Paladins of the Pickle Goddess

“We’re closed.”

It wasn’t hard to find Prisca in the churning mass of the protest. I had found the loudest corner and waded in, grabbing at moving limbs until I’d found someone short enough and angry enough to be her. Now she was next to me, peering into the pub.

Amatus had come along with her. For someone his age, he was surprisingly spry. I hadn’t even really looked for him. He’d just popped out of a corner, axes swinging.

I was a little afraid of him, to be honest. He didn’t seem to mind exactly who those axes were aimed at.

“Look,” I said. “We won’t be a bother. In fact, Amatus will defend your noble establishment.”

Amatus hawked a ball of spit onto the cobbles below. “Upon my honor.”

“I’ll defend it too!” Said Duran.

Apis was tucked close against me, staring down the street. “The guards have formed a sort of phalanx out of their shields,” he said. “They’re getting closer by the minute. Ooh! I don’t know when they got spears, but they look sharp. Is this what my taxes are going to?”

“Are you really going to submit some innocent citizens to the guards?”

“Innocent, my left toe,” said the woman, but she pulled the door open.

There were different pubs scattered all across the city, small to large, upper-end to dingy enough that you really shouldn’t eat anything inside. This one was rather classy, with enough candles to keep it well-lit and a beautiful tapestry of the King being pulled off of the throne behind the bar. Someone had added a glass shard to each tear streaming down his face. It shimmered in the fire reflected through the windows.

“Whole city’s going mad,” said the barkeep, shutting the door firmly behind her. “Don’t tell anyone I let you in! They’re going to loot this place next.”

“They won’t,” said Apis. He strode confidently towards a center table, sitting down and smiling towards her. “They know you’ve got the best drink here and they don’t want to be kicked out. Do you still have that red?”

“Festival’s on fire, and you want to know about the red!” She folded her arms, then relented. “Well, maybe I do. But you’re paying double. On account of the fires.”

I looked towards Apis. Did he still have money? I certainly didn’t.

Prisca sat down, then slapped a pile of coins on the table. “It’s on me. If you can get us into the Spire.”

The Voice of Celeres had said nothing. She was still standing by the door, stiff as a board.

“Come in, then,” I said. “We have to scheme. It doesn’t work if we aren’t all talking.”

“You aren’t taking this seriously!”

“I’m a cook. Forgive me if I’m not completely sure of the etiquette for planning a heist,” I said.

I held out a hand for a cup of wine. It went down smooth. Apis had excellent taste in drink. After the first few swallows, the Voice of Celeres finally came over to sit down.

When I looked across the table, assessing our group, it wasn’t reassuring. Amatus; strong in his youth, but old now. Definitely crazy. Prisca. She had the power of a group behind her, but whatever she’d said before, they were running rampant now. She was just one pebble in a landslide. The Voice of Celeres was a self-centered teenager with the ability to send messages and a distinctive haircut, not much more. Apis had a positive attitude and no spine.

Duran was Duran.

That left me to steer us. I winced. Well, there was a first time for everything. “Right.” I put my hand on the table. “I have a way to get us in. But it’s going to need everyone’s help.”

After my speech, Amatus leaned back. “It’s a damn strange plan,” he said. “You sure we can’t just use a trebuchet?”

“Trebuchet is our secondary plan,” I said. “If I’m right, the timing should be very tight.”

The barkeep leaned over. She had been listening to the entire plan, helping us finish the wine. It wasn’t as if there were any other customers. “You lot are completely mad. Like, up a tree. Barkers.”

“So you won’t let us use your kitchen?”

“I didn’t say that. Just don’t tell anyone who you got the space from.”

I held up my cup in a toast. “Thank you.”

As I stood up from the table, pushing my table back, I nodded to my compatriots. This might be the last time I saw them before we knew if our plan had worked or not. “Best of luck.”

Prisca and Amatus filed out the door with Apis. The Voice of Celeres gave me one last look. “I’m depending on you,” she said.

“Trust me,” I said. “I don’t know much, but I do know food.”

“I never said it properly before. Thank you,” she said. She glanced away, shifted from one foot to the other. “For, ah. For saving my letterboys.”

“You’re welcome. Now stop hesitating and go help.”

That brought the first smile I’d seen from her. She grinned, briefly, and pushed the door open. “Thanks. Best of luck to you, too.”

When I stood to walk back to the kitchen, Duran was blushing. I sighed. “Focus! You’re going to actually learn something today.”

“Yes, Miss Elysia,” he said. He still stared at the doorway for a moment more, hand on his sword, before he followed me back.

The pub’s kitchen was, like the rest of the space, very nice. It made me jealous just to look at the shining fixtures, the lit bellied stove. I held my hand over it to feel the heat.

We would have to make something quick. We only had an hour or so before it would be time. I leaned into the pantry. They even had an icebox. Unimaginable luxury. The ice would have been brought down on a barge, all the way from the far north.

I thought again of the red wine we’d just finished. In a place like this- how expensive had that bottle been? How had Apis known to order it?

Inside lay a plucked chicken. Ready for nightly service. I smiled. “Duran,” I said. “Tonight, we are going to bring only the best.”

Roast quartered chicken. Lemon slices, underneath the skin. Rosemary was growing on the sill. I plucked some, rubbed it in between my fingers to release some of the scent.

Smell was important. I wandered through the kitchen as Duran fought with a knife to quarter the chicken. There was a little too much snapping and cracking happening. I ignored the sounds. As long as he didn’t hurt himself, it would be fine. We could cover it with a tea towel.

Ah, yes. In a nice dark cupboard. Jars of pickles. I squinted, tried to find a nice set. Olives; well-pickled. I pulled out some flour, began to form a flatbread dough. There was a jar of nice oil in the corner.

Duran peered over my shoulder. “We’re making bread?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Personal space!” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “Go wash your hands off if you’re going to help.”

The stove was a lovely beast. I didn’t often wish for luxury. My mother’s coach, the lace clothing I still wore. None of it mattered to me.

The gleaming brass in front of me, with half a griddle and the other half flame? Oh, yes. I would have given my left leg to have that.

The first flatbread went down with a nice hiss. Duran and I both watched in reverent silence as it bubbled. Only when the top was matte did I flip it, watching for the perfect browning on the underside. Out of the kindness of my heart, as a learning experience, I allowed him to sprinkle it with salt.

“We need to test it?” he said, as soon as it came off the griddle.

I glanced towards the bowl of dough. The chicken was still baking. It would take most of our time to wait for it. The other parts of the meal- a sauce I was going to concoct with oil, vinegar and pickled peppers, and some carved fruit (an excellent way to show Duran exactly why the biggest knife wasn’t always the best) were going to be quick.

We deserved a little break. I ripped the bread in half and offered him a piece.

“For luck.”

“For luck,” he said, and took a too-big bite. “Agh!”

As he half-opened his mouth, trying to let out the steam, I stifled a laugh. It might all turn out fine, after all.