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SOMEONE HAD MESSED with his food. Someone had touched his food!

Char growled. “Who put fool’s mushroom in my hash?”

“Who was on kitchen duty today?”

“Ralph!”

“How bad is fool’s mushroom?”

“What do we do?”

Char couldn’t keep track of who was saying what or the growing panic, too furious to focus on individual voices.

“Ralph, did you poison us?”

“Absolutely not. I hate kitchen duty, but not that much!”

“Ralph’s tried to poison us multiple times with his bad cooking, but not like this,” someone joked, but it fell flat as no one laughed.

Except…someone was laughing. Char joined everyone in turning to look at Roe, who was grinning and giggling.

“Rosalyn Erch,” Fendle snarled. “What did you do?”

“Not like it’s worth hiding it,” she replied, still laughing. “The amount of destroying angel you’ve already eaten? In six hours, you’ll all be streaming out at both ends. If the severe dehydration doesn’t kill you, in another six your liver and kidneys will shut down. There’s no cure hidden behind a tree, not out here.” Her smile grew as she looked around at them, particularly at the fighters who had started to cry. “My only regret is you realized it too soon, and I won’t be around to watch you suffer.” She ran her tongue along her molars on the right of her mouth, and a second later she clenched her jaw and something crunched. Roe looked directly at Fendle, her smile growing manic. “Randolph says hi.”

Her knees collapsed as her eyes rolled back and a white foam filled her mouth. Her body flopped to the ground, convulsed once, and then went limp.

The clearing returned to silence for a long moment as everyone stared at her body. Then someone whispered, “What do we do?”

Fury. Absolute, boiling fury raged. “How dare you!” Char hissed at Roe’s body. “How could you do that to my food? The spells for drying and powdering mushrooms cause bitterness. You need to combat that with honey! And powders absorb liquids differently! You ruined the texture and the taste! You destroyed my dinner!”

“Trust a level one chef to be more concerned about the taste than the fact that we’re all poisoned,” Jeorgi tried to joke, his voice stifled by the tears wetting his cheeks.

Char switched his glare to Jeorgi. “My food is never poisoned.”

“You said it yourself,” Cheryl argued. “There were mushrooms added to your food.”

“Wait,” Fendle cut in, holding out one hand to stop the fight before it could escalate. “Char, what do you mean by that? Do you mean no one has dared poison your food before, or that poison is rendered harmless?”

Char shrugged. “It’s my passive magic field. If I stir it, cut it, heat it, or otherwise manipulate a dish, I negate the effects of poison. What I can’t do is negate any flavor or texture changes,” he added with a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry dinner was ruined. It’s my fault. I understand if you want to fire me and leave me behind.”

He had gotten complacent, and he had been rushed, but that was no excuse for not tasting his food before serving it. His professors would fail him immediately. His cousin would rescind his job offer if he knew. Char was an utter failure as a chef.

“Whoa! Fire you? You saved us!” Fendle stated, his tone incredulous. “If you hadn’t been here, we’d all be facing terrible deaths right now. Our mission would have failed, and Namin would have an unmitigated opportunity to attack Toval. You saved all of us, and countless lives in the future.”

“I didn’t taste my food before serving it,” Char forced out, his voice barely a whisper. “If the Chef’s Association found out, I’d be knocked down to level two, or even level three. I’m looking at years of retraining before anyone would consider hiring me in any capacity in any kitchen.”

Fendle dropped his hands onto Char’s shoulders and shook him gently. “You listen to me. You are in exceptional circumstances. They might have taught you how to cook over a fire, or how to make amazing tasting dishes using dried crap, but there is no way your school offered a class on rough cooking while on a spy mission to prevent a potential war. There is no precedence for it, and any review panel might fault you for not tasting your food, but they would never be able to find you guilty enough to demote you. I promise you.”

“It’s our fault anyway,” Ralph added. “We grabbed the food from you before you had a chance to taste it. We’re the ones who broke your protocol. Not you.”

“See?” Fendle continued. He draped one arm over Char’s shoulders and pulled Char into his side in a hug that somehow managed to send warmth through Char’s entire body.

“So, we’re not going to die?” Laurence asked.

Char looked up, finally noticing the rest of the group. Laurence was holding hands with his twin, Laura, and both had tear tracks drying on their cheeks. They weren’t alone, Char realized as he glanced around. Most of the group had cried at some point, or still had pinched looks that said they were fighting not to. Char glanced up at Fendle, but his eyes were dry. His smile at Char was soft and full of relief.

“No,” Char said, replying to Laurence and everyone else. “The fool’s mushroom was neutralized. All you ate was some bad-tasting food, not poison. I promise.”

“Right.” Fendle released Char—leaving behind his warmth and comfort—and clapped his hands. “Char, do you think you could figure out how Roe snuck the poison into our food? And double-check the rest of our supplies to make sure it’s all safe for us to eat without your having to cook it for us? Yaroub, Okenly, get a team together and search the body and Rosalyn’s belongings. Then give her a traitor’s burial. Somewhere far enough away we won’t attract any wildlife to our camp.”

The camp snapped into action. Char headed to the fire where he had left his ingredients and utensils for dinner. He was going to figure out how Roe had snuck poison into his food so no one would ruin his cooking again.

Licking raw potatoes wasn’t how Char expected to spend his evening, but all he tasted was must. He took a pinch from each of the bags of spices next, but he didn’t find any mushrooms. Char crunched his way through dried vegetables, dipped a finger in the various pots of water, and licked the cutting board where he had minced the meat. No mushrooms. Just a major shot of salt coating his poor tongue. Lastly, he licked the two cast iron pans he had used to combine the prepared ingredients and meld the flavors. He tasted the remnants of the spices—onion and garlic—some salt from the meat, and the starch from the potato, all of which combined into an acceptable, well-rounded palate, and then the sharp bitterness of magically dried and powdered mushroom killed it.

“She dumped it in the pans after I put in all the ingredients,” Char said, his voice an angry growl. “Maybe when I went to gather plates? The powder didn’t have time to fully meld with the flavors, so it wasn’t in there long, I don’t think.”

“So it isn’t likely she put any poison in the individual ingredients?” Fendle asked.

“I’ll double-check anyway, just in case, but the potatoes and everything else I just tested were fine.”

Char stood and looked around the clearing. Roe’s body was gone, a small pile of things from her pockets next to where she had been. All the dishes were gone too—hopefully to be washed rather than dropped down a mountain crevasse—and Ralph came over and took the skillets away too when he saw Char was done with them.

Naomi was waiting by the pack donkey where the rest of the supplies had been pulled out of their bags and laid out on the ground. He joined her and settled in for a long evening of licking and tasting things he’d really rather not.

*

THEY CRESTED A rise around two in the afternoon, breaking out of the trees to see a massive lake spread below. Char could make out some trees on the far side, but he sincerely hoped they didn’t have to swim or row over there since it was quite the distance away. Thankfully, as they started down the hill, the path curved, revealing a wide beach filled with about a hundred tents, many bunched together to show individual camps for the different mercenary groups.

About an hour ago, outside the range of any sentries, Char’s group had stopped and added red and black patches with some sort of crouched catlike animal on it to their clothing. Some of the patches had suspicious reddish-brown stains on them, likely obtained when the previous wearer had been killed. Only Char, as the chef and noncombatant, wasn’t wearing a patch.

“So you’re Greath?” someone called as they drew close to the camp. “We heard the Blood Lions were coming, but no one said when you’d be here.”

The man who stepped forward had a massive scar carved through his face, his left eye a milky-white ruin, but he was massive and muscled like a bear. An equally massive mace hung from his hip. The patch on his shirt over his heart was sky blue, with a thick, jagged line around the edge that looked like teeth.

“You must be Tarken from the Cannibals?” Fendle replied, his tone jovial and unconcerned. “Sorry about the timing bit. Had to wait for the money to come in first. You know how it is. Where do you want us to set up camp?”

“You’re the last mercenary group we’re expecting, so you get the area at the far end of the beach. A little rocky. Hope that doesn’t hurt your delicate sensibilities,” Tarken said, snark clear in his voice. He glanced at Char and the very heavily laden pack donkey and sneered. Char hoped none of the mercenaries had met Greath before. Tarken clearly hadn’t since Fendle didn’t look much like the bearded man with prominent cheeks and a receding hairline he had replaced. However, Greath’s reputation for hedonism had definitely preceded him. That was the only explanation Char could think of for that sneer.

“I’m sure we’ll manage. Let’s go,” Fendle said as he called out to the group.

They rode through the pathway between the tents, heading toward the farthest point in the camp, eventually arriving at a rocky outcropping adjacent to the lake and the woods.

“Let’s set up,” Fendle called, dismounting and stepping aside to wait as the rest of the group got to work, Char included.

Used to Fendle’s way of setting up camp, Char located a good spot for a cooking fire in the center of the space. Flat without much leaf debris, yet still dirt rather than rock so he could dig downward to make a pit if he wanted to roast anything. They were going to be here for a while, so it made sense to set up a proper outdoor cooking fire. To that end, Char commandeered one of the shovels usually used to dig a latrine and hollowed out a bowl in the dirt. He lined the edges with rocks to keep the fire from spitting out and to provide stability to the grill, which he placed over the pit. There was enough room underneath the grill to safely add more wood, and the grill was also high enough Char wouldn’t have to wait nearly as long for the fire to die down before it was suitable for cooking.

Naomi was apparently on kitchen duty. While Char worked, she brought all the bags from the donkey over, and once that was finished, started bringing wood next. Char left the bags packed, since that was the best way to keep vermin out, but he arranged them so cooking utensils and ingredients were to the right and the plates and silverware were next to the extra wood to the left. He got the fire started and sat back on his heels to watch it catch and the logs start to crackle before letting out a breath.

Preparations were done; it was time to start cooking a late lunch. Something lighter, Char thought as he dug through his ingredients, to get them through the handful of hours until dinner. Naomi had also filled his usual pot of water. He cut meat into small cubes and left it to soak in about half an inch of water to soften and hopefully remove some of the salt. A double handful of every single type of dried vegetable and mushroom went in a separate pan with water to do the same. Next, he pulverized dried quadretti until he had a fine powder, added water, and mixed until a simple dough formed. If Char had eggs, he would have made a pie crust, but reconstituting flour-derived pasta without the addition of fresh eggs meant his best bet was to make another pasta. He rolled the dough out flat and thin, estimating for enough to make about a hundred tortellini.

Char left the dough to rest, instead turning to the vegetables. He pulled out the rehydrated peas, which were nice and plump. He smooshed them into a paste in a bowl, mixing in parsley, onion, and garlic powder, and just a touch of water and travel-safe oil. Oregano and basil would have provided the depth of flavor he usually looked for in tortellini, and heavy cream rather than water to smooth out the pea puree would have provided a silky texture and a richness to the palate, but he made do as he had been doing the entire trip. Once the peas were fully mixed, he drained and dried the rest of the vegetables and meat and tossed them into the bowl and mixed until everything was thoroughly coated with the puree. Lastly, he had to actually make the tortellini.

He dolloped small spoonfuls of the mixture in straight lines along the dough. Once he had all hundred ready, he cut along those lines, creating a hundred individual squares. Each square became a pouch around the puree, and Char twisted and pressed on the dough until he had a shape approximating a proper tortellini. It wasn’t perfect, but he was learning to live with minor issues.

“When do you want to eat lunch?” he asked, looking up to find Naomi, Ralph, and Fendle standing next to the fire, watching him work.

“Whenever it’s ready,” Fendle replied.

“Right.” Char focused on twisting dough, finishing the last dozen or so. He popped a finished one in his mouth, testing it properly. The dough was gummy, the puree cold and slimy, but the tastes were as perfect as he could get them. He couldn’t detect anything that shouldn’t be there, and the issues with the rest would resolve with cooking.

For ninety-nine tortellini, Char used the big pot, salting the water before gently dropping them in and monitoring the strength of the boil to ensure the temperature was as exact as he could make it and the water wasn’t moving so vigorously it popped the dough open. The tortellini started to float almost immediately, but the dough needed at least another minute to cook through.

There wasn’t a way to make a proper sauce, not without tomatoes or cheese or cream. Instead, Char dug out some clean pans and coated them in oil and some of the same spices as were inside the tortellini. He added a large spoonful of starchy pasta water and let it heat slowly. When the tortellini were done, he spooned them into the pans, flipped his wrist so the contents mixed, and started filling outheld plates.

The food vanished far too quickly, but the mix of protein, vegetables, and starch was filling so no one came back for seconds. Char wished he had crostini to offer as a side to offer a balance of texture, but they didn’t have any yeast, flour, eggs, or already cooked fresh bread to toast.

As everyone brought their dirty plates back, Fendle pointedly cleared his throat.

“I have been invited to a meeting of all the merc leaders this afternoon,” he explained, his voice low so it wouldn’t carry past their group. “Finish setting up the camp, and you all know the rest of your roles here.” He waited for everyone to nod and begin to disperse before he turned to Char. “Your role is solely to cook,” he continued in an even softer voice. “As long as you remember that, it doesn’t matter who approaches you or what they ask. Okay?”

“I understand. Is there anything more I should do that would help?”

Fendle shook his head. “No. We’ve set up your tent and the ones assigned kitchen duty will handle cleaning the dishes. You can spend your day however you like until it’s time to start cooking dinner. If you idle away the rest of your time without concern, that will help the illusion that you were hired only to satisfy my vanity.”

Char nodded and grinned. “I can do that.” He paused, then tacked on the worries spinning through his head. “Be safe in that meeting.”

Fendle blinked at him for a brief moment, then grinned. “No need to worry about me. Although I appreciate your concern.” His eyes softened and he dropped a hand on Char’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

He left and Char held in a sigh, not willing to vocalize the strange, shivery feeling the warmth of Fendle’s hand incited.

He didn’t want to dwell on it, so Char went to go figure out where his tent was located. He would focus on getting his personal items situated so he would be prepared for the next few days in camp, and maybe that would banish the memory of that far-too-inviting warmth from his mind.