“That is not the point!” The Quillonian threw his hands up. “I have two million taste buds. I can taste a drop of syrup in a pool of water the size of this building. I know thousands of poisons by taste. Had I sampled the dish before it left my kitchen, I would’ve detected the poison within it. But I did not taste it. I tasted the ingredients for freshness, I tasted the soup during the preparation, but Soo had worked with me for ten years, and we were serving a banquet to three thousand beings, and I let the soup go. The moment the poison’s presence was detected, the entire galaxy knew that I let a dish go out of my kitchen without tasting it.”
He slumped against the wall, defeated, one hand over his eyes.
“So let me get this straight. They took your Cleaver because you did not taste the soup?”
“Yes. I did it. I let it go. I waved it on.” The Quillonian waved his hand. “Now you know my shame. Two decades of training, a decade of apprenticeship, two decades of being a chef. Accolades I received, dishes I created… I was a rising star, and I threw it all away. I hope you enjoyed tormenting me. The door is that way.”
Now it made sense. He was punishing himself. He lived in this filthy hovel above a tannery because that was all he deserved. But his kitchen was still spotless. As much as he wanted to degrade himself, his professional pride wouldn’t let him dishonor the kitchen.
“I still need a chef,” I told him.
He bared his teeth at me. “Did you not hear? There is no chef here.”
“I’m an innkeeper from Earth. I run a very small inn, and I’m hosting a peace summit. I’m desperate for a chef.”
He pushed from the wall. The quills on his back stood straight up. “There. Is. No. Chef. Here.”
I finally remembered what my father told me about the Quillonians. It just popped into my head. Shakespeare said, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. So, Dina, let them have their monologue.
My future chef was an oversized, hysterical hedgehog with a martyr complex. He obviously loved what he did. I had to lure him with work, and I had to let him play his part and show him that it was time to let the martyr go. There was a new role to be played, that of an underdog winning the race.
“Three parties to the summit,” I said. “At least twelve members each, probably more. The Holy Anocracy represented by House Krahr and others, with at least one Marshal in attendance. All of them are used to the finest cuisine available.” That wasn’t exactly true. Vampires were a carnivorous species. Their cuisine was sophisticated, but they were perfectly happy to bite through the neck of some random woodland creature, pop it on a stick, and scorch it over a fire.
The Quillonian looked at me. I had his attention.
“The second party to the summit is the Hope-Crushing Horde. The Khanum will be present.”
The Quillonian blinked. “Herself?”
“Herself, and with some Under-Khans.”
His eyes widened. He was thinking about it. Maybe…
The Quillonian slumped back against the wall and shook his head. “No. Just no. I am not who I once was.”
That’s okay. “Also, the Merchants of Baha-char. They are spoiled with wealth, and their palate is very refined.”
“Which clan?”
“The Nuan Cee’s family. In addition to them, the Arbitrator and his party.”
I could almost feel the calculation taking place in his head. “For how long?”
“I’m not sure,” I said honestly.
“What’s the budget?”
“Ten thousand to start.”
“Earth currency, the dollar?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible!”
“Perhaps for an ordinary cook. But not for a Red Cleaver chef.”
“I am no longer that.” He rolled his eyes to sky. “Somewhere the gods are laughing at me.”
Time to find out if I’d read him correctly. “It’s not a joke. It’s a challenge.”
His eyes went completely white. He stared at me. Come on, take the bait.
“I can’t.” He closed his eyes and shook. “I just can’t. The shame, it’s too…”
“I understand. You’re right, it is too much for anyone but a true master of his art.”
He surged forward. “Are you implying I am anything less?”
“Are you?”
He sighed. “What happened to your previous chef?”
“Usually I cook. But this is beyond my abilities. I will be very busy trying to keep our esteemed guests from murdering each other.”
“What about the front of the house?” he asked.
“We won’t need it. The inn will serve the dinner following your commands.”
He opened his mouth.
“I came here to find a chef,” I said. “I’m not leaving without one.”
“My spirit is broken.”
I held my hands up. “This kitchen says otherwise.”
He looked around as if seeing the kitchen for the first time.
“It may not be the Blue Jewel, but it is the kitchen of a chef who takes pride in his work. You can come with me and triumph against impossible odds, or you can reject the challenge of the gods and stay here. Would you rather be a hero in charge of your own destiny or a martyr wallowing in self-pity? What will it be?”
The Quillonian surveyed my kitchen. I wasn’t familiar enough with Quillonian faces to identify his expression with one hundred percent accuracy, but if I had to guess, it would fall somewhere between shock, disgust, and despair.
The Quillonian heaved a deep sigh. “You expect me to cook here?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Pantry?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“Through there.” I pointed at the door in the wall.
He opened his eyes, glanced at the doorway through which we’d come and which showed the wall to be about six inches wide, and stared at the door. “Is this a joke?”
“No.”
His clawed hand closed over the handle, and he resolutely flung it open. A five-hundred-square-foot space stretched in front of him, its nine-foot-high walls lined with metal shelves supporting an assortments of pots, pans, dishes, and cooking utensils. Dry goods waited like soldiers on parade, each in a clear plastic container with a label. An industrial-size chest freezer sat against the wall next to two refrigerators.
The Quillonian closed the door, marched back to the doorway, examined the wall, came back, and opened the door again. He stared at the pantry for a long moment, shut the door quickly, and jerked it back open. The pantry was still there. Magic was a wonderful thing.
The Quillonian carefully extended his left leg and put his foot onto the floor of the pantry as if expecting it to grow teeth and gulp him down. Contrary to his expectations, the floor remained solid.
“Well?” I asked.
“It will suffice,” he said. “Whom shall I expect to serve this morning?”
“Caldenia and me. Possibly the Arbitrator and his party as well. He mentioned three people.”
“Caldenia?” His spikes stood up. “Caldenia ka ret Magren? Letere Olivione?”
“Yes. Will that be a problem?”
“I have never had the pleasure to serve her, but I certainly know of her. She’s one of the most renowned gastronomes in the galaxy. Her palate is the definition of refinement.”
I wondered what he would say if he knew the owner of that refined palate frequently indulged in bingeing on Mello Yello and Funyuns. “The inn will help you. If you need something, ask for it.” I raised my voice. “I need a two-liter pot, please.”
The correct pot slid to the front of the middle shelf.
“I’ll need a gastronomical coagulator, please,” the Quillonian said.
Nothing moved. The Quillonian glanced at me. “Nothing’s happening.”
“We don’t have one.” The only coagulator I knew about was used in surgeries.
“You expect me to serve vampires and Caldenia without a coagulator?”
“Yes.”