Chip was ushered into the giant ring on the deck of the ship. Dozens of otters and beavers sat on bleachers around the baking floor. The four competitors walked in one by one, and Chip as the late entrant walked in last with his sous chef.

A large table was set up at the bow of the ship, two otters stood on either side, two more seated. One Chip recognized as the Admiral, the other he couldn’t place. Chip prided himself on knowing most every otter in the shantytown, but this one was utterly unfamiliar. Based what River had told them, this must be her mentor, taking on the form of an otter.

Chip was directed to one of the stations in the back row.

One of the standing otters turned to address the crowd, dark spectacles perched on his nose. “Company agents, mercenaries and merchants, welcome! Our fast food contest today shall be a test of wills! On behalf of the Admiral himself, thank you to the competitors.”

Where the druid was a sleek lithe otter, the Admiral was nearly the largest in the company. He hadn't wanted for anything recently, Chip mused.

The other standing otter nodded. He wore a brown vest with a green scarf. “Today, we have a challenge for you that will make you work hard, and don’t forget” – he gestured to the crowd as his scarf rippled in the wind – “we need you to make enough to feed the crowd.”

The first otter paused, adjusting his spectacles over his whiskers. “We’ve already set up your station with the ingredients you will need. You’ll have one and a half hours to make thirty sweet rolls.”

Sam nudged Chip with a sharp elbow. “We’re all set up, right?”

Chip examined the setup in front of him. A large bowl sat to one side, next to a boxy cover over the ingredients. They hadn’t gotten the go ahead yet, until:

In unison, the two announcers said, “Begin!”

“Let’s make dough,” Chip said.

Chip methodically measured ingredients, placing them one at a time into the bowl. Applesauce joined flour, salt and sugar to create the dough, and he gave Sam a quick primer on how to knead it.

Sam took over the kneading as Chip began to prepare the baking sheet. A chocolate glaze sat farther out in a jar, and Chip picked it up. He sniffed, pleased, before putting it back down. “Let’s get this all put together and then set these into little rows. We have enough baking sheets to make a bit extra, so…”

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“Two batches?” Sam said.

Chip looked at the other competitors. “Two batches. It’s what everyone else is doing.”

Sam nodded, beginning to measure out the applesauce, the binding agent, for the next batch. “We definitely have enough ingredients to do forty or so if we play it safe.”

“But will playing it safe help us win?”

Sam shrugged.

“You’re the boss. Make a decision.”

Chip flipped his apron over, rubbing his hands on it.

"We stick to the plan."

***

According to Chip’s rudimentary timepiece, the rolls had been in the oven for twelve minutes before he got nervous.

“I should take them out now,” he told Sam.

“Chip, be strong. Remember what we decided.”

Chip sighed, inhaling the sugary scent of their glaze. The chocolate ganache, sweet with a hint of salt, reminded him of his favorite rolls from childhood. Aunt Carol used to make them every weekend. He savored every bite, and stole leftovers from his parents when he thought they weren’t looking.

Scanning the crowd, he spotted Aunt Carol. She smiled back at him, offering a little wave. Stone was definitely droning on about something again; Chip could tell from the way that Aunt Carol absently patted his paw.

And just like that, the first batch of rolls made it out. Chip watched as the competition heated up, putting on his oven mitts. Rows of sweet rolls popped up on the tray, slightly more than he needed, but enough to satisfy the minimum requirement.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"There’s a small chance of drizzle. Do see that it gets taken care of."

Sam started slowly dripping the ganache over the rolls in careful sequence. Chip paused to see her beaming. Pulling out the display tray, he began inspecting them one by one and putting them into position.

"Mise en place, my sweet rolls," he said.

***

The last of the rolls was drizzled with ganache. Chip had poured his heart and soul into this, and now it was done. The only thing left was to have the judges make their decision.

"Bakers, you have two minutes left!" called one of the announcers. "Please place your bakes on the trays, and finish up."

Line by line, each roll was set in formation like super-soldiers ready for a fight. Chip prepared his rolls to march off to war. Though perhaps the rolls were more like mercenaries, because who wants to go off to war to be eaten anyway?

"Bakers, please bring your trays up to the judging table!"

Chip grabbed one side of the tray, feeling the weight. He moved it into position and carried it lightly to the front, placing it on the table there. The poor judges, having to sort through so many different rolls.

Stepping back, Chip and the other bakers clumped together, chattering nervously. Back at their station, Sam craned her neck to see.

"Now, judges, please go through and select your favorites."

One by one, the Admiral and Druid Spring went from the left to right. At the first station, Spring sampled one. "Too stodgy,” she said. “This one needed to be put in a bit longer."

"Ah, but the glaze is just right!" said the Admiral.

The judges moved down the line, talking to each other and taking notes. Chip waited with bated breath.