Chapter 17
That evening, four trolls who’d been recruited by Jildarin sat at the bar in the back of the dining room, most of them broad enough to need multiple stools to rest upon.
The handful of other patrons opted for the booths on the far side of the room, eyeing the big males with their shaggy gray hair and leathery gray-tinted skin warily.
Usually, in Tranquility, trolls and ogres, despite being tall and strong—and having a predilection toward aggression—didn’t get more than a glance from the smaller species.
But rumors were spreading around town fast that the troll gods had placed the curse, and Rylana had heard more than one person suggest that their kind be asked to leave the city until it resolved itself.
Unfortunately, she doubted the solution would be that simple.
With Rolf helping, Jildarin brought out four bowls of fish stew and baskets of bread and biscuits. Some of the baked offerings were black, suggesting the squid-ink recipe was being tried, while others were the more typical golden-brown hue.
“Tell my assistant which flavors appeal most to your troll palates,” Jildarin instructed, waving toward the bread baskets and barely acknowledging the stew.
After seeing those rye stalks carved in the temple, he seemed certain that a baked good using that ingredient was key and had probably only made the stew so the trolls would have something to dip their bread in.
“Since your meals are free,” Rolf put in as Jildarin returned to the kitchen, “you are welcome to handsomely tip your server.” He tapped his chest.
The trolls ignored him, sniffing their bowls of stew and digging into the meal.
“I’ve always respected your people,” Rolf added, “and I would never ask any of you to leave your homes in Tranquility.”
The closest diner growled at him and touched a club hanging from his belt. There was a pale-blue tranquility ribbon wrapped around the end, but Rylana couldn’t imagine it would keep the troll from pummeling someone.
Perhaps of the same belief, Rolf skittered back. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your meal. Feel free to place your tips on the counter before you leave, and I’ll be by to collect them.”
Instead of heading back to the kitchen, Rolf joined Rylana near the window.
She’d been watching the street as she groped for something else she could do to help.
She wanted to find Vormalt and throttle him and ask him how to stop this, but she doubted he had returned home to his wife.
More likely, he was hiding out somewhere, waiting for things to get worse before visiting the gnome leaders to lay out the details of whatever extortion he intended.
Meanwhile, more ogres with incense walked up and down Acorn Street while wagons careened into lampposts, the drivers’ eyesight affected by the miasma of green vapors wafting from the storm grates more thickly than before.
Not long ago, another tremor had shaken the city.
Warnings, Rylana couldn’t help but think.
The gods were giving warnings. And what would happen if the proper offering wasn’t made in time to appease them?
What if it would take more than an offering to do so?
“I promised Mya I would do a few chores for her.” Rolf pointed through the window at the dwarven bakery. “Will you grab any tips the trolls leave for me?”
“That one looked like his tip would be a sound thump in the head, and I’m not taking that for you.”
Rolf considered the group. “Trolls tend to be surly, but Chef Jildarin's stew may make them feel more kindly.”
“You didn’t spike it with dragon spices, did you?” If so, Rylana didn’t want to stay in the area when the trolls grew amorous, especially since they hadn’t brought females of their own kind along.
“No, but it smells wonderful, anyway, doesn’t it? It would make me feel generous and kindly.” Without waiting for a response, Rolf opened the door and trotted across the street.
Though the day had grown long, lamps still burned in the bakery.
After weeks of working at the diner, Rylana had yet to venture into the establishment.
She wasn’t bothered by adult baked goods, but she didn’t feel the need to purchase any either.
Still, she remembered seeing a few trolls departing with large cakes and wondered if Mya might have any cookbooks that mentioned recipes that had once been used to make appropriate offerings for the gods.
Probably not, but if anyone had insight into bread, it would be a baker.
A rumble came from the bar. At first, Rylana thought the surly club-toting troll had found something to growl about, but he was holding one of the dark squid-ink chunks of bread, stew dripping from the bitten-off end, and his eyes were closed, his head leaning back as he chewed.
That must have been a contented sound, not a growl.
Another of the trolls who’d received some of that bread had already polished it off and was pointing to a lingering piece on his buddy’s plate.
“Maybe that one’s close to the mark,” Rylana mused, though she had no idea if the gods had the same tastes as the trolls themselves. She resolved to snag a piece later and take it to the offering pedestal in the temple. Just in case.
Movement across the street drew her gaze back toward the bakery. A female troll was ducking her head to exit through the doorway, a cake box in hand. Unlike many of the other sweets that had been carried away, it didn’t have a strange shape to suggest parts of male or female anatomy had been added.
As the troll ambled up the street, Rylana went outside, intending to visit the bakery herself. Before she’d gone more than two steps, a man called to her.
“Bookkeeper? You’re the dragon’s bookkeeper, aren’t you?” It was the well-dressed landlord, Aztor. He should have recognized her with certainty since she’d been the one to pay Jildarin’s back rent once they’d turned the diner profitable.
“Rylana, yes.” She paused to see what he wanted.
He was carrying a scroll and frowning, but the next month’s rent wasn’t due yet, so she didn’t know why he would be irked.
He waved at the air and scowled as he passed through a cloud of incense smoke, so maybe he found the scent unappealing.
Or maybe he, too, was being vexed by the curse and found that unappealing.
“Yes, Rylana the bookkeeper. I remember.” Aztor stopped in front of the diner and scowled at the entrance and also toward the rooftop, squinting suspiciously at the latter.
“I’m Jildarin’s partner in the business now.” Rylana didn’t want the landlord to go inside and disturb him while he was working hard to satisfy the trolls. “May I help you with something?”
“I’ve heard you’re planning alterations to my establishment.
Without permission. That’s unacceptable, and it says in the lease agreement that nothing but tiny repairs to maintain the structural integrity of the building may be undertaken.
” He held the scroll up to her and, still scowling, pointed toward the rooftop.
By the spit of a basilisk, who’d told him about her plans for adding outdoor dining? Of course, she would have run them by him eventually, but everything was in the early stages. They hadn’t signed on with a contractor yet—or, if Jildarin got his way, an elven plant master.
“We’re thinking of adding seats and tables up there and maybe a shade structure that wouldn’t be permanent.
” Rylana didn’t mention that she had also been considering laying down tiles, something that would make the space feel more like a terrace than a roof, but she would have asked permission before making any serious changes like that.
“The roof is not rated for shade structures and the weight of however many people. And how would they get up there? You must be thinking of adding stairs. Stairs are generally permanent installations.” Aztor squinted at her.
“We’re only musing at this point. I can run any ideas by you before we—”
“You will not alter my roof. Not in any way.”
“Anything we did would be tasteful and add value to the building.” Rylana glanced toward the bakery and groped for a way to end the conversation. Didn’t the guy know the city was cursed and they all had more important things to worry about? “And we’d pay for it, of course.”
“You’ll not pay to alter my building. And tasteful! Dragons don’t know anything about tasteful renovations. They live in caves. And you—” He pointed at her nose while glancing at her clothes and boots. “You look like a soldier.”
“I was a mercenary.”
“Mercenaries don’t know anything about tasteful renovations either.”
“We would hire a designer,” Rylana said, doing her best not to feel insulted.
“You’ll hire nobody because there will be no changes.
” Aztor thrust the scroll at her again, putting it in her face and forcing her to take it.
“Read that. Thoroughly. If you’re a partner in the business now, you’ll want to familiarize yourself with the lease, especially what is and is not allowed insofar as alterations go. ”
“It sounds like nothing is allowed.”
“Exactly.” Aztor stomped off down the street, waving in irritation at a cloud of incense.
“You’re welcome for ensuring the back rent has been paid,” she called after him.
He didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder.
“Ass,” Rylana muttered and continued across the street.
After entering the bakery, wondrous sweet and herbaceous scents mingling in the air, she stepped past a couple of round tables and up to a clear case.
It was filled with innocuous-looking raisin rolls, dragon buns, frosted orc bread, and deep-fried elf-ear pastries dusted with cinnamon and sugar.
Surprisingly, nothing about the items hinted of the adult goods available for purchase.
Maybe those were kept in the back. Mya had mentioned that she was a grandmother and also made treats for children, so not all of the clientele could want more salacious goods. They were just, apparently, profitable.