Chapter Three: Magnus, Luet & Jon

In the era to come, this chance encounter on the snow-tipped summit of the forest oasis would grow to mean much to many. For Charles, it represented the crossing of a threshhold through which there was no true return.

His first lesson from the Spears of Mercy was not a gentle one. He was shown what happens when you take a terrified person and trap them with the thing they fear. Without breaks, without interruption, and without the faintest hope of escape. Those first hours after the sack had come down and his body was strung to the back of a horse were a storm of panic. An unyielding attack. Charles gasped and gusted until he lost consciousness, only to jerk awake just long enough to fall into blackness again. There were flashes of heat intense enough to convince him his fever had come back stronger than ever, only for chills to wrack him a short time later. He had not been physically harmed, but his mind was in hell. The uncertainty. The endless waiting. His anxieties writhed beyond all control. Over and over, they screamed the masked raider’s words of working as a replacement cook were no more than a ruse. A sick joke to trick him into thinking he would see tomorrow. And if it wasn't a ruse, it was only a matter of time before the giant thought better of the decision and changed his mind. Any second now, the rush of riders would slow to a stop. Charles would be dragged from the horse, thrown down, and shown his mercy. He would join the countless others who fell prey before him, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it. He nearly vomited inside the sack and only stopped himself by the narrowest margin. No more, he pleaded. Someone please help me. It could not be borne. His heart beat so violently, Charles could hear it inside his skull. If this continued, his terror was going to end him before his kidnappers even had a chance.

But something unexpected began to take hold. The young chef’s trembling abruptly stopped. His aching limbs were too spent to move. His breathing calmed, then leveled. His lungs had no air left to give. Finally, he slumped forward in the saddle, for once his mind falling quiet. It came slowly, and not without resistance, but the storm did pass. The panic that had coursed through him faded, but it wasn't courage that filled the void. He felt only a strange emptiness. It was like falling down a pit with no bottom. He fell and fell and fell...and nothing more. No matter how long he waited, the end never came. Fear alone cannot run wild forever, he realized. Quicker than most of us would prefer to admit, men will mold to even the darkest state of affairs. Charles grew still and quiet, because he didn’t have enough strength left to be anything else. He did not receive his mercy that day. Or the following evening, when they arrived at the sea of tents and banners, a small circle of activity settled into the open plains, that the battalion called home. Only then was he allowed to see again.

The shackles and sack came off. He gasped. The sweet rush of air that doesn’t have to be sucked through woven straw. Never again would he take a free breath for granted. His reprieve was short-lived. Two pairs of rough hands brought him upright and began half-escorting, half-carrying him in grim silence through the heart of the compound.

There were soldiers in crimson armor everywhere. Charles' eyes darted. He tried to take in all he possibly could, but there was a great deal more than a tired mind could absorb. He had just enough time to note two unique tents, both conspicuously bigger than the rest. The first was a wide, white marquee (the only structure that could conceivably hold more than a dozen men at once). The second, blood-red with a rising dawn sewn intricately into the canvas siding, Charles could only guess was the commander’s personal quarters. But they did not stop at either. He was lead towards the edge of the woven sea, where the line between camp and open wilds started to blur. Then even further. When he finally got a break from being shoved forward on his injury, they were not in front of any tent. It was a pond. Crystal clear and surfaced with reeds and lilypads. A toad croaked somewhere under the moonlit night. Charles looked back, nervous and not entirely sure what was happening, but the connotation became clear when one of the men held out a fractured chunk of soap. You’re repulsively filthy. Get in and clean yourself. The young chef grit his teeth and silently undressed. The winter waters struck him like a tidal wave, but the chill did help his soreness a bit. When he emerged. he was given new clothes to replace his ruined Boulier ten-button uniform and apron.

A small part of him died when they left his hands for what he knew would be a final farewell.

On the chilly trek back, the young chef saw another large tent that had previously slipped by him. This one was a soft green bordering on blue. He knew it was their kitchen (or the closest thing to a kitchen one would find out here) well before they drew close enough to see inside. At some point they passed through an invisible curtain of blended herbs, sliced zest from fresh tart fruits, and the faint aroma of butter and milk. He cleared his mind and inhaled. No two kitchens smell quite the same, and Charles had grown to associate chefs with the scent of their kitchens and cooking. Lettering ran across the side.

The Green Galley.

This was where the raiders threw him to the ground unceremoniously.

A figure stood slicing fine discs of ginger from the root, his back to the three of them. A wild mane of red hair flowed between his shoulders, stopping about a foot above the small of his back. His frame was compact. Tall and thin with tightly wired muscles. His skin, tanned by long years under the open sun. But what spoke the loudest was a tattoo of vibrant blues and reds coiling down his left arm: a sea serpent breaching the tides at various points along the bicep and forearm, while the rest of its scaled body remained submerged under the violent waves. The tattoo ended at the beast’s open jaws. They were bursting free of the surface atop the man’s hand, as if poised to strike wherever its master gestured. He seemed almost nothing like the raiders; it would take two of him mashed together to equal any red in raw size, and his long, slender limbs looked better suited for more delicate work than stabbing and spears.

“Magnus,” the raider on the young chef’s left said. His voice smashed through the steady clap of steel against the cutting board. When a Spear spoke, it was not a request that you pay attention. Yet the man, who turned just enough to reveal a well-trimmed beard and a mustache made of dark red stubble, did not set down his knife and wait to be spoken to, as Charles might have done. Instead, he buried it in the cutting board. The rage on his face was blatant.

“What. Is it. Now?” he said darkly. If the strength of voices could project physical force, his would have met the Spear’s blow-for-blow.

“This one is yours. An extra pair of hands. Cardinal’s orders.”

“Oh, well that's just wonderful," the man called Magnus said. His tone made it clear he did not think it was wonderful at all. "I was just thinking how nice it would be to have to train-," He eyed Charles. "Whatever this is on top of feeding you useless lot.” The man called Magnus sneered and went back to his slicing.

Charles gaped. Right now would be a very good time for him to learn the power to turn invisible and fade into the background. He was fully certain the tent was about to explode into a scene of grisly murder, a blood-spattered atrocity he prefferred not to have burned into memory for the rest of his days. Had this fool cracked completely? Or had the constant burden of living in bondage cost him his sense of self-preservation? Did he even understand who he was trifling with? These men were savages. Killers who...well, killed at the drop of a hat. And what if they decided they weren’t satisfied with merely brutalizing one person? Would they turn their rage on him, too? Countless scenarios cycled in his head, each more gruesome than the last, until the red-haired man spoke again. “Will that be all then?” Magnus said with a dissmisive handwave. “I have prep work to get back to. That means leave my kitchen.”

The murder never came. If the raiders were at all offended by the man’s insolence, they showed no sign. Stoic as ever, they performed a smooth about-face and left the green tent without further comment. Charles stood in the entrance alone. He thought of saying hello. Then his mouth clamped shut and he said nothing. He did not want to make a poor first impression. He waited politely, though for what he wasn’t entirely sure. Introductions? Orders? An orientation of some sort? A tour of his station, maybe? The red-haired man continued as if there had been no interruption at all. So Charles waited some more.

It was starting to get a bit awkward. He had expected no words of parting from the raiders, but...some small part of him had hoped he might receive a few in welcome from a fellow chef. The two of them might be strangers, but at least they shared one thing in common.

There was only the smooth din of more slicing. Charles' attention wandered. He eyed the space he was meant to cook in for the foreseeable future. It might give him a clue or two about the obstacles he was up against. More importantly, it would tell him about this man who was either brave or reckless enough to hurl gall at men like the Spears.

Compared to what he’d used to barely scrape by in the wilderness, it was an armory fit for a warlord of fine dining. Cast-iron pans, fine steel colanders, massive sixty-quart stockpots like the kind meant to serve stew to a large crowd, and a mountain of other kitchenware. All kept in their prime, and surprisingly good craftsmanship. Overhead, lines of red and green chili peppers, string-tied around their stems into long streams so they could dry in the open air, hung this way and that. A chef in need of quick spice need only reach up and grab one. Though it must have been near midnight, the lighting inside the tent was so strong, Charles could make out the individual scars on his hands. A glow emanated from a potted plant set into a hole dug into the soil. A sunroot. Charles held his hand toward the light and was surprised to feel a gentle warmth on his fingertips. He had never seen a luminescent plant species in the Boulier kitchen. His first thought was whether he’d be able to watch it glow inside his stomach if he roasted it with lamb or a beef rib center.

Whoever this Magnus was, this was far from his first time at the helm of a kitchen. He managed his quarters with an evident sense of order. Ingredients in use were kept separated in their own cups, bowls, and distinct piles. All were further broken down and categorized based on when a recipe might call for them. Wet from dry. Cardamom pods from coriander seeds. Even his salts are properly separated. None of the chaos that marked an amatuer or incompetent chef. Charles strode for the opposite corner, listing off resources he spotted along the way. A wood cook-stove, custom-made. It had a pipe fitted through a small hole cut into the tent’s ceiling. Several cots, frayed and filthy, lining the wall. One had a small hill of tattered blankets piled atop it. Charles grimaced. It seemed he would be sleeping here as well. There was a line of spatulas, ladles, wooden spoons and the like hanging from hooks. A washing station. A stocked spice rack-

Charles froze. Curiosity guided his feet toward the rack of glass jars. Most were powders of varying colors, but some held whole roots, leaves, seeds, dried flowers or fruits. Even without using smell, identifying each of them was an effortless exercise. Common and Red Rubin basil. Ground cumin. Fresh thyme. Whole black peppercorns. Then it called to him. The young chef pulled a jar from the bottom shelf. The spice inside shown a radiant golden-orange in the lantern light. He held a hand to his mouth and gasped. There’s no way. He held it closer, squinting. At a glance, it seemed little different from the others, but this was a thing of beauty. It contained many, many small stigmas plucked from a wildflower not found anywhere near the young chef’s homeland of Dreya. Rare and obscure. It’s flavor, difficult to tame. Prized by professional chefs everywhere, but the process for producing it was slow and arduous, as each individual stigma could only be harvested by hand. Were he to remove the lid, he had no doubt a faint aroma like piled hay would blast him with its unique bitterness. But for enough to fill this jar to find its way into a camp of soldiers? Impossible. Could this actually be…?

“Put. That. Down.” Charles did so. Carefully, so as not to drop it. A hand seized his collar and brought him face-to-face with a furious Magnus. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, with piercing green eyes and deep lines stemming from the corners of his eyes. A sign of chronic stress, not uncommon in busy kitchens. His tattooed serpent’s jaws were poised at the fifteen-year-old’s throat, as if a simple command would prompt it to start tearing. “Where did you learn your manners, boy? Don’t you know you should never touch a chef’s saffron without permission!?” he barked.

It was a fair point. Saffron, by weight, was worth more than gold. Not something you want a stranger getting too familiar with. If Charles had the frame of mind to be calmer, he would have apologized and promised not to repeat his mistake. Under his current level of stress, what actually came out of his mouth was a series of near-incoherent babblings, the beginnings of thoughts promptly cut off by something new and wildly different every half-second. It was as though language had abandoned him completely. As he made a task of embarrassing himself, Magnus’ anger dissolved into something more neutral. Something like judgment, bored disdain, tiredness and exasperation. It was a look that said he wished he was elsewhere. He sighed and let go of the fifteen-year-old, who sprawled to the dirt floor, and rubbed his temples. “Ugh. See that it does not happen again. Now, are you just going to lay there or are you going to make yourself useful?” Part of Charles leaned towards the former, but he still picked himself up. Magnus gestured toward a mortar and pestle, and a heap of round, black peppercorns beside it. “Let’s see what you can do then. Go ahead and get started on those,” he said. Charles sat and stared. “Today would be preferable.”

The young chef hastened so as not to anger him again. He grasped the pestle, and somehow it put him at ease. It was hard granite. Smooth. Well-made. The sort of material that wouldn’t crack even from years of intense use. The cold on his palm awakened pleasant memories of some of his earliest lessons. In those days, he and Father had cooked together, side by side. Later, he had done the same with Erickson, Gustav, and the rest of Father's masters. Old instincts rushed back to the surface. He had not ground his own spices in what felt like ages, but it returned to him as naturally as walking after a long rest. Just take a breath, he told himself. This is nothing. The simplest thing in the world. Busywork he’d performed thousands of times. He began. The peppercorns became fragments as he brought the pestle down, then grew even finer as he pulverized them against the solid edges of the mortar. The sharp aroma biting at his nose made him just a bit excited. Ah, black pepper. The finest seasoning that isn’t salt. His thoughts drifted as he worked. There was no arguing against the convenience of spices that were already ground before they ever arrived in your kitchen, Father used to tell him. They were quick. Straightforward. A perfect fit...for the average cook making average dishes. But for those seeking true achievement, there could be no substitute for fresh grinding or grating. Crushing peppercorns releases a wonderful pungency, but the second you expose their innards to the open air, oxygen is already starting to dull the taste. Under the Boulier roof, Charles had been taught to make urgent use of ground spices, before they deteriorated into anything less than perfection.

“Not bad form, boy. Go ahead and work them down all the way. And make sure you cover the top to avoid-” Magnus paused. Charles' free hand was already poised over the mortar’s opening to prevent any powder from escaping while he mashed and meshed with the pestle, something that had been second-nature to him since childhood. “...spillage.” Magnus eyed him, but kept any thoughts to himself. They worked at neighboring stations, one grinding, one chopping, until the younger chef suddenly broke the tension.

“How-.” Charles caught himself. It was not wise for him to ask such things. Curiosity had already gotten him into trouble with this man once. But it was too late to stuff his ‘how’ back inside and pretend he had said nothing. Magnus brushed some ginger skin free of his hands.

“So you’ve discovered human speech,” he said. “Go ahead. Use your words.” Charles hesitantly continued.

“How are you able to talk to them that way? Aren’t you afraid they’ll hurt you?” he said. He had hardly finished his first questions when he found himself launching into more. “Why didn’t they hurt you? It’s hard to imagine men like that showing restraint for a foreign captive.” The tattooed chef scoffed.

“I think...” Magnus said. “That you have the wrong idea about me. I am not a prisoner here in this camp. Not in the sense that you are, at least.”

Charles blinked at him.

“You’re a Spear?”

Magnus raised a brow. “Do I look a warrior to you? I suppose I could confuse the enemy by throwing a boiled lobster at them. I’m a civilian chef. One of a lucky handful of imperials abducted—oh, pardon me—conscripted to keep these...things from starving while they carry out the emperor’s will,” he said sourly. “No, I manage six restaurants in the motherland. Real work for real profit, and I’ll be returning to it the very instant my service is finished.” Magnus finished one root and started making short work of another. Though he was speaking, his eyes and hands never broke from the task in front of him. “Honestly, this post. Three meal shifts without breaks. Dozens of servings to prepare at a time. The weather, pure misery. Hardly a moment to look after myself, and any sleep is a luxury. The punishment for desertion is the only thing that keeps me here anymore. It’s been a pit of shit since day one, but at least then I had proper company to wade through it with me.”

One of our cooks met his end to pneumonia two nights ago...

“The other cook...he fell ill?” Charles said.

“There were six of us,” Magnus said, wiping his hands on his apron. “But you can only mean Heathroe. It’s more appropriate to say illness felled him. Like an oak tree falling on an ant. His body just couldn’t take the rain and cold anymore. From the picture of health to gone in a matter of days. And just when I had thought our luck might finally be taking a turn for the better. Before that, Truan and Mark went searching for ingredients one evening and did not return. The Spears found what was left of them in a wolf den. Daven fell from his horse and took a blow to the head. He was speaking and eating normally, but he went to sleep and never woke the next morning. Gadius...poor fool took two fingers off with his own knife. He was discharged once he was no longer fit for the Galley, but the infection killed him well before his escort arrived. Five dead cooks in a matter of weeks. And who’s going to take responsibility once we return? The Spears?” Magnus tilted his head and spat. “Don’t hold your breath. I didn’t know any of them before this, yet I’ll be the one telling the families their men are never coming home. I suppose they’re owed that much. It’s not like these walking shells are going to do it.”

Magnus sighed again, then gave Charles a very serious look. “All men must make the best of their circumstances,” he said. “To answer your inane questions, I have never once feared the Spears, and they will always brush it off when I give them my honest thoughts. Now I will ask you a question. Do you understand why?”

“Isn’t it...because you’re an imperial, like them?” Charles said, pouring powder from the mortar and tossing in a fresh round of peppercorns. He had assumed that much was obvious. Now he was less sure. The other man smirked as though Charles’ answer was the most adorably naive thing he had ever heard.

“True, I am a citizen of the empire, with all that entails,” Magnus said. He was scrutinizing a lemon with a small, green blemish. After a quick sniff, he apparently decided it was servable and halved it with a quick slice. “Somewhere in the imperial palace, there is a very fancy piece of paper stating I have certain rights that make it unlawful for them to-.” He squeezed a fistful of fresh juice into a small bowl. “-smash my skull against a rock or do any number of other unsavory things. But fancy papers mean little out here. If a blade were to find its way through my back this far from civilization, who would know the truth from a lie, or even care enough to seek it?”

Nobody, Charles thought bleakly.

“I don’t place my faith in papers, or laws, or rights I may or may not have depending on the whims of the powerful,” Magnus said. “Those men left without a fuss because they cannot do without me. An army marches on its stomach. Who else is going to fuel their red machine of death?”

Charles mused on that. “They can’t ever hurt you, then?” he asked.

Magnus shrugged. “A man can hurt another man anytime he feels like it. Reason reminds him to think twice. It might be satisfying to cut me down in the moment, but what then? What would they do if I wasn’t around? Cook all their meals and manage the inventories themselves? Ha! Not one of them would have any idea how. Starvation cannot be killed with a blade. In that sense, you’re correct, they cannot hurt me, because they've decided they will not. So long as men need to eat, they know better than to trifle with their chef. They’re well aware that if I were not wading in this shit, all of them would drown in it. I make sure that giant creature who leads them is aware of it, too.”

Charles knew of only one who fit that description. “The man in the half-moon mask,” he said.

“Ah, I see you’ve already met the good cardinal. Delightful man. Real treat at dinner parties.” Magnus’ expression grew just a touch anxious. “A strong word of advice. Don’t go grasping for any traces of humanity in this battalion. There's a small chance you might find some in a normal soldier from a normal army, even in this era of war, but not here, and especially not from him. His name is Thorne. Do not call him that to his face unless you want your bones shattered. I would prefer you remain in one piece since I am short-staffed as it is. Address him as ‘Your Eminence’ if you must, though you should try to avoid having to speak to him at all. So long as you are useful, you will have a place here. He and the others should leave you be. But in the Spears of Mercy, if a thing is not needed, it is not kept for long. You’d do well to remember that. Don’t get any ideas about talking back when you’ve only just arrived. You are not me. You have even less than a piece of paper protecting you. Be quiet, meet your deadlines, and do as you’re told. Now, how are those peppercorns coming along? We’ll need them in ten minutes, so they had best be ready by then.”

Charles looked down. He'd completely forgotten they were preparing a dish. Of the black peppercorns, nothing remained. In there place stood a towering mountain of perfectly ground pepper he, for the most part, did not remember making. “Uh...all finished,” he said.

"Bullshit you are. It's only been a few-." Magnus turned, saw the mound of pepper, then stared at him in bewilderment. “What is your name?” he finally said. It was the first time he had shown the slightest interest in the person attached to his extra pair of hands.

The young chef bowed formally. “Charles. Charles Boulier.”

“Is that right? And where the fuck did they find you, Charles Boulier?” The question was apparently rhetorical, as Magnus continued without an answer. “We might actually make deadline. You’re certainly less useless than the last bumpkin they sent me.” His face soured again. “Speaking of…” He strode over to the cots, then stopped over what Charles had presumed was a bundle of blankets. Magnus kicked the bundle, which, surprisingly, groaned and rolled over. When it did nothing more, Magnus rolled his eyes and kicked it harder. “Get up, Luet,” he said coldly. “It’s been three hours. Your break is over.”

Luet. Alertness shot through Charles.

With every person, there are certain words that ring a tiny bell. Words so deeply intimate to the mind, repeated and heard so often throughout the course of their life that even after years without hearing one, a single use will still immediately catch your attention, like hearing an old friend call your name across a noisy, crowded room. Or the name of someone you had shared a roof with your entire life. What had Magnus just said? What name had that been? Had he misheard just now? It would be a long coincidence, but surely far stranger things have occurred. By some twist of fate, had circumstance somehow carried the elder Boulier son, Luen VI, to the same destination as the younger?

Another turn from the bundle. Charles stepped closer. This time he caught a familiar flash of freckles, and a mop of unruly curled hair. He was almost certain now. He reached out for the form beneath the blankets.

“...Luen?”

What happened next came with little warning. “No, no please,” the bundle said softly. Then it grew louder. “Please...please, I’ll do anything.” The tossing and turning became violent. Suddenly a man launched upright from the blankets, a portrait of total panic. It was not Luen. It was someone taller, fatter, and older than Luen, nearer to Magnus’ age, but with eyes the same shade of brown as the freckles dotting his face and arms. Those eyes were wide open and twitching rapidly, but they didn’t seem to recognize their surroundings. He was sweating under a mop of dark curls despite the cool air, his face equal parts disorientation and raw terror. Still lost in some junction between dream and reality, he took hold of the person who was physically closest to him—in this case, Charles—and pleaded from his knees.

“I’ll do anything! I swear I will! Just don’t kill me!” Charles was speechless. The half-asleep man stared into his soul, and he stared back. I didn’t say these words, but this must have been the look in my eyes. Did those men feel anything like this, when they stared down at me? Or any of the others? Even one of them? No. Of course they hadn’t. If they had, they would have abandoned their weapons right then. They would have run as far from warfare as possible and never looked back.

There was a place, a deep hole inside Charles, that existed to contain outbursts like the one happening in front of him. It was like a prison inside him that kept it all locked away. At an all too intimate level, he related to this man in a way someone in Magnus’ position could never fully understand. However, he did not like being dragged to that deep place without his consent, and there was a strange man holding him in an iron grip and shouting at him. He was frightened. He gave a hard shove without thinking.

The curly-haired man fell to the dirt and was finally knocked awake. He jolted left and right. At the walls. The cook tent’s roof. At Magnus. And at this new person he did not recognize. His breathing slowed. “I-I…” he stammered. He still seemed lost, as if he’d suddenly been warped to a faraway land, full of people who spoke a language he didn’t understand, and had no idea what to do next.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Charles said, quickly extending a hand. “I...I was startled. Here, let me help you.”

It was small and quick, but the man named Luet recoiled. Panic lurked behind his gaze, but just as soon as it had come, it faded away. “Thank you. Thank you, kindly.” He allowed Charles to help him to his feet. By the time he was upright, he was like another Luet entirely. Composure returned to him. His breathing was no longer labored. He smiled at the young chef, who felt an urge to smile back.

The darkness was gone.

If one had not witnessed the last several minutes, it would be as though it had never happened in the first place. Magnus watched the exchange without sentiment, arms folded impatiently. “If the two of you are quite finished,” he said. “There’s work to be done.” He jabbed a finger at the younger cook. “Charles,” he said. The finger passed over the second chef. “Luet. He’s a pastretta. The Spears picked him up about two weeks ago.” Charles stared at the curly-haired man in surprise. Pastretta. A Master of Pastries. Their area of expertise was drizzled chocolates, sumptuous frosted cakes and, naturally, any dishes under the wide umbrella of pastries. They were specialists of highly coveted confections in the sweet realm of desserts. After achieving their mastery, many flocked to gourmet restaurants where they could hone their craft, while others preferred to set out alone and opened private, specialized bakeries catering to lovers of breads, candies and exotic confections. “Luet,” Magnus said, reversing his lazy introduction. “Charles. He’s…”

“An eleve,” Charles said quickly, lowering his head in a humble bow. An apprentice chef. He would not lie about it. Claiming a mastery, a wealth of knowledge normally acquired through years of rigorous training and study, would not only be an act disgracing all chefs, but one that could do him great harm in the long run. What would he do if he was expected to prove his mastery in a critical moment? He would be exposed, and possibly punished. “My training is unfinished, but I promise I will be of use.”

Magnus looked like he very much doubted it. “A student and a stuffed cream puff. The One Mercy is smiling on all of us,” he said dryly. There was a familiar contempt in ‘stuffed cream puff’ Charles' father reserved for addressing certain chefs. All masteries might be equal in principle, but that did not mean everyone viewed it that way. Magnus rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s going to have to do. Luet has been here long enough to get a taste for things, but he gets to hear the same lecture again.” He pointed his sea serpent at Charles. “Hear me! This is like no kitchen you’ve ever suffered before. It will make the workloads you’ve known feel like a cool spring breeze. Here and now, you should abandon any notions you have of cooking as an artform.” Charles' heart sank. “We do not create high art here. We create logistical miracles. Our goals are quantity, consistency, and above all, efficiency. Our ‘customers’ are not known for their pickiness, but they are not known for their patience, either. When there are this many mouths to deal with, raw talent as a chef will only carry you so far. You will learn to optimize every step of your cooking.”

The silent or else hung in the air. “This situation is this. We have a small army of men to feed every morning. Then twice more before the day is done. They will come in three shifts per meal, spaced half an hour apart, each comprising a third of the Spears’ numbers so as not to overwhelm us with a mob. That means making the most of the gap between sundown and sunrise. Anything that can be prepared beforehand for all three meals must be done now. It’s a task for a full team. We are three. If we fail, deadlines will be missed and schedules set back. You do not want that to happen. Luet, take over at the cutting board. Onions are minced, tomatoes will be fine with a rough chopping. Charles, you clearly have a way with spices, so keep grinding at the mortar. Start by whipping up some paprika. We’ll need about half as much of that as the pepper you made earlier. And fetch some basil from the rack. Common will do.”

“The first dish?” Charles asked. “What are we making for breakfast?”

Magnus raised that condescending brow again. “Let’s not reinvent the oven here.” A fry pan and spatula rose in each hand. “Pancakes and bacon. A model of simplicity. Very popular around here, and most elsewhere, I suppose.”

Charles blinked. “...We’re adding paprika to pancakes and bacon? Won't that be a bit...spicy?”

Magnus narrowed his eyes. “That’s for lunch, you dolt. Soup with chicken as the center.” Another pogitier dish. “Hopefully, we’ll have enough leftovers to supplement dinner. I will handle the butchery. Oh, and in the future, if I tell you we’re adding the glass jar that holds the paprika to pancakes, you will do as I say and make it happen. Now go.”

With those firm words, they divided. Magnus planted himself firmly at the far corner to the right of the door and took to slicing strips of bacon. Charles opted for the opposite corner. It is a common misconception that chefs collaborate closely at every step in preparation, working in tandem within the same narrow space. This is impractical. Too slow to meet customer’s demands. In reality, chefs spend most of the process isolated in their own station. Efficiency, as Magnus had said, was a golden rule in any kitchen. That is why the system of masters had such strong roots across many cultures. Each to their territory. No more or less than necessary. In the Boulier kitchen, once separated, each master—or an eleve like Charles, if he was not shadowing one of Father’s chefs that day—became an island devoted to their role. Typically, there was little talking, unless a chef was asking for assistance or confirming the Lead Chef’s orders. The heavy pace of cooking before a rush rarely lent itself to socializing, so the young chef was surprised when Luet began to set up directly across from his station, greeting him with all the warmth of a gently glowing stove.

“I had begun to think I'd never see another son of Dreya,” he said, positioning an onion on the weathered cutting board. The board was quality, like the rest of Magnus’ equipment, but it was marred with dents and divots all across its woody surface. No doubt the tips of a great many knives had been buried in it. That pleasant smile formed on Luet again. “I’d gotten used to nothing but imperial cooks and imperial faces.” He leaned forward and whispered the next part. “Though, I suppose we’re the majority in here now.”

Charles opened his mouth to say something friendly back. Perhaps a witty joke or a clever comment piggybacking on the last thing Luet had said. Nothing came out. Again, his mind seemed intent on being uncooperative when meeting a new person. Maybe he still felt embarrassed for mistaking someone near thirty for his older half-brother, who had only just come of age. Mildly awkward seconds stretched into unbearably awkward minutes. He tried not to think about how the other man must be viewing him. Or their spacing. They were too close together. Didn’t Luet understand they might muddle each other’s cooking like this? Even if he was a master, this was hardly the occasion to be overconfident. This was not home. There was a great deal more than disgruntled customers at stake.

He glanced to Magnus. The tattooed chef was preoccupied with the chicken, his back to them. All clear. He was safe to make another go at talking. Be natural. He is from Dreya, like you. A comrade. Don’t bring up the silence, or the fact that you were too nervous to answer him earlier. And don’t act apologetic right out of the gate. You’re always doing that.

“It’s alright,” Luet said. “He’s all-in once he gets going. He won’t hear us.”

“M-my apologies,” Charles said. Brilliant. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just not used to talking while I cook. I’m not used to any of this, really. I’m Charles.” He already knows your name. Magnus introduced you. “Uh, Charles of Lutz.”

Despite his assertion that Magnus would not overhear them, Luet still double-checked before continuing. “Do you have family on the outside, Charles of Lutz?” he whispered.

“In the capital. We were separated, but they should be waiting for me there,” Charles said.

“Good. Keep thinking of them. It’s the only thing that will get you through this. You have to be ready to do whatever it takes to get back to them." Then Luet said something odd. "You can’t trust anyone around here. They’re not like you and me.”

Charles was unsure how to respond, so he changed the subject. “To be honest, for a moment I actually thought you might be my brother, Luen. You look a bit like him, and your names sound so close...”

Luet smiled.

“It’s a common name,” he said. “But then, Charles is a popular one, too. We common men have to stick together in trying times, eh? What’s your brother like? Is Luen an eleve, too?”

“Oh...no, he doesn’t…”

Even if you wear that apron, you’ll never be a real Boulier. Father was a fool to remarry. Your mother is a worthless mistress, and you’ll never be anything but a mistress’ son. You’re no brother of mine.

“...he doesn’t like cooks.”

“Well, brothers can be difficult, especially if they’re not close in age. I had a half-brother as well. Parents took pity and adopted him after his birth family died in a fire. They were a rich household, too, so you can imagine he didn’t care much for his new humble home. Told us as much all the time. Can you believe that? Yet none of his supposedly noble neighbors could be bothered to lift a finger when he needed help Not one stepped forward to adopt him. All that money and old status can’t buy virtue, now can it? I swear, the two of us were at each other’s throats constantly.”

For the second time, Charles was suddenly eager to change the topic. “You have people waiting, too?” he asked. Luet nodded.

“My wife and daughter. We were separated, like you. But I know they’re safe. Safe and waiting for me to come protect them.” The older man looked pained. He closed his eyes. “If I just had the power, I’d tear through these monsters and leave here right now.” Luet looked to Magnus again. “Starting with that one. He may not be a Spear, but inside he’s cold and lifeless as any steel.” To his own surprise, Charles found himself only mostly-agreeing. Mostly, but not quite all. Magnus was more than rough about his edges. Subtlety and emotional insight were strangers to him. Side by side, he makes Father seem personable. But he was the same man who had taken it upon himself to meet with the widows and children of his fallen fellow chefs. He did not have to do that. It was also comforting to know not every imperial viewed the Spears of Mercy as something normal or natural, and few others would be bold enough to disparage them openly. Still, that was not the same as being an ally. Would a conscripted man like Magnus, who could return home freely once the terms of service he owed the emperor ended, ever stick his neck out for prisoners like him or Luet? Probably not. In all likelihood, the best that could be expected was some grey line between friend and foe. Even that might be too optimistic. A strong word of advice. Don’t go grasping for any traces of humanity in this battalion.

Friend or not, his iron control in the kitchen seemed like the real deal. He was a chef to the core, and if he truly managed six restaurants, that would make him a Chef-Owner on par with Charles’ grandfather, Louis Boulier. But he couldn’t be more than ten years past the rank of Master. Just what had his life been like up to now?

“I was surprised,” Charles said, steering toward a different subject yet again. “This Green Galley is well-supplied. At least we have a wide stock of ingredients on-hand.”

“Where do you think they’re getting all these ingredients, Charles?” Luet said.

The young chef blanched like a head of cauliflower. “It comes from the empire, doesn’t it?” Luet shook his head. “Then...this is all…”

“Not every bit,” Luet said. “Some came with Magnus and the other cooks. Their personal stashes, probably, and I have seen a handful imperial deliveries along the way. A few riders coming in with essentials. But they’re sparse. Most of this is flat-out robbed from people like us. People they’ve butchered. That’s all the Spears of Mercy are. Cutthroats and thieves. We’re not even people to them. Just heretics to be converted.”

With that, Charles agreed wholly.

“Boulier!” came Magnus’ gruff shout. “Some cinnamon as well! And don’t you dare touch that saffron.”

“Understood, Chef!” When he turned back to their talk, he saw a subtle shift in Luet. Brief, as it had been when he flinched from Charles’ hand, but it was there. A flit of fear and desperation. Charles was looking at the pale, disoriented man who had burst out of the blankets. Again, it vanished like a drenched flame, and there was only the cheerful smile.

“Boulier, is it? Interesting name. I am Luet Bartrow, by the way. Luet of Greenfield.” They shook hands.

“I wish we could have met under better conditions, Master Luet. My father never kept a pastretta on staff, but I’ve always wanted to train under one.” This seemed to peak Luet’s interest.

“And how far along is your training?” he said. “What can you do?”

Charles had heard the first question often enough. The second was oddly vague. Luet had not asked what masters he had trained under, if he had decided on a culinary academy, or whether he had undergone his stagiaire, a term of temporary employment in an established chef’s kitchen and an essential step in reaching one’s mastery. “...Well, I’ve studied sauces and roasts, mainly. Some pogitier dishes, when our Master of Soups had enough free time to train me. Vegetable dishes under Gustav, food decor and athethetics under Master Kristoph. Boregard taught me a bit of butchery here and there. Father had me shadow all of his masters at some point or other, so I know quite a few things well enough. I’m pretty good with marinades and dressings, too, though I doubt I’ll get to use them here. What about you? What drove you to your mastery?” he said.

“Family tradition,” Luet said, quite quickly. “My father, his father before him, and so on. You know how it goes.” Charles nodded.

“Did you ever want to be something else? A different mastery?”

“Yes,” Luet whispered again. “And quite recently, too. If I’d become a master of hiding or sprinting, I might have avoided ending up here.”

Charles couldn’t help but laugh. He had not had many moments of levity lately, and wanted to take them where he could. “Did you attend academy in the capital?” he said. Luet took several seconds in answering.

“No, I studied in Dreya. A small school. You probably wouldn’t know it.” Charles digested that quietly. He was trying to find an interpretation of what Luet had said that would give him reason to think he had somehow misheard or misunderstood. There were only four culinary schools in all of Dreya. Three in the King’s City of Frandt. One in Octreve, a set of seven towers in the high mountains known for producing some of the finest carnenders in history. While they couldn’t rival what the City of Hope had to offer, all were famous in their own right. None were small.

He let the subject be. “Would you mind handing me some of that caraway?” he said, pointing to one of Magnus’ carefully organized piles. Luet did so, casually passing a handful of the dried, seed-like fruits. “Much obliged.” Charles didn’t need caraway. Caraway would almost certainly have no place in the soup they were prepping for lunch. But then, what Luet had handed him was not caraway at all. It was seeds of anise, another common spice. Magnus’ caraway was in a separate pile, within plain sight of the one Charles had pointed to. The pair could be called distant cousins at best. Near enough in shape and size, but the caraway far darker. Once you started actually using them in dishes, the contrast grew more blatant. Anise had a powerful flavor like freshly-made licorice that sparked fierce debate as to whether it truly made food better or worse. Culinarians either adored or despised it with little middle ground. Caraway was a popular complement to potato and pork dishes. A mild touch by comparison, and not the least bit controversial. Even a blind chef would be able to discern them by simply holding one to their nose.

Charles said nothing. They managed to finish prepping just before dawn. Breakfast came just under an hour after. Stacks of steaming pancakes bowed the tables. Enough bacon to recreate a whole pig several times over lay sizzling across heated steel or dripping precious grease into jars for later use. Spices were ground. Herbs blended. Acids—juices from sour fruits, vinegars and, in some cases, wines to give a dish that extra sour push—arranged in order of necessity. Everything lay in its proper place.

Charles knelt against the side of his station, trying to catch his wind. Magnus had not exaggerated the workload. The pace that man set was on another level. “You did passably for your first time,” Magnus told him. It was likely the closest thing to a compliment Charles was going to receive from him. “You should rest while you can. I wasn’t joking when I said sleep is a luxury.”

“What about serving?” Charles asked. “And the washing?” Traditionally, cleaning up after chefs was the work of mirettes, porters with, at most, remedial skill in the kitchen. If they did any cooking, it was the sort of mundane tasks true chefs were too busy to handle. Skinning sweet potatoes, gathering fresh water, removing juniper berries from severed branches or squeezing fresh juice from a lime or grapefruit. Nearly all of the Boulier mirettes were old, and the ones who weren’t old were sour and embittered. Transient laborers or failed eleves in their twenties and thirties who were never able to achieve a mastery. Charles had always found the last group particularly unpleasant. Right now, he’d give what was left of his leg to have one he could pass his sullied steel off to. He had never scrubbed a pot in his life.

“Oh, were you that eager to get back to work then?” Magnus asked. “I can let the Cardinal know you’d like to be of further use.” Charles' horror must have been plain, because a second later the tattooed chef smirked at him. “Don’t drop dead on me, Boulier. The Shattered will see to the serving and scrub the pots before lunch. Our role is the preparation of food. Nothing more, nothing less. ”

The who will see to it? Charles thought. Normally, he might have asked for clarification, but his current self was too exhausted and relieved to care. “It’s alright. I’ll sleep in a little while. I think I just need to take a walk. Stretch my legs a bit,” he said.

“Do not stray far,” Magnus said bluntly. “Moving about the camp won’t cause any trouble, but try to exit its borders without an escort and they’ll run you down. They won’t risk anyone, chef or not, leaking their secrets.”

Charles heeded those words. He did not proceed past the sea of tent’s southernmost edge. He looked for something solid to rest his back against, as he’d been crouched over for much of the night, and found it in a clearing where the grass rose. A small hill, too tilted to stake a tent, and at its head stood a crown of aged wood. A massive stump. Gnarled and wizened by the centuries. It was taller than his waist, and wide enough for a grown man to lay across. Far older than living memory, he thought. Charles sat. The rays of morning stabbed at his eyes, but he did not mind. He took a quiet sense of victory in the sun. Seeing its light. Feeling its warmth on his face. The wind in his hair.

He had survived the night. It wasn’t much, but it was a fact. To anyone else, it might be a thing too insignificant to take any real solace in. That view was understandable. It was not as though his situation had changed, or that he had any reason to think it would in the future. Yet just yesterday the idea of making it even this far had seemed beyond him. Tied to that horse with a sack over his head, he had thought he’d never know a sunrise again. One day finished, he told himself. Another on the way. Today, at least. I’ll make it through today. Tomorrow as well, probably. After that…

His confidence faded. He shielded his eyes from the light. It was said that when new arrivals made it to the City of Hope, the first thing they laid eyes on was the towering Lantern of the Masses raised high enough to scrape the heavens. A titanic structure that lit the night like dawn. Sol Taire. The light that burns eternal. A beacon for those with no place of belonging. Lost souls like him. Charles told himself that when he saw it, it would make all other dawns seem insignificant by comparison. He would be able to forget this tiny victory, because something far greater had replaced it.

His spirit grew weary. His eyelids heavy. A nagging voice warned him not to fall asleep. If he returned late, it would mean risking Magnus’ wrath. But the soft song of the wind had him in its grasp. He was drifting off. Slipping away from everything. Was it really so wrong to want to rest in a place that felt safe instead of those soiled cots surrounded by those barbarians? Surely just a few minutes would be fine. Just a few before he went back. That was all he needed. He closed his eyes and began to fantasize of other worlds. Worlds where things were different. Better for him and everyone else. Worlds where he was bolder, stronger, and free.

A series of coughs yanked him back to reality. He groaned. And I didn’t even get a chance to dream of being elsewhere. He could have ignored it, but now the gross sound of that cough was bouncing around in his brain. It had been very loud. Rude, too. Not the modest clearing of the throat Charles had been taught in his lessons of etiquette, but a congested hack so hard and so deep one would think the cougher was about to dislodge their own liver. It came from the far side of the stump. Another person picked this spot to rest? How had that slipped by him? Whoever they were, they had seated themselves almost directly across from him, so their backs faced one another. He strained his neck, but the stump was far too tall. It was impossible to see any part of the stranger while sitting down. He moved to steal a peak over the rim. That was when the hidden figure gave an iron command.

“Do not look,” it said. Charles sat down at once. There was an authority to the voice that he had felt compelled to obey on instinct. If a hammer smashing an anvil had a voice, he guessed it would sound like this voice. “Pretend you are gazing out at the plains. It must appear that you and I are not speaking.”

The young chef went still. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am Jon Darr,” the voice answered. “A son of Dreya. And I am escaping this camp tonight.”

A subtle wind blew overhead. Charles hoped in his heart of hearts that it was the Winds of Change blowing once more.