Best Served Cold

He nicked his finger while slicing, singed his elbow upon the hot stove, both of which events almost caused him to forsake his new beginning in a torrent of unproductive rage. But by the time he heard the horses returning to the farm, just as the sun was sinking and the shadows in the yard outside were stretching out, he had the table set, two stubs of candle casting a welcoming glow, two loaves of bread sliced and the pot of soup at the ready, exuding a wholesome fragrance.

“Excellent.” His rehabilitation was assured.

His new vein of optimism did not survive the arrival of the diners, however. When they entered, incidentally without removing their boots and therefore treading mud across his gleaming floor, they looked towards his lovingly cleaned kitchen, his carefully laid table, his laboriously prepared potage with all the enthusiasm of convicts being shown the executioner’s block.

“What’s this?” Murcatto’s lips were pushed out and her brows drawn down in even deeper suspicion than usual.

Morveer did his best to float over it. “This is an apology. Since our number-obsessed cook has returned to Talins, I thought I might occupy the vacuum and prepare dinner. My mother’s recipe. Sit, sit, pray sit!” He hurried round dragging out chairs and, notwithstanding some uncomfortable sideways glances, they all found seats.

“Soup?” Morveer advanced on Shivers with pan and ladle at the ready.

“Not for me. You did, what do you call it…”

“Paralyse,” said Murcatto.

“Aye. You paralysed me that time.”

“You mistrust me?” he snapped.

“Almost by definition,” said Vitari, watching him from under her ginger brows. “You’re a poisoner.”

“After all we have been through together? You mistrust me, over a little paralysis?” He was making heroic efforts to repair the foundering ship of their professional relationship, and nobody appreciated it one whit. “If my intention was to poison you, I would simply sprinkle Black Lavender on your pillow and lull you to a sleep that would never end. Or put Amerind thorns in your boots, Larync on the grip of your axe, Mustard Root in your water flask.” He leaned down towards the Northman, knuckles white around the ladle. “There are a thousand thousand ways that I could kill you and you would never suspect the merest shadow of a thing. I would not go to all the trouble of cooking you dinner!”

Shivers’ one eye stared levelly back into his for what seemed a very long time. Then the Northman reached out, and for the briefest moment Morveer wondered if he was about to receive his first punch in the face for many years. But instead Shivers only folded his big hand round Morveer’s with exaggerated care, tipping the pan so soup spilled out into his bowl. He picked up his spoon, dipped it in his soup, blew delicately on it and slurped up the contents. “It’s good. Mushroom, is it?”

“Er… yes, it is.”

“Nice.” Shivers held Morveer’s eye a moment longer before letting go his hand.

“Thank you.” Morveer hefted the ladle. “Now, does anyone not want soup?”

“Me!” The voice barked out of nowhere like boiling water squirted in Morveer’s ear. He jerked away, the pan tumbling, hot soup flooding out across the table and straight into Vitari’s lap. She leaped up with a screech, wet cutlery flying. Murcatto’s chair went clattering over as she lurched out of it, fumbling for her sword. Day dropped a half-eaten slice of bread as she took a shocked step back towards the door. Morveer whipped around, dripping ladle clutched pointlessly in one fist A Gurkish woman stood smiling beside him, arms folded. Her skin was smooth as a child’s, flawless as dark glass, eyes midnight black.

“Wait!” barked Murcatto, one hand up. “Wait. She’s a friend.”

“She’s no friend of mine!” Morveer was still desperately trying to understand how she could have appeared from nothing in such a manner. There was no door near her, the window was tightly shuttered and barred, the floor and ceiling intact.

“You have no friends, poisoner,” she purred at him. Her long, brown coat hung open. Underneath, her body seemed to be swaddled entirely in white bandages.

“Who are you?” demanded Day. “And where the hell did you come from?”

“They used to call me the East Wind.” The woman displayed two rows of utterly perfect white teeth as she turned one finger gracefully round and round. “But now they call me Ishri. I come from the sun-bleached South.”

“She meant-” began Morveer.

“Magic,” murmured Shivers, the only member of the party who had remained in his seat. He calmly raised his spoon and slurped up another mouthful. “Pass the bread, eh?”

“Damn your bread!” he snarled back. “And your magic too! How did you get in here?”

“One of them.” Vitari had a table-knife in her fist, eyes narrowed to deadly slits as the remains of the soup dripped from the table and tapped steadily on the floor. “An Eater.”

The Gurkish woman pushed one fingertip through the spilled soup and curled her tongue around it. “We must all eat something, no?”

“I don’t care to be on the menu.”