Chapter Eleven: The Pact

Charles was marched through the blackness, blade to his back. One minute. Three minutes. Five? At some point he had started to lose count. The edge nicked him any time he was too slow for the Spear’s liking, but his bad leg struggled on the uneven ground. Too far off course and pain would erupt from where his shoulder had been grabbed to steer him straight. The dull light of campfires glowed through the straw mask, but he couldn’t make out anything with detail. Only vague shapes. At one point somebody spoke nearby, and a swift kick forced him to crouch. The sound of breathing told him the Spear had also crouched beside him. The two of them remained still, out of the light, and waited for a time. Only after it had been silent for a long while was he told to stand and keep going.

When the walking finally stopped, he was forced to his knees and the sack came off.

He blinked in surprise. The opening of a tent lay before him, but it was small and black, not red and emblazoned with the sun. It had been a short walk, but more than long enough to stew in the horrors that were about to befall him. If his mind had a talent for anything, it was memorizing recipes and filling in grim blanks.

He had seen himself thrown down before the cardinal, his transgressions exposed. He had heard the giant’s explosive wrath, and felt the inhuman might lifting him by his throat. He had felt a terror like a sparrow in the clutches of a drake. It was more than possible he would meet a swift end then and there, and in a way that might be the best-case scenario. If he survived longer, there would be an interrogation. They would find the letters. He would be tortured with methods beyond his darkest imaginings, his secrets extracted to the last. And by the time they ended him, it would be a mercy.

But Thorne was nowhere to be found. The only soul inside the tent was a bedridden man in a blue tunic. He was missing half his left hand and part of his ear, but these were old injuries, long since scar-healed. There was something worse, and obviously more recent, wrong with him. He was rail-thin, the color gone from his face, eyes vacantly staring upward from pits of sunken flesh.

A wasting illness? Charles couldn’t tell for sure.

He glanced at the Spear in confusion. “What is it you want? I cannot heal a sick man. He needs to see the doctor.”

“He is not sick,” the Spear said firmly. He began to pace very slowly. Eight steps one way. Eight steps back. “At least not in that way. He is starving. That is all the useless doctor tells me, over and over. ‘He is malnourished. He must eat if he is to live.” A beetle buzzed by his face as he spoke. Without looking, he snatched the unfortunate bug from the air and crushed it to paste in a red-armored fist. He looked very much as though he wished he could crush something larger and more significant, probably the camp doctor, instead. The anger leaked out. “As if I do not understand that! Would that it were so simple!”

Charles chose his words cautiously. “What prevents him from eating? There’s more than enough food for everyone. We’ve seen to it.”

The Spear paused for several moments, as if weighing whether to trust another with what was about to be said. “It is not a matter of having enough. His mind is fragile, like a child’s, and he cannot speak more than a few words. He is very sensitive to sights and sounds, and in particular he has always had…difficulties with eating. Certain foods that he cannot bear. It may sound strange, but if the taste or texture is wrong, he simply will not eat no matter what anyone might say to him, even when his stomach begins to ache and shrink. Once he makes up his mind, no pain will move it.” The tip of his dagger thrust towards Charles. “Ever since you started serving that foul snake meat, he has refused every meal that contains even a trace. I have never seen him react this strongly. The mere sight or smell of it instills panic in him. I would almost say he is afraid of it, or thinks eating it will hurt him.”

Charles paled. While his spice mix had turned the boa meat from a disaster into a decent meal, before creating it he, Magnus, and Luet had all tried a fresh, bare-seasoned piece cooked over a campfire…only to be treated to one of the foulest flavors the young chef had ever suffered, and he had tried thousands of raw ingredients in the Boulier kitchen. It was the sort of taste that stuck with you long after you’d washed it from your mouth or masked it with better dishes. He could live to be a thousand and he would never forget it. Not fully.

…Unfortunately, some of the Shattered, a small group that had been assisting them, had also ended up sampling some of the meat. Charles had felt badly. The chef in him couldn’t stand the idea of his food hurting anyone, but in all that had followed the thought—and his guilt—had been buried. He had not considered how far one small error’s consequences might reach. This blue…was he among those who ate the boa before I used the spice mix on it? Or did he hear about it from one of them? Is that why he’s so adamant about refusing it? He did not know, and he kept his speculations to himself.

“I sneak him portions of other foods where I can, but it is little,” the Spear continued, still pacing. “Far too little. You can see it at a glance. He was already so thin even before the snake meat, but now? His condition worsens by the day. He is too weak to even speak. At one point I became so desperate with his stubbornness, I-.” The Spear hesitated. Charles was shocked to see something like shame beneath the raider’s helm.

“...I tried to force him to eat it,” he said softly. “It was for his own good. I did it for his sake, but I cannot make him understand that. He chose to vomit rather than swallow, even when his life is at stake!” The pacing quickened. “He has fallen sharply since then. How long will it be before he cannot eat even if he chooses to? Days? Hours? If this goes on…”

The pacing stopped. A deep breath, and he seemed to collect himself. “No. I will not allow this. This situation is your doing, cook, so you shall remedy it. You will prepare something he can eat. Something that can save him. I do not care what methods you use, but you will make it so. Tonight.” He loomed over Charles, a tower of red malice. As with all good threats, the threat itself went unspoken.

Charles swallowed. “What sort of foods does he usually like?” he finally asked. “What are the things he can’t eat?”

The Spear’s gaze narrowed. “Nothing that is too hard. Or crunchy. Or that takes too long to chew—that he hates most of all. He prefers much softer foods, though he is rarely given them. And do not dare to serve anything made from that wretched snake.”

Charles took every word into consideration. He felt oddly calm, and he suspected why. He’d been met with a challenge the stakes of which were just as grim as everything else he’d endured since his capture, but for once, survival depended solely on his skill as a chef. There would be no fighting. No running on a leg that did not work. No facing terrors that would test the mettle of men far braver and stronger than him. It was something he could work with. Refreshing, in an odd way. Nothing hard, crunchy, or chewy? The softer the better? How nostalgic. He had heard requests like that often enough, usually for a certain type of diner. Almost like…

“Give me two hours.”

A powerful grip seized his collar and dragged him from his knees to full height. It was almost identical to the way Magnus’ sea serpent-arm had grabbed him the first time he had entered the Green Galley. “Two hours?! For one person? What could possibly take so long?” the Spear hissed. He’d clearly almost shouted loud enough to wake the entire camp, then caught himself at the last moment and stifled his voice. It seemed he did not want attention from his red brothers.

A great many things, you ignorant animal! Charles narrowly avoided shouted back. He settled for meeting his glare. Don’t you dare insult cooking! What could take so long? There were advanced soup stocks that required a chef’s attention for two entire days, let alone two hours. But he, too, calmed himself. “Two hours,” he repeated. “With two hours, I guarantee I’ll have at least one thing he’s willing to eat. Any less, and there’s a chance I’ll have to waste even more time trying again. He’s in your hands. It’s your choice.”

The Spear clenched his collar even tighter. Rage coursed through every line of his face. Then he suddenly let go, dropping the eleve to the ground. “Pray that your words hold true, Dreyan. His Eminence is not the only one who does not suffer liars.”

Charles rubbed his throat. The pain subsided, but the anger stayed. Anger hotter than he had felt for some time. There are few things more human than claiming the last word, but he managed to show restraint for the moment. This wasn’t the time to press his luck. Bastard. Say what you like, but if you mean to kill me, you can take your place at the back of the line.

* * *

That was how Charles had found himself right back where the evening began, with him on hands and knees aimlessly shifting through the Green Galley. Or what remained of its sorry wreckage, anyways. He grit his teeth, simmering in silence. How did he keep ending up in these situations? Every time he seemed closer to being out of one pit, he fell right in another.

One small silver lining was that the Spear had not tried to follow him or supervise his cooking, though he had been warned not to be seen leaving or approaching the black tent. For that alone, he was thankful. Preparing food took enough concentration without having another person, especially one who wanted you dead, gawking over your shoulder. With some doing, he managed to tilt a wooden beam just enough to reveal jars of canned ingredients, their contents floating in a light brine.

Magnus’ cache.

It was a pitiful sight. The red-haired chef had predicted disaster, but from what Charles was seeing, disaster might be sugarcoating things. Precious few jars had survived the Galley’s collapse. He found just one that (somehow) had not cracked or shattered. Pickled beets, peppers, peaches, and more littered the dirt.

However…much of what he found could actually still be used with little more than a light washing. Canning was not one of the most critical innovations in culinary history for nothing. It would take far more than one measly day for canned goods to spoil, even once the jar’s seal had been broken. For tonight at least, anything intact enough to serve was fair game.

Charles started stacking any ingredients that might be useful in a neat pile.

Half a wheel of white cheddar. A sack of chestnut mushrooms. A smaller sack, this one filled with elbow pasta crafted from dark durum wheat (a rare find, especially this far from civilization). Eight Uzkan tomatoes, longer and paler red than their Dreyan cousins. Nine if he quietly apologized to his ancestors and pretended the last one wasn’t half-squashed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Compromising on his principles as a chef was painful, but he would have to get inventive if he wanted to make it through the night in one piece. Yes...inventive. That was how he was choosing to frame it. All in all, he would have preferred more to work with—a lot more—but fate balanced the scales a bit when he uncovered Magnus’s spice rack beneath a fold in the tent’s collapsed canvas wall. Shockingly, only two jars from the top row, coriander and marjoram, had suffered damage. The rest, accounting for nearly fifty smaller jars, had not so much as tipped over. Charles got lucky a second time when he smashed his toe on a metal box he hadn’t noticed under the edge of a low table. After several deep breaths and a string of words that would have left Master Boregard aghast (and Amelie doubled over in fits), he realized the box was locked, but the steel had been mangled so badly it flung open with only a light tug. Inside lay a cook’s trove, a small but invaluable stockpile of finely-powdered sugars and flours, among other things. Even some small bottles of oil—peanut and olive, by the scent of them.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

He had stumbled on what could only be the Green Galley’s baking locker. Instinctively, he double-checked he was not being watched. I’m sure a little could go missing from here without anyone being the wiser.

There was more. Something in the back? He thought he could see a faint glow deeper in the debris beyond where he’d found the locker. If it wasn’t so dark, he likely would have missed it. He reached in deep, grasped for the source, then pulled. What came out was the remains of what had once been Magnus’ sunroot, a bioluminescent plant species capable of lighting a room through the darkest night. When healthy, they radiated golds and oranges as proudly as the sun. This one could barely manage a pale white. Poor thing. Just barely hanging on. The plant had lost a few branches in the collapse, but that wasn’t the real issue. Sunroot stems and leaves were quite small, while their roots, the bits that actually glowed, were much larger. That was how they had been selectively cultivated for centuries. This one had been outside its pot far too long. It was already looking shriveled and feeble. It needed soil and water, and it needed them quickly. Charles was able to find the pot and tried to replant it as best he could, scraping handfuls of the darker potting soil that had fallen to the ground and adding creekwater with his ladle. He was no gardener, but he hoped it would be enough. You’re just doing your best, aren’t you? he thought. Makes two of us, I suppose.

When he was done, he thought the sunroot looked just a touch brighter, though it may have been wishful thinking. That was when he noticed its glow reflecting off something in the grassy dirt beside the open locker. Charles picked up the object and held it close. He had to squint to make it out in the dimness.

It was a pale locket. Silver and shaped like a shallot shell. Beautifully crafted, with a long slender chain of soft gold. It reminded him a bit of Luet’s emerald pendant, but he was near-certain it was not Dreyan. Dreya did have a small coastline, but it was barren and inhospitable. Few of her people had made the long journey to visit the sea. It could only be Magnus’. He went to put it back on the ground where he had found it, but when he stood up it was still in his hand. True, it did not belong to him. Other people’s possessions were none of his business…but what if he stepped on it in the dark while he was working? It looked valuable. Sort of fragile, too. And sentimental. Like the kind of thing Magnus would scream at him for breaking. Charles grimaced. He remembered how the uminara had reacted to his pipe getting snapped in two…or worse, when the Galley had been flattened. He and the older chef had only just reconciled. If at all possible, he wanted to avoid any more animosity. He tucked the locket away in his clothes for the time being. He would return it when his task was done.

A quick strike with his flint, and fire sparked beneath Master Joanna’s stockpot. Charles stared into the growing flames. As he often did before cooking, he closed his eyes and took a moment to gather himself. He needed an honest measure of the circumstances. Two hours. No…closer to ninety minutes now. One diner. All dishes need to cater to a restrictive palate. A single fire at my disposal. One stockpot, three pans. No meat ingredients to speak of. Limited pantry. A leveled kitchen. Zero room for failure.

He brought his hands together. When his eyes opened, new determination coursed through him. He could see every ingredient at his disposal in his mind’s eye, and he had already mapped out the ideal order to cook each dish at peak efficiency. Father had never tolerated any less in the Boulier kitchen. Half a year ago, pressure like this would have shaken him to his core. The doubts. The ghosts and their taunting words. He felt them and heard the voices still, but they were not so loud and fearsome as they once were. Compared to all the loudness and chaos he’d dealt with recently, this was little more than a whisper.

A strong wind was blowing. “Las commencí,” he said. Let’s begin.

* * *

It gave Charles no small pleasure to see genuine shock when he arrived back at the black tent with nearly forty minutes to spare. A duo of Shattered fell in behind him on his left, and shortly after another two appeared at his right. Each held, with the utmost delicacy, a bowl or plated dish fresh from the steel and fire. Charles thanked them for the help, though they did not say anything back. With his bad leg, he would never have been able to move all the dishes safely had they not emerged like living shadows from the void around his stockpot. It was unnerving how silently they could move. As if it was their life’s purpose to go completely unnoticed, save when needed.

The red made a strange gesture with his hands. Charles had no idea what it meant, but the blues immediately left them, setting the food in front of the tent like a row of offerings before melding into the dark once more.

He was all alone with a killer again.

“I trust there were no issues,” the Spear said.

Charles found his hand snaking toward the hilt of the master chef knife that had once been his father’s. “What does your sense of smell tell you?” he said.

The Spear glared. Then he smiled a bit. An eerie, unsettling smile. “Did you realize? You have a habit of gripping the hilt of that knife when you need to say something bold. I’ve seen you do it before. Do you think that toy would protect you from me? From any of us?”

“No,” Charles said plainly. “I don’t.”

The Spear merely sneered. “What are these, anyways?” he said, eyeing the dishes skeptically. The ones he recognized probably looked uncanny to him. Even the same dish can vary greatly across cultures, after all. From his countenance, there were clearly at least a few he did not recognize at all.

Charles resisted the urge to scoff. How shocking. Thorne might be cultured enough to dissect dishes in a flash, but that gift was not shared by his men, it seemed. “Spice-fried chestnut mushrooms, coated with a layer of breadcrumbs,” he said, pointing to the first bowl of golden-brown. “That one there is simple basil and Uzkan tomato soup with sliced onion and a touch of garlic. Then you have elbow pasta served in a light mornay sauce. Very hot. I’d let that one cool a bit if I were you.”

The Spear glared again. He grabbed one of the pastries from the last bowl. They were soft and flaky, with a shape like angel’s wings. “And these?”

“Chruściki,” Charles said. “Light cookies fried in oil.”

“Chru-,” the Spear tried to say. “Fried cookies? They sound awful.”

“If you have doubts, why not try one yourself?” Charles suggested. “Best hurry though. Before they get cold out here.”

With some hesitation, the Spear did so. His features shifted. It was just a fleeting thing, but a subtle sense of pleasant surprise crept in and revealed itself before the usual grim flatness flooded right back. Most would not have noticed, but Charles knew the signs well; it was the look of someone tasting something they liked for the first time. Judging by how quickly he was reaching for another helping, ‘liked’ may have been an understatement. Spears were lifelong soldiers who lived under strict restrictions, after all. Many of the simple pleasures everyday people took for granted were strictly off-limits. Were they even allowed to eat desserts? Had this man ever tried a cookie in his life? If not, would he ever have a chance to try one again?

“Well?” Charles asked before the red had a chance to snatch a second pair of angel wings. “Awful then?” He gripped the black handle of his father’s knife again. He had put up with a great deal this evening. He wasn’t about to let the insult to his skill as a chef stand.

The Spear’s outstretched hand retreated from the bowl slightly, then wavered. Charles realized he had seen this kind of indecision once before, on the face of the Spear who had smashed Magnus’ pipe in half. As someone with an unrivaled talent for making enemies, the sea chef had returned the favor with outright mockery while tossing the raider his dinner as one would a dog. That red could have lost his temper. He could have cursed Magnus and tossed the meat right back. But he hadn’t, because that steak was the only food he was going to get until morning. As furious as he must have been, his stomach had won over his pride.

All men need to eat. Given the choice, most prefer to eat well.

It was no different with the Spear in front of Charles now. At least part of him must have been tempted to act defiant. To spit the cookie out or say he had hated it…but that wouldn’t be very convincing if he stuffed his face with more. He would have to make a show of shoving the bowl away, perhaps returning to it only once Charles was gone, and by then the chruściki would have grown cold in the winter air and all the less flavorful.

“They are…fine,” the Spear finally said. He sampled a second cookie, trying his best to appear disinterested. “It will serve.”

“It seems so,” Charles said, nodding toward the sickbed. The Shattered was stirring. A single cracked eye peered their way, and a hand missing its thumb and forefinger was reaching for them.

“Nichola,” the Spear said softly, taking the hand in his own. A cracked mouth tried to respond, but what came out was less than a whisper.

“Just hold on. You will be yourself again soon,” the Spear said. “I will-,”

His gaze swapped between the four dishes repeatedly. Charles gestured to the second bowl. “The soup first. He’ll fare easiest with that. But you must go slowly. He needs time to recover from malnutrition. It can be a long incline.”

“What would you know of it?” the Spear said.

Charles did not answer. Weakly, and with great effort, the Shattered raised his head. The moment of truth came when the serving spoon neared his lips. The Spear blew the steam away. Then he closed his eyes in a brief prayer. One Mercy or otherwise, whatever he had spoken to must have listened, for the blue named Nichola slurped a spoonful of the soup. Then another. Then more still. It felt as though time itself was holding its breath. Each movement of the spoon may as well have gone on for hours. By the time the bowl was half-emptied, a silent sigh of relief that had been building inside Charles finally escaped.

He had succeeded. He was safe, at least for now. The fact that the Shattered was eating was victory enough, so it came as a surprise when the soup bowl was emptied…only for the three-fingered hand to reach for the elbow pasta as well. That, too, began to slowly empty.

“I have rarely seen him clear even one dish, let alone ask for another,” the Spear admitted. “How did you know he would want it?”

“It comes with experience,” was Charles' only response. He did not bother explaining that a restaurant that cannot keep pace with diner demands, even unreasonable demands, will not survive. Merchants, noblemen, and lords alike came from far and wide to experience the Oak & Owl. To barter with Louis Boulier and forge links to his merchant empire while enjoying some of the finest cuisine the world had to offer. Grand names with grand expectations, and they did not always come alone. Their families or even an entourage of household servants often appeared in tow. The children of nobles in particular can prove a steep challenge for even the finest chef. They are often more demanding and far less reasonable than their mothers and fathers, who have enough dignity not to make a scene in public. A lifetime of the very best in dining can have quite the effect on a developing palate.

Dietary allergies. Religious or moral objections to entire categories of dishes. Toddlers stubbornly averse to all but perhaps four or five raw ingredients. Charles had seen it all and then some. But even the most demanding diners who had ever walked through the doors of the Oak & Owl paled in comparison to the veritable Queen of Fussy Eating: Charles’ own younger sister, Nina Boulier.

“No! No, no, no! I want it from Charles! Charles makes it my favorite!”

He shuddered. You could ask anyone in Lutz. Every soul who knew her would agree Nina was a sweet, reasonable child. The picture of feminine grace. Loving and empathetic. She would make a fine lady someday. But by the gods, when it came to getting her way about food, she changed…

It appeared his job as chef was complete. The dishes lay mostly empty, and what was left had grown cool. The Spear had all but forgotten him, instead alternating between tending to the Shattered and snatching more chruściki with his free hand. Under any other circumstances, it would have been considered proper for a man in his position to offer Charles some form of gratitude for the aid. Even something as small as a few words of thanks.

“Can these dishes be made regularly?” the Spear asked without looking at him.

“Some of them, at least. Or near enough as makes no matter.”

“Good. You will do so as long as needed. Leave us.”

Charles was more than happy to do just that. By now he had learned it was foolish to expect proper treatment. To the Spears, allowing heathens to draw breath was a favor in itself.

“Oh, and one last thing,” that deep voice called after him. Charles turned back, arching a brow. Was he actually going to get a word of thanks after all?

The Spear produced the jar of black ink and calmly placed it in Charles’ hand, folding his fingers over it with an iron strength. One twist or jerk, and he could snap the bones like twigs. “I trust this will remain between us.”

Charles swallowed, then nodded. The rest went unspoken. He turned to exit, but stole a final glance through the crack of the tent’s opening as he passed outside. Though faint in the darkness, he saw the Spear tenderly place his forehead against the Shattered’s own.