Sweep in Peace

Chapter Three

Most successful inns had a staff. Some jobs required a dedicated person: usually there was a chef, a bookkeeper, sometimes a kennel master if the inn catered to guests with animal companions. Typically the innkeeper’s family handled many of these tasks. In my parents’ inn, I’d worked as a gardener. It was my responsibility to keep the vast flower gardens, service the ponds, and maintain the fruit trees. I loved the gardens. They were full of small secret places that were just mine. My memory served the delicate scent of apricots in bloom, their dark crooked branches bearing small white flowers; rows of strawberries; the two yellow cherry trees I used to climb… All of it was gone now, disappeared without a proverbial trace, together with the inn and my parents within it. One day the inn that used to be my home simply vanished. Nobody knew how or why.

A familiar pang pierced me, worry mixed with anxiety and a dash of mourning. I missed my parents so much. So much. It had been years, and still sometimes I woke up, and in those drowsy, half-asleep moments, I thought I heard Mom’s voice calling me down for breakfast.

I was in a different inn now, my own inn. Up until this moment, Gertrude Hunt hadn’t needed a staff. I cooked for Caldenia, myself, and whatever rare guest happened to stop by. Cooking for two people and cooking for a party of at least forty, counting the Arbitrator’s staff, with at least four different species in attendance, was completely different. Not only that, but with otrokars and vampires in the same building, all my attention would be occupied with keeping them from killing each other. And they would expect a banquet. Of course they would. We didn’t even have a definite date for the end of the summit. I might end up feeding them for weeks.

I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t feasible. I had to hire a cook, but a cook good enough to prepare a banquet for four different species would cost a fortune because he wouldn’t be a cook, he would be a chef. I had set funds aside for the food, but somehow in all my preparations it never occurred to me that someone would have to be cooking it. I hadn’t budgeted for a chef. Where could I even find a chef with less than twenty-four hours to go? It took weeks to find and hire one.

I could imagine the ad now. Hi, my name is Dina. I run a small inn on Earth, two and a half stars, and I need you to drop everything and prepare meals for a party of otrokars, vampires, and spoiled Merchants. I have a shoestring budget and your pay would be a pittance.

I groaned. Beast barked at me, puzzled.

I looked at the tiny Shih Tzu. “What am I going to do?”

My dog furiously wagged her tail.

I blew air out. Panicking never solved anything. I had to go about fixing the problem in a logical fashion. First hurdle, money. Where could I get some money to hire a chef?

The only money I had, besides the food fund, was the inn’s six-month budget. Guests came and went, and an innkeeper’s income was usually somewhat erratic. My parents had taught me to always budget six months ahead and to never touch that money. If I dipped into that budget, I wouldn’t be able to cover utilities in the upcoming months, and nobody would visit an inn without running water or electricity. We had backup generators, but they were an emergency measure. If I used that money, I’d be breaking one of my parents’ most fundamental rules.

Was there any way around it? Any way at all?

No.

No, there wasn’t. I couldn’t take out a business loan because my business didn’t generate enough income to qualify me for one and because business loans and lines of credit took several days to process. Personal loans were out of the question too. Asking other innkeepers for financial assistance wasn’t an option. It wasn’t done. Besides, without a solid track record, and the inn only rated at two and a half stars, I was a bad business risk. All things considered, I wouldn’t lend myself money.

There was simply no other money to be had. I had to feed the guests. Vampires required meat with fresh herbs, otrokars had to have spices and citrus with everything, and Nuan Cee’s clan had a taste for poultry, and they were particular about how it was prepared. I had to hire someone, whatever it cost.

Realizing that was like dipping my head into a bucket of ice water. If there was no other way, then there was nothing I could do about it. I had to use that money and pray it would be enough to entice someone to work through the summit.

“One problem solved,” I told Beast.

Now hurdle number two. The chef.

My parents knew many innkeepers, but were friends with only a few. Our kind were a solitary lot. Innkeepers operated in secrecy. Deals were done on a handshake, meetings usually took place face-to-face, and each inn was its own little island of strange in a sea of normal. When my parents’ inn had vanished, even our former friends distanced themselves. What had happened was odd and unexpected; nobody had ever heard of an entire inn simply blinking out of existence. Odd and unexpected was dangerous, and for people who dealt with the universe’s weirdness on a daily basis, most innkeepers were surprisingly risk averse.

I was on my own, but I did know one man who could help. His name was Brian Rodriguez. An innkeeper like me, he ran Casa Feliz in Dallas, one of the largest, busiest inns in the Southwest. Like others, he had been a friend of my parents. A few months ago, when I went to ask him for advice out of pure desperation, he helped me. Since then we’d corresponded a few times and he had given me his cell phone number, a huge sign of trust in our world. Begging him for money was out of the question, but asking for a loan of staff wasn’t unheard of.

I dialed the number on my cell. He answered on the second ring. “Dina, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “How are you?”

“Surviving. What can I do for you?”

“I’m so sorry to ask this, but I need a cook on short notice.” I really didn’t want to say what I had to say next. The words stuck in my mouth, but I forced them out. “Could you lend me one?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “What grade?”

“The highest I can get.”

Mr. Rodriguez paused. “Are you hosting the Nexus summit?”

“Yes.” News traveled fast.

“They asked me and I declined. The risk to my other guests would be too great.”

I was well aware of the risks, but I had no choice.

“Unfortunately…”

My heart sank.

“…all of my kitchen staff is really busy. We’re shorthanded at the moment.”

I fought hard to keep despair out of my voice. “Thank you anyway.”

“So happens I know someone who might help,” he said. “If you’re desperate enough.”

What? My hopes soared. “I’m very desperate.”

“He was ranked as a Red Cleaver a few years ago.”

My hopes plunged to the ground, hit hard, and exploded. “I can’t afford a Red Cleaver chef.”

Mr. Rodriguez probably couldn’t afford a Red Cleaver. That was the second-highest ranking. I couldn’t even afford a Gray Cleaver, which was the lowest rung. A Cleaver ranking meant certification by the Galactic Gastronomy Board, a diploma from the best cooking school in the galaxy, and a long apprenticeship in one of the most prestigious restaurants. Cleaver chefs were worth their weight in gold, literally.

“He was stripped of his certification.”

I’d never heard of someone losing their Cleaver. “Why?”

Mr. Rodriguez hesitated. “He might have poisoned someone.”

I put my hand over my face. This was just getting better and better. A poisoner chef. What could possibly go wrong?

“Dina, are you there?” Mr. Rodriguez asked.

“Yes. I’m just wrestling with it.”

“I warned you that you would have to be desperate. I don’t believe he was ever convicted of the crime, but somehow he was involved in the death of a diplomat. You would have to talk to him to get the whole story.”

With my back against the wall, I didn’t have options. The least I could do was talk to him. “Where can I find him?”

“He lives in a small hole-in-the-wall hovel on Baha-char. Just past the Gorivian gun merchant.”

“I know where that is. Thank you.”

“Oh, and Dina, he is a Quillonian. They can be touchy.”

That was the understatement of the year. Quillonians were notoriously difficult.

“I hope it works out.”

He hung up. I slumped against the wall. Tired or not, I needed to go and see this touchy, dishonored Quillonian chef who might or might not have poisoned someone, because the Arbitrator was due to arrive the following evening.

I had quite possibly bitten off more than I could chew. No, thinking like that would only get me into trouble. It was the fatigue talking. I would host this summit, and it would be successful. Gertrude Hunt needed the guests.

I got my boots out of the closet, put them on, and buckled a belt with a knife on it around my waist under my robe. Baha-char was the place where you went to find things. Sometimes things found you instead and tried to take your money. On the inn grounds, I ruled supreme. Outside them, my powers dropped off sharply. I could still take care of myself, but it never hurt to expect the worst and be prepared.

Beast barked once, excited. I took my broom, pulled the hood of my robe over my head, and headed down the hallway. The inn creaked in alarm.

“I’ll be back soon,” I murmured. “Don’t worry.”

The door at the end of the hallway swung open. Bright light spilled through the rectangular opening, and dry, overbearing heat washed over me. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light, and Beast and I stepped into the heat and sunshine of Baha-char.

I strode through the heat-baked streets of the Galactic Bazaar, the hem of my robe sweeping the large yellow tiles of its roads. Around me the marketplace of the galaxy breathed and glittered, its heart beating fast, pulsing with life. Tall buildings of pale, sand-colored stone lined the streets, decorated with bright banners streaming from the balconies. Plants, some green, some blue, others red and magenta, spread their branches on the textured terraces, offering cascades of flowers to the sun in the light purple sky. Above me narrow stone arches of bridges spanned the space between the buildings. Merchant booths offering a bounty of goods from across the universe lined the throughway. Open doors marked by bright signs invited customers. Barkers hawked their wares, waving holographic projections of their merchandise at the crowd flowing past them.

Around me the bright, multicolored crocodile of shoppers crawled through the streets. Beings from dozens of planets and dimensions, clothed in leather, fabric, metal or plastic, tall and short, huge and small, each with their own odd scent, searched for their particular goods. A constant hum hung in the air, a cacophony of hundreds of voices mixing together into the kind of noise that could only be heard on Baha-char.

The last time I had come here, Sean was with me. I didn’t even know if he was dead or alive. It had been so fun to watch him here. He had traveled while in the military, and he thought he was worldly, then I opened the door to these sun-drenched streets, and Sean turned into a child entering Disney World for the first time. Everything was new, strange, and wondrous.

Six months and no word. Either I’d imagined things and he wasn’t at all interested, or something had happened to him. Thinking about Sean being dead somewhere out there among the stars made me angry. First my parents vanished. Now Sean was gone.

I caught myself. Yes, clearly this was all about me. Not exactly my proudest moment. As soon as I straightened out the chef situation, I needed to go back to bed before the lack of sleep made me weepy.

Ahead, the traffic slowed. I stood on my toes and glanced over the spindly shoulder of some insectoid being. A creature that resembled a Penske truck-sized maggot slowly crawled up the street. It was wearing a plastic harness along its back. Bright burgundy and gold umbrellas protruded from the harness at even intervals, shielding its wrinkled, pallid flesh from the sun. Several shopping bags hung from the hooks on the sides of the harness. One of the bags had Hello Kitty on it.

We were moving about half a mile an hour. I sighed and looked around. I’d been coming to Baha-char since I was a child, and most of the time I walked through on autopilot.

A familiar dark archway loomed to the right. I strained and heard a quiet, haunting melody playing. That shop belonged to Wilmos Gerwar, an old werewolf. Last time we were on Baha-char, Sean had stopped here. Wilmos had a nanoarmor on display, made especially for alpha-strain werewolves such as Sean. Sean saw the armor and became obsessed with it. It called to him somehow, and he had to have it. Wilmos offered him a deal: he would give Sean the armor, but Sean would owe him a favor. I thought it was a terrible idea and told him so, but Sean took the armor, and once we dealt with the assassin threatening the inn, he went to Baha-char to repay the favor. That was the last time I saw him.

If anybody knew where Sean was, it would be Wilmos.

People bumped me. The crowd was moving, and the current of beings tried to carry me with it. To go in or not to go in? What if Sean was in there, drinking tea from Auul, his now-shattered planet? That would be really awkward. Hi, remember me? I threw you out of my house because you were an ass and later you kissed me? He’d left for a reason, and I didn’t want to be anyone’s blast from the past. Still, not knowing was worse than any potential awkwardness.

I cut through the crowd and stepped through the arch. A meticulously arranged shop greeted me. Weapons with wicked curved blades hung on the walls. Knives lay displayed under glass. Strange armor adorned mannequins lined up like soldiers at a ceremony next to high-tech guns in metal racks.

A large animal padded into view, its paws bigger than my hands. Blue green, with a shaggy mane and ears that reached to my chest, it moved like a predator. Despite the size and the mane, there was something lupine about its build. He felt like a wolf, and if you saw him on Earth, you’d think he was the spirit of all wolves come to life.

“Hello, Gorvar,” I said.

At my feet Beast opened her mouth and growled low.

“Who is it?” A man walked in from the other room. Tall, grizzled, and still fit, he moved like Sean, with natural, easy grace. His graying hair fell to his shoulders, and as his eyes caught the light from the doorway, pale gold rolled over his irises.

“Hello, Wilmos.” I smiled.

“Ah yes. Dina, right?”

“Right.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to check on Sean. Haven’t seen him for a while.” There, that didn’t sound too desperate.

“He’s out on a cruise with a Solar Shipping freighter,” Wilmos said. “He owed me a favor, and I owed a friend of mine. The friend has a shipping route and picks up credit vouchers from a couple of leisure planets, so he gets boarded a lot. He needed a good security person, so I gave him Sean for a year. It’s good for him. He wanted to see the glory of the universe, and now he gets a tour.”

Hmmm.

“You want me to get word to him?” Wilmos asked. “I can probably leave a message for him. I’ve got the codes for the freighter.”

I gave him a nice, sweet smile. “Sure! That would be great.”

Wilmos tapped the glass of the nearest counter. It turned dark, and a small circle with glowing symbols appeared in the corner. “Sorry, it will have to be text only. They’re too far out for face-to-face.” He tapped the circle, spinning it with his fingertips. An English keyboard ignited at the bottom of the rectangle. I was about to send an interstellar text.

“Go ahead,” he said.

I had to send something that only Sean would know. At least I would find out if he was dead or alive. I typed. It’s Dina. The apple trees recovered.

Wilmos touched a glowing symbol. The message flashed brighter and dimmed. Seconds ticked by. I kept my smile on.

A message flashed in response to mine. I told you I wasn’t poisonous.

Sean was alive. Nobody else would know that I nearly brained him with my broom for marking his territory in my orchard.

“Anything else?” Wilmos asked. He was trying to be nonchalant, but he was watching me very carefully.

“No, that was it. Much appreciated.”

“Anytime. I’m sure he’ll visit when he gets shore leave.”

“He’s welcome anytime and you as well. Come on, Beast.”

Beast gave Gorvar one last parting snarl, and we walked out of the shop, joined the crowd, and kept going down the street.

It made no sense. Wilmos built and sold weapons. Some of the gear in his shop looked too new to be antique. He must have a lot of connections in the soldier-for-hire world. When Wilmos recognized Sean, he’d come unglued. Sean was a natural biological child of two alpha-strain werewolves, who weren’t supposed to have survived the destruction of their planet. A normal werewolf was bad news, but Sean was stronger, faster, and more deadly than ninety-nine percent of the werewolf refugees strewn across the galaxy. Wilmos had acted as if Sean was a miracle.

“You don’t stick a miracle onto a freighter where he’ll be a security guard,” I told Beast. “There are more exciting ways to see the glory of the universe.”

It was like finding the last-known Tasmanian tiger and selling him to some rich guy to be a pet in his backyard. It just didn’t add up.

Wilmos didn’t want me to know what Sean was doing. I didn’t know why, and I really wanted to find out.

It took me almost half an hour to get to the Quillonian’s place. The shop owners pointed the door out to me, but it was on the third floor, and I had to find the way up and then the right set of stone bridges to get to the terrace. Quillonians were a reclusive race, proud, prone to drama, and violent when cornered. A couple of them had stayed at my parents’ inn, and as long as everything went their way, they were perfectly cordial, but the moment any small problem appeared, they would start putting exclamation marks at the end of all their sentences. My mother didn’t like dealing with them. She was very practical. If you brought a problem to her, she’d take it apart and figure out how best to resolve it. From what I remembered, Quillonians didn’t always want their problems resolved. They wanted a chance to shake their clawed fists at the sky, invoke their gods, and act as if the world was ending.

My father was brilliant at handling them. Before he became an innkeeper, he was a very good con man, excellent at reading his marks, and he finessed our more difficult guests. Before long, they were eating out of his hand. I tried to remember what he’d said to me about it. What was it? Something about plays…

I crossed the terrace to a stone bridge. The bridge, without a rail and barely two feet wide, terminated in a narrow balcony with a dark wooden door. Deep gouges scoured the wood as if something with superhuman strength and razor-sharp claws had attacked the door in a frenzy. I squinted. The scratches blended into a phrase repeated in several common languages. KEEP OUT. Wonderful.

I leaned and looked over the side. At least a fifty-foot drop to the street. If the Quillonian jumped out of his door and knocked me off the bridge, I would die for sure. I’d be a Dina pancake.

Beast whined.

I picked her up and started across the bridge, taking my time. I didn’t mind heights, but I would’ve liked something to hold on to.

Step, another step. I stepped onto the balcony and knocked. Before I could get the second knock in, the door flew open. A dark shape filled the doorway. I saw two glowing white eyes and a mouth studded with sharp teeth.

The mouth gaped open, and a deep voice roared, “Go away!”

The door slammed shut inches from my face.

I blinked. Really now. I think he actually blew my hair back with that. I knocked again.

The door sprang open, jerked aside by a powerful hand, and teeth snapped in my face. “What? What is it? Do I owe you money? Is that it? There is no money! I have nothing!”

“I need a chef.”

There was an outraged pause. “So that’s it. You have come to mock me.” The dark lips that hid the teeth rose, baring fangs the size of my pinkies. “Maybe I shall COOK YOU FOR DINNER!”

Beast’s fur stood straight up. Wicked claws slid from her feet. Her mouth gaped open, unnaturally wide, displaying four rows of razor-sharp teeth. She snapped her teeth and let out a piercing howl. “Awwwreeerooo!”

The Quillonian leaned back, shocked, and roared.

Beast snapped her teeth, lightning fast, biting the air and struggling in my arms. If he slammed the door in our face now, she’d shred it like confetti.

“Stop it, both of you!” I barked.

Beast closed her mouth.

The Quillonian sagged against the doorway. “What is it you want?”

“I need a chef,” I repeated.

“Holy Mother of Vengeance, fine. Come inside. You can bring your small demon as well.”

I followed him through the doorway into a narrow hallway. The walls were filthy with grime baked into the plaster over the years. The hallway opened into an equally filthy living room. The glass in the windows had been shattered long ego, and a single dark shard stuck out from the top of the frame. Dirt lay in the corners, gathered against the wall like dunes in a desert. A ratty couch sat in the middle of the floor. Soiled high-tech foam stuck out through rips in its upholstery. A pile of wooden slivers filled a singed metal bucket in front of the couch. The Quillonian must make a fire in the bucket when he got cold.

The draft brought a sour, revolting stench. I glanced through the window as I followed my host. Below us stood huge concrete vats. One was filled with what had to be lime and the other with some dark substance. The other three vats held red, blue, and yellow dyes. Tall, birdlike beings waded through the dye vats, stirring something with their feet. It had to be a tannery, which probably meant the substance in the other vat was bird dung. The wind flung another dose of reek at me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and nose and squeezed through the next doorway.

A pristine kitchen lay before me. Its cheap wooden cabinets were so clean they glowed. The countertop, a single slab of simple stone, was polished to a near mirror shine. A butcher block carved out of a plain block of wood held three knives in the corner next to an ancient but clean stove. The contrast was so sudden I stole a glance at the living room to make sure we were still in the same place.

The Quillonian turned toward me, and I finally saw him in the light. Even slightly stooped, he was seven feet tall. Short chocolate-brown fur covered his muscled body in the front, flowing into a dense forest of foot-long spikes on his back. That’s why the innkeepers called them Quillonians. Their real name was too difficult to pronounce.

He had a vaguely humanoid torso, but his thick, muscular neck was long and protruded forward. His head was triangular with a canine muzzle terminating in a sensitive black nose. His hands had four fingers and two thumbs, each digit long and elegant. Two-inch-long black claws tipped the fingers. Quillonians were a predatory species, my memory reminded me. They didn’t hunt humans, but they wouldn’t mind ripping one apart.

“What do you know?” The Quillonian fixed me with his stare. At the door his eyes had appeared completely white, but now I saw a pale turquoise iris with a narrow black pupil.

“You were a Red Cleaver, but you were stripped of your certification because you might have poisoned someone.”

“I did not poison anyone.” The Quillonian shook his head, his quills rustling. “I will explain, and then you can leave and slam the door behind you. I worked at the Blue Jewel on Buharpoor. I don’t expect you to know what it is or where it is, so trust me when I say it was a glittering gem of a restaurant in a hotel of mind-boggling luxury.”

I could believe it. The implant that let him speak English was clearly high quality.

“We were hosting a gala for the neighboring system. Three thousand beings. I was responsible for all of it. It was going splendidly until my sous chef took a bribe and served one of the princes a poisoned soup. The prince collapsed during the dinner and died.”

“So you didn’t actually poison anyone?” Why had they stripped him of his rank then?

“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.”

“Immersion circulator?”

“No.”

“A spherification device?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s a device that creates spheres by submerging drops of a liquid in a solution such as calcium chloride, causing the drops to form a solid skin over the liquid center. They pop in your mouth under the pressure of your teeth.”

I shook my head.

“Do you at least possess an electromagnetic scale?”

“No.”

He shook his hands. “Well, what do you have?”

“Pots, pans, knives, bowls, measuring cups, and silverware. Also some baking pans and molds.”

The Quillonian rocked back and stared at the ceiling. “The gods are mocking me.”

Not again. “It’s a challenge.”

He flexed his arms, his elbows bent, his clawed arms pointing to the sky. “Very well. Like a primitive savage who sets out to tame the wilderness armed with nothing but a knife and his indomitable will, I will persevere. I will wrestle victory from the greedy jaws of defeat. I shall rise like a bird of prey upon the current of the wind, my talons raised for the kill, and I shall strike true.”

Oh wow. I hope the inn filmed that.

“When do you normally have your morning meal?”

The clock told me it was four in the morning. “In about three hours.”

“Breakfast shall be served in three hours.” He hung his head. “You may call me Orro. Good day.”

“Good day, Chef.”

I left the kitchen and went up the stairway. I was so tired I’d start to hallucinate if I didn’t get some sleep.

Caldenia emerged from her side of the stairs. “Dina, there you are.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

A metal pot banged in the kitchen.

Caldenia frowned. “Wait, if you are here, who is in the kitchen?”

“Daniel Boone, cooking with his talons.”

“I love your sense of humor. Who is it really?”

“A Quillonian former Red Cleaver chef. His name is Orro, and he’ll be handling the food for the banquet.”

Caldenia smiled. “A Quillonian chef. My dear, you shouldn’t have. Well, you should have months ago, but one mustn’t be petty. Finally. I shall be dining in a style to which I am suited. Fantastic. Does he have moral scruples? I am reasonably sure this summit will result in at least one murder, and I have never tasted an otrokar.”

“Let me get back to you on that.”

I walked to my room, took off my shoes, my robe, and my jeans, collapsed into my bed, and fell asleep.