed them, debating if any appeared suspicious.
In particular, she watched the goblins heading for the benches.
They were in the minority and stood out among the humans, elves, orcs, mixed bloods, and more dwarves than she would have expected, though their kind always enjoyed a good feast.