"What?" Bob asked, again.

"Ah, I saw that one," Cascadia said happily, "a trifle overdone, but still quite good."

"Hold up, what do you mean, my property?" Bob asked pointedly.

Yorrick sighed sadly and shook his head. "It hurts me to know that people from another universe are better able to understand the popular cultural references of your own society than you do."

"During the division of forfeited assets, it was decided that since you showed an interest in them, that the indentures would be part of your percentage," Cascadia explained.

"'You keep what you kill' was a reference to the movie, 'Chronicles of Riddick,' which was recommended to me by several members of the Old Guard," Yorrick said, "in this instance, as the person who identified that laws were being broken, brought the issue to the attention of the relevant authorities, and took steps to resolve those issues, which then resulted in your being attacked, and your killing of your attacker, who was responsible for the crime..." He trailed off and shook his head. "Anyway, due to the circumstances, when you killed Torlin, you became the owner of the indentures."

"I-I don't want to own any indentures," Bob protested. "Can't I just let them out of their contracts?"

"Ah, no," Cascadia shook her head. "The terms of the contract are set when the contract is sold. You can't add to the amount owed, nor can you cancel the contract. This was done to avoid certain abuses where the owner of the contract would promise to annul it if the indenture performed certain actions, actions that were not outlined in the contract. If you lack the imagination to envision those actions, I'll acquire some anatomically correct dolls and explain it."

Bob grimaced. "No, I can imagine," he muttered.

"You can, however, train and equip them, which will help them pay off their debt more quickly, especially if you also provide adequate food, housing, and medical care," Yorrick suggested.

"Can I take them out of the Empire and set them free somewhere else?" Bob asked.

"Sure, but when they come back home, they'll still be under the contract," Yorrick replied.

"You might find one or two people here who would be willing to leave the Empire forever, but you also might not. Ties of family and friends bind people more tightly together than you might expect, and what is a few years when with even a bit of effort, you have centuries?" Cascadia smiled.

"Shit," Bob muttered.

"Yeah, you're kinda stuck with them," Yorrick replied with a grin. "Luckily, you don't have to take possession of them until all the assets of House Colvern have been resolved, so you have a few more days to figure out what you're going to do with them."

"Fan-fucking-tastic."

Bob was still contemplating what to do with the people that had been dumped on him when they reached The Buffet.

He knew it was The Buffet because it had a huge sign advertising it.

"So, what can I expect in there?" Bob asked warily as they approached the double doors leading into the three-story building.

"Well, there's an altar to Vorax just inside, but the dining room is laid out like any restaurant you'd find back on Earth," Yorrick began. "It's almost lunch, so they'll have the full spread. Some of the best chefs work here, and the food is great. One of the things I brought back from Earth was your spice palette, as well as cookbooks and cooking shows, so you'll probably find quite a few dishes from Earth available."

They walked in the door and found the altar to Vorax. It was a stone tableau with hundreds of different types of food depicted in miniature.

"That's surprisingly not creepy," Bob said.

"Hey, everyone likes to eat," Yorrick grinned. "I mean, Eat to Live, don't Live to Eat, but if you are going to Live to Eat, Vorax is the deity who can help you out."

As they entered the dining room, Bob came to a stop.

It was, as Yorrick had promised, laid out like a restaurant, tables set for two, four, six, or even eight people. What drew his attention was the buffet. It stretched along two walls, easily a hundred feet long each. He walked forward, then stopped a few feet away. There were dozens of different types and cuts of meat.

It was, at that moment, that Bob remembered why he didn't take Monroe to buffets.

"Buddy, no!" Bob shouted as the massive Maine-coon leaped off his shoulder, Makres clicking in protest to land directly in front of what appeared, on casual inspection, to be a side of roast beef.

Bob lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the big floofer, pulling him back, but it was too late. Monroe had latched on the side of beef with all four feet as well as his jaws, and Bob pulled both Monroe and the roast beef off the buffet.

'Hungry-play-eat' were the emotions coming from what Bob had dubbed the Monroe section of his mind.

Bob sighed and slid the super-sized kitty into his inventory, along with his prize. "Sorry," he said, "obviously, I'll pay for that."

Yorrick was shaking his head and chuckling, and Bob could see from several of the cameras, which were shaking, that he wasn't alone in finding the humor in the situation. "Don't worry, we're paying for everyone's meals, Monroe included."

Bob sighed and moved down the line, shaking his head. Sauces and gravies, then meat in sauces and gravies. He paused. "Is that Chicken Tikka Masala?"

"Labels are above," Yorrick said helpfully, "but it sure looks like it."

Looking up, Bob could see that there were labels, and the dish was, in fact, Chicken Tikka Masala.

Bob hadn't had a lot of experience with fine cuisine before he'd come to Thayland, and while he'd definitely eaten better once he'd arrived, he hadn't really started to eat well until Talima had taken over the kitchen at Glacier Valley. Once she had, he'd discovered Indian cuisine or at least the British interpretation of it.

He swallowed, mostly to avoid drooling.

"That smells really good," Bob said.

Yorrick handed him a plate. "Grab a plateful now, before the rush starts," he advised. "They've got some naan bread further down."

Bob noticed that everyone but him had a plate, including the cameramen and women, who were doing an admirable job of balancing their plates while still operating their cameras.

Shaking his head, he scooped up a plateful of the delicious-smelling chicken, making sure to get plenty of sauce, then hurried down the buffet to find the naan bread.

Sitting down at a table, he waited for Yorrick to join him before digging in.

It tasted even better than it smelled.

"Damn, that's good," he mumbled between bites.

He lost focus a bit as he ate. Perfectly moist chicken, creamy sauce, all with just the right amount of heat.

As he wiped up the last of the sauce with the last of the naan, he looked around and was surprised to see that the dining room was more than half full. It had seating for maybe two hundred, and there were people at most of the tables. He noticed that some of them had a half a dozen or more dishes in front of them.

All the diners who were eating huge meals were slender.

"That Vorax blessing that allows you to eat the food and store the energy for later," Yorrick advised, having followed his gaze. "Given the expense of dining here, those who worship Vorax tend to visit every few days, saving up their appetite, as it were."

The camera crew had finished as well, and they were panning the diners with their cameras.

"Let's take a walk to the kitchen, I'll introduce you to the head chef," Yorrick said, standing up and motioning for Bob to follow him.

The kitchen was huge, easily twice the size of the dining room, with ovens and stovetops galore, all in use as over a hundred people jostled, sweated, and shouted to each other as they worked to complete their dishes.

As soon as they entered the kitchen, a figure in dark blue, contrasting with the red all the other people wore, approached them.

Bob tried very hard to focus on his eyes, which were a brilliant yellow and slit like a cat. He did not look closely at the horns that swept back from his forehead nor the scaled and forked tail that swished behind him.

"This is the one, yes?" The man in front of him, who did not completely fail to resemble a demon, asked. Honestly, it was the dark grey, almost black, scales that he had in place of skin that sealed the deal. And the claws.

Bob had seen Drakonians and Draconians. If he hadn't, he might have suspected some sort of draconic or drake ancestry, but the whole package didn't scream winged terror. It screamed Demon.

"Yes, this is Bob," Yorrick had continued while Bob's mind spun.

"Ah, I'm so very pleased to meet you," he reached out and shook Bob's hand. "That is the Earth fashion, no? I'm Rayouk, High Priest of Vorax and Head Chef of The Buffet," he said proudly. Bob could see that his tongue was forked, but he spoke clearly, if with an odd accent.

"Did you enjoy the Chiken Tikka Masala? We've grown our own spices, but the cummin we've grown has an ever so slightly different taste, likely the soil, but we haven't quite managed to narrow it down yet," he rambled, "and your familiar, Monroe, I understand he sampled the roast bison?"

"It was the best thing I've ever eaten," Bob replied honestly. "I don't have the palette to judge your food, but I certainly enjoyed it, as did Monroe, although he's currently sleeping it off."

"Excellent!" Rayouk practically shouted. "I must thank you for opening a whole new chapter in our culinary arts," he said excitedly. "So many new things to try, new recipes and techniques to master and improve upon. You are not yet affiliated?" He moved a bit closer and took a deep sniff, his tongue flicking out. "Yeech, Fidelis," he shook his head. "You haven't taken many blessings, you should consider one from Vorax," he said, "there is no conflict with your current blessing, and you could truly improve your palette with alacrity."

Bob blinked. "I didn't really want any divine blessings," Bob replied slowly, "I took this one to secure the aid of the Church of the Light to help Earth."

"Ah, an ag-nos-tic," he pronounced the word carefully. "No matter, all are welcome at The Buffet! A blessing from Vorax just allows you to enjoy more of it in a single sitting. You'll just have to visit every day!"

"I promised I'd show him the feast," Yorrick said, drawing Rayouk's attention.

"Ah, yes, of course," Rayouk nodded, "perfect, this will also allow a tasting of the desserts, no?"

"I'm sure it will," Yorrick agreed.

"Gavesh! Make sure the sauce simmers, not boils!" Rayouk shouted across the kitchen, then gestured for them to follow, leading them to a set of stairs.

The stairs led to the second and third story, although they bypassed the second, which Yorrick explained was simply overflow for the dining room below.

Bob followed Rayouk onto the third floor, where he stopped and stared, moving to the side when a camerawoman nudged him.

There was a conveyor belt of sorts delivering a fresh plate of food to each of the diners. Every minute or so, a fresh plate appeared, and the old one fell away.

Bob watched in horrified fascination as a plate of the same Chicken Tikka Masala he'd eaten earlier appeared in front of a svelte young woman, who shoveled the food into her mouth so quickly that Bob couldn't have honestly testified that she'd chewed it. She practically inhaled the food, wiping the plate clean with naan bread, just like he had, but finishing in less than a minute. A plate of sliced meat, maybe turkey or chicken, something avian, appeared, drizzled with gravy and with a sort of bread stuffing served as a bed.

"The truly devout of Vorax are served at The Feast," Rayouk said proudly. "I eat here once a week," he laughed, and his forked tongue added a slight hiss to the sound. "I can hardly be expected to judge the quality of a chef's work without tasting it myself, no?"

It was one of those times when knowing and knowing came into conflict. Bob knew that Vorax was the god of gluttony and that his followers could eat a lot of food. But at the same time, he knew that there was no possible way that the hundred-and-five-pound girl in front of him could possibly eat that much. She'd gone through the masala, turkey and stuffing, roast beef and gravy, shepherd's pie, lasagna, and what looked to be a deep dish style supreme pizza.

Yorrick placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's not polite to stare," he said quietly.

Bob shook his head, breaking himself out of his daze, and turned his gaze to Yorrick.

"Well, it's better than the Arena," he offered.

"Of course it is!" Rayouk agreed. "The only harm you can come to here is being unable to eat anywhere else, for the taste is too bad!"

"You're not wrong," Bob muttered as they went back down the stairs.

"You'll come back tomorrow, yes?" Rayouk called over his shoulder. "I am preparing a Feijoada, you must try it!"

"If I'm still in town," Bob replied.

"Ok, what's his deal?" Bob asked after they'd left The Buffet.

"What do you mean?" Yorrick asked.

"I'd like to think I'm pretty cosmopolitan," Bob said. "But there was something kinda off about him."

"Well, he's only been here for a few years, three, I think," Yorrick replied thoughtfully. "I know he was considered to be a longshot to take over as the High Priest, but apparently, he cooked his competition."

"You mean 'outcooked,' right?" Bob asked.

"Ah, no, I think I understand now," Yorrick replied, "Rayouk is a demon who quite literally cooked and ate the other demons who were fighting for the right to come to Thayland and serve as the High Priest."

"Come to Thayland from where, exactly?" Bob asked.

"The Netherworld," Yorrick said matter of factly. "That plane of existence is higher tier than our own, so coming to Thayland is something only the very young or the very dedicated would strive for. Rayouk is both young, by Demonic standards, and dedicated."

"Okay, so I've sort of heard a little, from you, about the Netherworld, so I'm just gonna come out and ask. Is the Netherworld Hell? Because I'm kind of feeling like it is."

"From what I've read, there are definitely some similarities," Yorrick agreed. "The primary difference is that people have to choose to go to hell, and then they have to get there, which isn't easy." He shook his head. "The simplest way is to become a Demon, but that does require you to be tier nine, so for most people, that's out of reach. An easier, more available path is to stack your tier worth of divine blessings from the deity of your choice. At that point, you'll be able to take a divine blessing that will let you travel to hell, although you'll need to do some serious preparation in order to survive the energies over there."

"Lakes of fire? Screaming souls damned to suffer for all eternity?" Bob asked.

"The Netherworld offers both," Yorrick said agreeably. "But the important thing to remember is that unlike in your stories, you don't go to the Netherworld when you die, at least not unless you have a very specific set of blessings."

Bob shook his head. "This is just way over my paygrade." Yorrick's explanation hadn't tripped his Divine Blessing of Fidelis.

"Eh, it's not something you or your people really need to worry about," Yorrick shrugged. "As driven as you are, it'll be decades before anyone hits tier eight, let alone tier nine."

"Not my problem," Bob muttered.

"That's the spirit!" Yorrick clapped his hands together, rubbing them gleefully. "Keep that in mind, our next stop is Drug Parlor."