“Okay,” said Frank agreeably.
“All right.” Kathrin still seemed sulky.
The afternoon progressed civilly, and once, when Orcrist left the room, Kathrin turned to Frank with a hesitant smile.
“Could you ... teach me how to draw, sometime?” She looks much younger when she smiles, he thought. I’ll bet she’s about my age.
“Sure,” he said.
RAIN was somehow falling down the sunlight shaft onto Orcrist’s breakfast table. Frank sat watching it drip onto the remains of his scrambled eggs; he was puffing at a pipe and wondering how the devil pipe smokers kept the things lit. Across the table George Tyler was slumped dejectedly in a chair, his blond hair sticking out at odd angles from his head.
Orcrist walked in, carrying a plate of fried eggs and bacon and potatoes. “What’s this?” he asked, nodding at the growing puddle of rain water.
“It’s raining on the surface,” said Frank. “I suppose we ought to put a pan under it.” He resumed puffing on the pipe.
“Oh, your plate will do for now,” Orcrist said. “What are you trying to smoke?”
Frank waved at a pack of tobacco lying on the table. Orcrist picked it up and stared at it. “ ‘Cherry Brandy Flavored.’ Frank, you can’t smoke that." He tossed it down. “Let me get you some real tobacco.”
“And what’s real tobacco?” asked Tyler irritably. It had been he who’d recommended the Cherry Brandy blend to Frank.
“Something with latakia in it,” Orcrist said. “This fruit syrup stuff is no good for smoking; it’s only fit for impressing ignorant girls.”
Tyler shrugged, as if to say that that was reason enough to smoke it right there.
“Anyway, I have better things to talk about than bad tobacco,” Orcrist went on. “Tomorrow night I’m giving a dinner for ten of the High Lords of the Subterranean Companions. I’m hiring three guys to help out in the kitchen; you and Pons will be in charge, Frank. We’re going to have Giant Tacos, Beans Jaime, and dark beer—I’ve got Pons out buying supplies now. I think you ought to be the beer steward, Frank; you simply stand by with a pitcher of it and refill any glasses that become less than half full.”
“Doesn’t sound bad,” Frank said. “Will anyone I know be there?”
“No, she won’t,” said Orcrist.
THE next afternoon Frank strolled into the kitchen, where Pons and the three new cooks were already at work. One of the new men was chopping bell peppers on a wooden board; another was stirring a pot of hot sauce; and the third was grating block after block of cheese. On a stool to one side sat Pons, criticizing their work and telling them what needed doing afterward.
“It’s about time you got here,” Pons said. “Keep an eye on these dopes for a while.” He got up and strode out, shaking his head contemptuously.
“Oh, man,” said one of the cooks. “Who was that guy?”
“His name’s Pons,” said Frank. “I don’t like him either. Do you guys know how to do all this? Because I sure can’t tell you.”
“Oh, hell yes,” said another. “We work in a restaurant together. We’ve been making this stuff since we were kids. And then old Bon-Bon comes in here and wants to tell me how to cut bell peppers.”
“Well, cut them any way you want,” said Frank.
The big oven was turned on, and the room heated up pretty quickly, especially when one of the cooks began frying the ground beef in two huge pans. Frank was only doing peripheral jobs, chopping onions and fetching tomatoes, but he soon found himself sweating like a long-distance runner.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m ready for a beer. Who’ll join me?”
They all assented, and Frank opened four bottles of Orcrist’s favorite light beer. He passed these around, and then was amazed at how much more smoothly the kitchen ran when the cooks had bottles of beer beside them. There’s some principle at work there, he thought.
The door was kicked open and Pons entered.
“You’re letting them drink?" he gasped. He snatched all the bottles, which were empty now anyway, and flung them into a trash can. “Sam will hear about this,” he snarled at Frank. “You’ll be out of a job.”
“I don’t think so,” Frank said.
“Clear out, Bon-Bon,” said one of the cooks.
“You’ve gone too far,” Pons whispered. “You can’t undermine me. Tomorrow you’ll be out on the street.”
“Time will tell,” smiled Frank.
“The guests are here,” said Pons in a strangled voice. “Take out fifteen glasses and two pitchers of beer. Now!”
Frank did so, and managed without mishap to present each guest with a glass of the dark beer. There were ten, all older men, and they were dressed in fine clothes and wore decorated swords. When Frank had filled their glasses he stepped back from the table, but Orcrist beckoned him forward.
“Gentlemen,” Orcrist said, “I’d like you to meet Francisco de Goya Rovzar, my junior partner.” Orcrist introduced Frank to each lord in turn. Frank bowed respectfully to each, and then resumed his stewardship. The lords and Orcrist chatted and laughed among themselves, and Frank listened in from time to time, but found their talk either boring or incomprehensible.
Eventually Pons appeared, pushing a cart on which were set ten plates, each with a huge taco resting on it like a giant, lettuce-choked clam. The assembled lords exclaimed delightedly at the spectacle. Pons served them, and the guests began hesitantly prodding their tacos with forks. Frank was kept busy seeing that the glasses were filled and frequently had to dash to the kitchen for a fresh pitcher.
“Damn fine dinner, Sam,” said Lord Tolley Christensen as he threw down his fork for the last time. The other lords all nodded agreement. “And I hope such dinners never become a thing of the past.” Again they all nodded.
“Do you know, Tolley,” spoke up Lord Rutledge, “I was walking alone the other day or night and an armed policeman, in the Transport uniform, tried to arrest me?”
“Times are worse than I thought,” said Orcrist. “What did you do?”
“Oh, he drew his sword on me, so I killed him.”
“How?” asked Tolley. “As one craftsman to another.”
“He took my blade on the outside of his, in the high line, so I did a non-resisting parry and then just spiralled in over his bell guard, then under it, and nailed him.”
“He must not have been real sharp,” put in Orcrist. “I’d never have given you time to do all that.”
“Well, I am fairly fast,” Rutledge said. “Besides, that’s the only move you can make if the other guy takes your blade that way.”
“Well,” spoke Frank, “you could parry and riposte in prime.”
“What?” growled Rutledge, shifting around in his chair.
“I said you could have parried him in prime. One, you know.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
Frank was beginning to suspect that he shouldn’t have spoken. “Never mind, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“Wait a minute,” said Orcrist. “Here, Frank, use my sword. Rutledge, will you let me borrow yours for a moment? Thank you. Now, Frank, slowly, show me what you mean.”
Frank put the pitcher of beer down on a side table, took the sword in his left hand, and crouched into the on guard position. “All right,” he said. “Take my blade in sixte—come in over my sword arm.”
Orcrist extended his blade as he was told. When the point was within a foot of Frank’s chest, Frank suddenly inverted his sword by flipping his elbow up and deflected Orcrist’s blade to the side; then he riposted, thrusting at Orcrist’s chest with his arm twisted around so that his thumb and fingers were uppermost.