Orphan Chapter 4 – Consideration

Willam entered the kitchen, his journal under his arm and a fire in his eyes.

One of the stoves was burning uncontrollably.

“Ah! Irene!”

“I’ve got it!!”

A young woman emerged from the storeroom oh Willam’s right. She was struggling with a large burlap sack. Her face was flushed from the exertion, but the sack was too far from the stove to be of use.

“Don’t just stand their mouth open. Help me!”

Willam skirted the burning stove rushing to the lady. The kitchen was near empty, the other staff gone. However, the flaming stove was surrounded by spices and ingredients, mis-matched scraps and the like. Ignoring the small mess, Willam reached the lady. Together they grabbed the sack dragging it together towards the fire.

“Urgh! Move it for Fay’s sake, lad!” Willam gripped the coarse sack, gripping on its edge to dig his nails into the material. He placed his foot behind the base of it for leverage. Then with a shove, a kick and a grunt the duo hurled it forwards. Willam’s eyes were blurry from the smoke, his head light from the exercise.

The lady slammed open drawers and cabinets. “Where is it… here!” she turned back to Willam brandishing a knife the length of his forearm.

“Woah-”

“Shush, take this.” She threw a large measuring cup at Willam. He caught it, his brow furrowed.

“What is this? Oh!” The lady cut the bag. She dropped it and sand fell out the open puncture. Willam took her cue and filled the cup to the brim. Wary of the heat he stopped a metre or so away as he hastily threw the cups contents over the stove. His practise at spilling drinks aided his aim; or at least he liked to think so.

“Careful!”

“What do you mean careful, it’s on fire?!”

“If you ruin the stove it’ll be my head, now come on its needs more.”

Together the two managed to subdue the flames. The woman scavenged the leftover ingredients and put them away in an assortment of cupboards. The sand had been sloshed over the stove top, and while Willam tried to shovel part back in the sack or into a bin it wasn’t going to be an easy clean up.

“By the Fay Irene is gonna murder me. First week and I’ve broken her cardinal rule.” The woman seemed crestfallen. “I really need this job, lad. Bah, it’ll be what it’ll be aye.”

Willam used his journal to fan away the haze from his face. He’d cracked the window open, but the wind was blowing the wrong way to clear out the smoke.

“I’m sure she’ll understand, um… pardon what is your name? I’m Willam.” He offered a handshake. He washed the sandy soot off his hand first of course; he knew Irene’s rules.

“Oh, name’s Delilah. I’m over from Westridge, trying to learn what it takes to host my own kitchen.” She sighed. “I’m not gonna sugar coat it, lad. I’ve really made a hash of it this time.”

Willam winced. “Not your first mess I assume?” he was in the midst of rifling through the broom closet.

Delilah wilted. She leant against the burnt stove top, a rag and bucket of water next to her elbow. “Yeah, I’m something of a klutz.”

Willam paused. He put his palm to his forehead for a moment then got on with finding the brush he needed.

“It’s kinda funny. Most of the time Irene, for how angry she is, comments that I’m not the first hazard in the kitchen she’s had to instruct. Supposedly, there this kid here that-”

“Found it. This should make it easier.” Willam took over from Delilah.

“Thanks, lad. I’m gonna go wash up outside,” she was covered in soot and smelt of burnt herbs, “you alright for the moment?”

“It’s all good. Just glad I could help in time.” He shot her a smile.

“Seriously, thanks lad. Back in a moment.”

Delilah left out a back door. Her smock ashen, her fair hair frazzled, but overall, not as gloomy as Willam would be in her predicament. As he added some soap to the bucket and dipped in his brush as a calm swept over him.

The Mother knows how many times I’ve been in her situation. There is something comforting about another person’s mess though. Let’s see, what can I do here.

He used the brush and soap to scrape away the oil and residual fragments of whatever Delilah had been cooking. The scent of burnt garlic and over-caramelised onions wafted up from the scorched pan.

At least this one didn’t have a wooden handle. Wow, when I managed to set a pans handle on fire Irene had-

“Willam! What are you doing?”

Well she responded similar to that.

“Ah, hullo Irene. I’m just,” Willam hesitated.

“You are just what? I need an answer for this… this mess!” It was a crime to hear such horror in her voice. Willam respected Irene. She worked hard, worked smart, did not brook any nonsense and in a way was the only parental figure in Willam young life. She was the only one who cared enough to show him where he made mistakes and how to correct them in a dignified way. She always extended a measure of respect to make him feel human, unlike most others his age or older.

Yet in her eyes, staring at the burnt stone stove top with sand strewn over the counter and on the floor, was a state of melancholy that resonated in Willam’s soul.

Irene made her way to Willam side, staring down at the destruction of her sacred place. She still awaited an answer. Willam tried to meet her eyes, but was distracted by Delilah standing by an outside window over Irene’s shoulder. Willam’s eyes widened. He moved his eyes left and right three times. He hoped Delilah received the signal.

Time to think fast Willam. No time to be klutzy now.

“Irene, I know it looks bad but I’ll explain.” Irene replied with the shallowest of nods. Her eyes darting over the stove. Willam prayed it wasn’t damaged beyond a good scrubbing.

“I’d come in to the kitchen to meet you as arranged, but I was caught unawares. It seemed a pan had been left on the stove to simmer. Being myself,” Willam looked down and dropped his shoulders, “I accidently knocked it when I tried to turn the stove off. I know how dangerous it is to leave it on without supervision. But, well, you see, I…” Irene stared at him. Willam gulped. He looked down at the stove.

“I so sorry, really Irene. I turned the stove up by accident and it just all caught aflame. No one was here but I remembered the sand and-”

“That’s enough Willam.”

Willam bit the inside of his cheek. He fidgeted with the brush. His hand dripped with soapy water onto the base of the stove. He wasn’t able to meet Irene’s eyes. “I’m really sorry I-”

“It’s okay Willam, you can stop.” Willam felt an arm wrap around him. Irene gave him a one-armed hug. “We all make mistakes, I understand. Some are more klutzy than others.” Willam’s mouth held an iron like taste. “Yes, some more than others.” He echoed.

I’m never going to be rid of that nickname, am I? By the Fay, I can’t use the kitchen now. Bloodstone I’ve cocked the plan up royally; sorry Georgy you’ve stuck you neck out for nothing. Willam shoulder fell further. Without Irene’s embrace or the stovetop to lean on Willam would be on his knees right now. His eyes grew misty.

“I’m sorry, I’ll understand if I can’t use the kitchen today. I’ll clean this up and try get rid of this smoke.”

“No, no, it’s okay Willam. As much as I hate what happened I’m happy to let it go.” Irene patted the young man on the back. He blinked. “Wait really?”

“He he he, Willam it’s been too long since I’ve had you back in here. You remember that time you managed to set a sealed pan’s handle on fire?”

“Uh, yeah?” Irene laughed.

“It was the story of the kitchen for weeks. I’ve never seen the place so organised since as no one wanted to be the next one to make a hash of things that badly. Trust me Willam, whenever you are here with me it’s never uneventful; I enjoy that.” Irene wiped away the soot on Willam face. She used the soapy rag, tutting about how he was ruining his good looks. He chuckled.

“Thanks Irene, I really am sorry and I promise no more accidents today.”

Irene smiled, but she wasn’t very good at hiding the twitch in her eye brow when Willam mentioned further accidents. “Let us see that you don’t.”

The two cleaned together. Irene took over scrubbing the stove as she tried to erase all signs of the accident. Willam wiped down the bench top and mopped the floor. The sand had managed to seep into some of the cracks in the stone work. Irene said she would have their newest cook dust it away once the floor dried.

With the sight of the accident cleaned, Irene told Willam to grab a smock and join her on the other side of the kitchen where the ovens sat. She was wary to place a sign warning the cooks that came in for lunch to watch their step where the ground was wet.

“So, what am I crafting for you today Master Strange? Has my snacks not been up to par as of late” Willam grew flustered, Irene feigned offence.

“No, no, no they’ve been great. I really enjoyed the sticky pudding and-”

“Bwahaha, relax I’m joking. Who do you take me for, the Headmistress?”

“Heh, yeah. Funny.” According to some you craft worse lecture than the Headmistress but I’m not going to say that am I.

“What I need is some help with the finer points of baking if that’s okay. I have the recipe here,” he pats his journal, “but I haven’t had kitchen duty in so long I don’t feel comfortable with the ovens myself.”

“I see. Show me the recipe?” Willam opened up the book. The recipe was for cinnamon scrolls with some obtuse ingredients such as a hint of the Mother’s flower and other assorted spices.

“Hmmm.” Irene scanned the recipe. “It has a certain flair too it doesn’t it, Willam. Where did you find it?”

“It’s a friend’s secret recipe.”

“Oh, are you in the midst of courting someone Master Willam? Has there been a round of gossip I’m not privy too?”

“No! Nothing light that, it’s just… they’ve been going through a hard time as of late and I wanted to do something, you know, friendly for them.” Willam’s face was flushed red.

“I see, I see. Well leave it with me and I’ll have this done in no time.” Irene made to grab the journal when Willam snatched it. He held it close to his chest, the top of it pushing on his scarf.

“Irene I really would like to craft this myself if that’s okay.” Willam’s eyes were lit with determination. “I may be rusty with the kitchen but I know this recipe back to front, so if it’s okay…”

Irene smiled. Despite her stern expressions and hyper-functional demeanour with most at the orphanage Willam found she had a sweet heart; much like her fudge-cakes. Willam suddenly craved fudge-cakes but put the urge for them aside for now.

“I’ll happily be your sous-chef this once. So, where do we start chef?”

Willam could not contain his happiness and excitement. He began organising ingredients and prepping the recipe, but at the corner of his eyes he saw Delilah enter the room.

“Head chef!” She said.

“Delilah, meet Willam. He is in control of the kitchen for now. Would you join us in making some cinnamon scrolls?”

“Yes chef!” She sent Willam a smile and mouthed a thank you.

Together the three got about crafting a gift of thanks for a friend that sorely deserved.

Liana Isuran despised surprises. There was nothing worse to her then an immaculate schedule, planned to maximise each task on the agenda, being disrupted by something out of her control. She refused to tolerate them back at the Capitol, she had an image to uphold, but when an Archon was involved even the best laid plans were useless.

She sat in one of the three black carriages entering Castoria. She was not alone in her carriage. Yet, she worked on the inbuilt desk that divided the carriage in two, ignoring the man opposite her. She had work to do despite any golem interrupting her best laid plans.

“Well look at that, a tier 5-no wait tier 6 construct. Castorian stone, roughly two metres tall, definitely weighs more than our carriages and aurochs; it appears the Archon has been dabbling.” Said the man across the desk.

“What does it want, Hierarch?” Liana was in the thick of her ledgers and notes, unwilling to look up. Most as court would call her disrespectful of the divine authority who deigned to be present with her in the carriage. To said people she would never respond, but if she did, she’d highlight the fact that the man was invisible a grander offence than a deferential response one would think.

“Calm Grand Vizier. Did I not say you may call me Oris? Have we not been acquainted during this jaunt around the Commonwealth? Titles are such quaint things among friends, are they not?” The Hierarch’s sass failed to evoke a response from Liana. She needed information on the disruption of what is accounted as a two-metre wall of stone blocking their path. She did not need further distractions from a man whose ego was backed up by a continental religion. Perhaps Oris the insufferable Hierarch would leave if she asked as Grand Vizier to have her privacy. Yet, she suspected cabin fever from the journey was overwhelming her and so silence was the correct response.

Sadly, now was not a good time to tell the fourth most powerful individual on the continent to get lost.

“If you must know,” Oris said with a cocksure grin, “it appears to simply be a messenger. I can’t see any weapons on the construct, and no jagged rocks for limbs don’t count. Any Esper worth their title could slay a construct that basic no matter the its power threshold. Ah, one of our riders is heading to parlay with the thing now.”

Liana nodded. She couldn’t see their escort or the lone rider or the construct despite facing forwards in the carriage. It had been designed to block all visual and magickal entry and so was a black box lit by a hanging lantern. Her wards, however, were not enough to stop the Hierarch’s personal use of magick. His eyes glowed a clear-sky blue, a topaz gem stitched onto his left glove’s knuckle radiated a corresponding light. Liana noted the gemstones placement and its link to the Art of Diagnostics, that ruled out one of the twelve stones on his gloves; she still needed more information.

All information was helpful information to a Vizier. It was a title she once felt honoured to possess, but ascended to Grand Vizier and maintain her status these past years had worn her down. She felt she was missing something, despite holding all the cards in the Crown’s Court. It used to be a Vizier would be hung if they failed the court fool’s test. If the fool was able to outwit them with superior gossip, intelligence and persuasion in the Crown’s Court the Vizier or even the Grand Vizier would find themselves at the end of a rope before long. Liana had risen through the ranks a year after the dissolution of that tradition. It saddened her. She’d like to see a fool try. At least then she could stop manufacturing statements of power for those pesky courtier’s that just did not know their place.

Liana possessed Diagnostic magic of her own but allowing the bored Hierarch to boast his craft was a greater boon. To gather information on the youngest Hierarch to ever ascend to the position was on Liana’s schedule after all. She smiled internally; the boredom of the ledgers allayed for a moment. Shed just needed to survive this final leg of the journey for her intelligence to bear fruit.

“Hmm, I must say it is a fine creation. It is not to say my laboratory could not craft something vastly superior in a few days, but I concede as a connoisseur of the Arts it is a beautiful construct. Not as beautiful as Castorian wine, now that is a real miracle; nothing like the Aylorian swill we’ve had to consume this past week. But yes, the matrix used to animate this thing is marvellous!”

Liana let the man blow wind. She put a line through an equation and its answer in a ledger. She rewrote it, answered the sum, double checked the new values of her equation, squinted at them then nodded. She closed the ledger. It was a corrected budget of the Archonage Fund, specifically that which was allocated to Castoria this past Winter.

“The rider has made contact. The construct is, Grand Vizier, simply divine. I don’t believe I can stress its magnificence enough. Staring at its inner workings with true Sight I’m blinded by the sheer number of cores and Aurae’s imprinted on this thing. It must incorporate beings well beyond Castoria’s Archon, linked by a matrix similar yet distinct from my own. Collectivised constructs of magick break down unless they have a proper release valve, I always found Aurae radiation to be inevitable; yet there is near non affecting our escort - who is being handed a letter if my eyes don’t betray me. There is a refined eloquence here unfit for Castoria. I say.”

“Just let me know when the rider arrives, Hierarch.” Having finished with Archonage funding Liana moved onto petitions by the Citizen’s Assembly. She tracked those which were answered by Castoria’s Archon directly. Her findings were inscribed in a red-leather bound book. It also contained her observations about the Hierarch. It was her most sacred artifact. It was a gift by her old mentor. Sometimes she could hear his voice commenting on her notes, pulling information together for her like magnets do metal. She flicked through her past pages of notes. Each page was blank to her eye. She nodded to herself and continued her research.

“I stress it is only Oris to you Grand Vizier. This whole title nonsense does not need to exist between us. I am not, let us say, traditional in how I employ customs. As I am sure you are aware.” Liana deigned not to respond. “Humph, they’re here.”

Liana paused her reading. She reached under her desk placing her index finger on a hidden rune. Her hand flickered the colour of Byzantium. The door to the carriage opened to allow the rider inside.

“My liege.” The rider was a middle-aged woman with tufts of grey in her hair. Her hair was in a bun, her spear compartmentalised on her belt and shield unravelled and wrapped around her arm. She was the newest recruit to Liana’s personal guard. Liana gave her two seasons before she’d need replacing.

“Leave the message on my desk. I take it the golem requires a response to leave?”

“Yes, my liege.”

“A moment then, Cynthia.”

Cynthia placed a large envelope the size of Liana’s head on the desk. She stepped back, bowed and left the carriage. She understood the proper formalities.

Once, Cynthia had left Liana continued her research. A minute went past, before it stretched to five, then ten. Liana finished tallying the petitions the Archon dealt with personally, and had moved on to the balances of the Citizen’s Assembly to corroborate the implemented solutions. Oris, however, was not amused.

“Is this some childish power play, Liana, or-”

The Grand Vizier slammed the ledger shut. She did not look at the Hierarch nor speak to him. Slowly, she reached for the over-sized envelope. Before opening the it she stretched out her shoulders, and massaged her hands. She had not allocated a break session until dusk but maybe she had been over-zealous with her schedule. The Hierarch’s fidgeting was deafening in the silence black box. The oil lamp’s floral aroma had begun to fade, it’s light flickering out. Perhaps it was time to refill it, Liana pondered to herself. Yet, when she reached for it the Hierarch snapped his fingers.

The Lantern was surrounded by a pale globule of miasma. The globule contained a vibrant storm of lightning, a supernatural storm. Each lightning strike caused the globule to vibrate from what Liana assumed was the thunder trying to escape. The bolts where not a regular blue or purple, but instead it was a storm of all chromatic colours interwoven within the flexible orb. As fascinating as it was Liana noted down two things in her personal red book. Firstly, the clear diamond stitched onto the top of Hierarch’s gloves situated below his knuckles were linked to the Art of Invocation. Secondly, the Hierarch owed Liana a newly refurbished carriage roof and lantern.

Liana stared daggers at where she presumed the Hierarch to be across from her. In response he made his mouth and eyes visible and grinned at her. His eyes possessed the same storm of energy as the globule.

Liana felt goose-bumps along her legs, but maintained a neutral expression. She opened the envelope to find a small rectangular card only a sixteenth the sized inside. She pulled it out and read its contents.

“Ha! Now that’s a childish power play right there. The nerves to send something as powerful as that golem delivering…”

Liana ignored him. She found she could use her fingertip to push the text and it would rearrange believing she had finished reading a page of text and so show her the next section. A marvellous contraption, but she refused to show her amusement.

“Come on now,” Oris started as Liana put down the card. “What does it say?”

“Ahem. ‘To the Hierarch, Oris is has been some time since you last came to this side of the commonwealth. It is good to note your attempts at stealth are as poor as always, otherwise how would we ever be able to prepare our vineyards for the rapid drop in vintage reds they are about to suffer. Do not worry we stocked up on some of Ayloria’s best for you to sample to make you feel right at home. Please send our regards to the Mysteries at the centre of our great federation. We fortunately sent our tithe just last week through a Guild sanctioned courier so I am sure you will find all in order once you leave our great state. Sincerely, Castoria’s Archon’.” Liana, in a moment of weakness, allowed a smile to blossom on her lips.

The Hierarch was livid.

Liana was glad he dropped his invisibility before he left the carriage to vent on the golem. It made Liana’s trip worth it so far. She allowed Cynthia to collect her response written on the largest piece of parchment she could find, she folded it away into a palm sized envelope and sealed it with another flicker of her Byzantium Aurae. She would be amused to hear if Cynthia could get to the golem before Oris could obliterate it. It would be good information on his arsenal of offensive Arts.

The Grand Vizier stood up, stretched the crick in her neck and then did up her formal jacket. It was time to alert the princess of the delay.

An Archon was hosting them for dinner.

It was finished. The fragrance of freshly baked bread accompanied by the rich mouth-watering fumes of cooked sugar and cinnamon brought a tear to Willam’s eye. It had taken the rest of the morning and an hour into the afternoon but he had dont it. The perfect gift for a near perfect friend.

“Thank you so much. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without your help.”

“No worries, lad.” Delilah ruffled Willam’s unruly hair. She left some flour in it that Irene huffed at, but she wore a similar smile to the others.

“You had it sorted out yourself, Willam. I’m proud of you, not a single accident. They are a lucky person whoever it is they are for.” Irene winked. Willam smiled, cheeks going rosy. It was going to be a good day.

Now to go see if he can make it a great one.