Page 4

THE LAKE WAS serene and still, a deep blue reflecting the almost cloudless sky. The only ripples on the surface were from the occasional gentle wind gust and the splashes of the handful of people doing something in the shallows off to Char’s left. He walked in the opposite direction, heading away from the encampment, enjoying the quiet punctuated by birdsong and the occasional rustle of something larger in the leaf litter below the trees. He didn’t go too far, though, not willing to get completely out of sight of his group. Fendle was probably correct that if anyone found him suspicious, he could be questioned or simply made to disappear, so he made certain the fire from his kitchen area stayed perfectly visible. Still, the peace helped the next few hours pass quickly, and Char was glad for the respite from riding. He wasn’t looking forward to dinner, though, since he only had the same set of basic, salty ingredients he had been cooking with for days. He wanted a butcher where any kind of fresh meat was available, a dairy for milk, cheese, and butter—he desperately wanted to cook with butter again—a bakery for yeasted bread and flour to make pasta, and a large farmers market with recently picked produce as far as the eye could see. He wasn’t going to get any of that out here; only dried, salted meat of questionable origin, pasta he wouldn’t want to serve to his enemy, and vegetables that were more crumble than substance. Char was tired of it, but he would make do. He only had to remind himself that once they survived this adventure, he had the endless resources of his cousin’s kitchen to look forward to.

Except... Char gasped and dashed closer to the edge of the woods, kneeling down to feather his fingers through the long green strands growing there. Tipped with little white flowers, the stems looked at first glance like overgrown grass. He bent closer, sniffing, and grinned. Sharp and pungent onion flooded his nose.

Char glanced around and his grin grew. This entire stretch of bank between the trees and the water was filled with the long green strands. So much of it that Char could harvest some the entire time they were camped here and not hurt the ecosystem.

Still, he needed to be careful. Lily of the valley, which was poisonous, was easily mistaken for wild onion. Everyone had enough of poisons, he was certain, and lily of the valley had a very different flavor profile to onion. Char dug down into the soft dirt, scratching away the muck with his fingernails, and gently lifted out what he was happy to see was a small bulb. A sniff confirmed it smelled of onion.

A whole field of wild onion. A whole field!

Char giggled happily as he dug out a couple more bulbs—just enough to supplement dinner—and cut a handful of stems too. He walked back to the camp with his booty and headed to the water to wash it all. The stems would need to be soaked to remove all the dirt and any bugs, but the bulbs just needed a good rinse since he would remove the outer layer of skin before cooking.

“Hey, Char,” Jeorgi called from farther down the beach. Char looked up and saw him jogging over, something wiggling held in his hands. “Can we eat this?” he asked when he was close enough, holding his prize out for Char to look at.

Jeorgi was holding a fish so fresh from the water it was still gasping for air. The skin was greenish brown with darker brown stripes and had the distinctive slightly elongated snout of a yellow perch.

“Yes!” Char replied with an excited grin. “That’s a perch and we can absolutely eat it!” Between the fish and his onions, dinner had the potential to be amazing. “How did you catch it?”

Jeorgi shrugged self-consciously. “We had some string and the thorn bushes behind our tents have curved spikes. A long stick and a worm, and here’s what we caught.”

Char mentally calculated for the group based on the size of the fish, which was only about five inches long. He couldn’t offer fried fillets—they would deplete the entire lake in one night if he did that—but mixed with some other ingredients and a handful of them could be stretched a long way.

“I can cook it tonight, and if you catch another six or seven everyone can have some,” Char replied.

Jeorgi nodded enthusiastically. He handed the fish to Char, who carefully juggled it between his fistfuls of onions, then dashed off.

“Ralph! Martin! We catch a bunch more of those and dinner will be awesome!” he yelled as he ran back to the group down the beach. A frenzy of activity started as Char headed back to his makeshift kitchen to start preparations for dinner.

He set the onion stems aside to soak in a pan. The bulbs he left next to the packs of food. He pulled out a large cutting board and what passed for a filleting knife, wishing he dared take out his own knife, which was sharp enough to carve perfect sashimi, but he knew he couldn’t subject his blades to these conditions. He slit the fish down the middle and removed the innards, setting them aside to properly dispose of later. He curved the knife under the gills and above the tail, then gently slid the knife along the spine to remove the fillet. He flipped the fish over to do the other side, creating two perfect fillets. Next was the hardest part, particularly with the knife he was using. Perch skin wasn’t edible, the scales too rough. He carefully slid the knife between the skin and flesh of the fillet, gripped the loosened bit of skin in one hand, and slid the knife along until the skin came free.

The result wasn’t perfect, a B at most if he had done this in class, but considering the knife, Char was fairly pleased. Perch didn’t have pin bones, so he was done with the preparations. He added the skin to the pile of innards and put both cleaned fillets into a bowl, which he covered and set aside. He would cook the fish closer to dinnertime, since it wouldn’t take long, but he needed to get the bones started now.

He put the largest pot on the fire, pleased to see it had been refilled with water at some point, and chopped the bones of the fish in half. He removed the gills and any veins before dropping both halves into the water. Jeorgi came running up as Char finished, two more fish in his hands, so Char got to work filleting and adding the bones to his fish stock. While he waited for more fish, he got another cutting board and knife and cleaned three of the onion bulbs, slicing them into quarters before adding them to the stock. The water was starting to steam when Jeorgi brought over the eighth fish, so Char told them to stop. He had more than enough for dinner. He added the last fish body to the pot, and then dug out his spices. Dried parsley was the main spice, so he added it liberally. Salt and cracked black pepper were necessary too. He was a little less generous with the powdered garlic.

Luckily, fish stock was supposed to be light and derived most of the flavor from the bones, so this recipe was perfect for when he didn’t have access to proper spices. Given the conditions, the stock would take longer than the usual twenty to thirty minutes to cook. Char estimated forty to forty-five minutes, but he would check and decide whether to strain it or let it cook longer then. After the stock was strained, he would start on the fillets. While he waited, he pulled out the bag of dried mushrooms and spent ten minutes picking out the white buttons. He put them in a pan of water to start rehydrating. The white button had a gentle, meaty flavor that would add to the dish without fighting with or attempting to overtake the simple flavors of the stock, and it would provide a chew that was a different texture to the fish fillets.

Preparations finally done, Char looked up at the rest of the camp, wondering where everyone had wandered off to. Someone had cleared away the fish innards, and the fishy cutting board and knife were gone. More wood had been stacked nearby too. Clarise was over by the tents, Jeorgi, Martin, and Ralph still by the water—although they weren’t fishing—there was no sign of Naomi, Jensen, or anyone else. They could be napping—hidden inside their tents—off exploring, or off on some mission for Fendle. They could also be on watch somewhere in the woods, since they were in enemy territory and it didn’t hurt to be careful. Char didn’t know the details of who did what and when for this group, only that there was a rotating cadre who helped him when he was cooking.

The sun was starting to set, coloring the tops of the trees with deep yellow and gradating orange to red light. The lake shone pink and red where it reflected the fading sunlight. Hopefully Fendle would be back before dark, but Char would make sure to save him dinner if he wasn’t.

The sun continued to dip until the fire became the better light to cook by. Char let out a breath as the beauty faded away into darkness and refocused on his dinner preparations. He finished cleaning the onion stalks and gave them a quick chiffonade. He sliced the remaining onion bulbs as well. The mushrooms were presliced but had plumped nicely. He removed them from the water and set them aside to dry. He cut the fillets into cubes a little smaller than bite-size so they fit on a spoon neatly. By the time he was done, it was time to strain the stock.

Most of the bones had liquified, imparting their flavor into the stock. The larger ones remaining were easy to scoop out. He carefully drained the liquid into the two medium-sized pots—since he didn’t have a second large one—using the strainer to catch any remaining bones and the remainders of the onions.

The medium pots went on the grill on the far side of the fire, where they would remain warm but wouldn’t continue to cook. Char switched to the cast iron pans, lightly coating them with oil before tossing in the sliced onion bulbs. He let them sizzle, stirring carefully, until they started to caramelize, before adding in the fish.

“We need bowls and spoons tonight,” Char said, and when he looked up at the resulting bustle he realized a crowd of familiar faces was watching him work.

Each bowl received a generous portion of the stock, a sprinkling of green onion stem, some plumped mushroom slices, and a scoop of the caramelized onion and fish.

Fendle strode into the camp as Char was passing out portions. He was frowning and looked tired and fed up, but when the next bowl was pressed into his hands his lips lifted into a smile. He looked around until he found Char, saluted him with his spoon, and immediately started eating.

Char hadn’t realized how tight his shoulders had been with worry until after they abruptly relaxed at the sight of Fendle’s smile. He had zero idea what that meant or why he was so happy to see Fendle abandon the spoon and put the bowl’s lip directly to his mouth. Instead, Char focused on filling and passing out the last few bowls, taking his own portion once everyone else was served.

The fish was soft and flaky. The caramelized onion provided a sharp sweetness that complemented the onion flavoring the broth and the bite from fresh onion stem. The broth itself was fishy without being cloying. Char would have been happier with some bay leaf and a more even cooking surface, but he had made another palatable meal. A light, crunchy starch—croutons perhaps—would have perfected it, but Char was still pleased to note the food from every pot, pan, and cutting board was completely gone by the time the crew assigned to wash up started making grumbling noises and collecting dirty dishes.

Fendle smothered a yawn behind one hand as he handed over his empty bowl. The crowd was dispersing, but they would return again for some tea once Char had fresh water set to boil. The big pot needed to be scrubbed first, though, because fishy tea sounded awful. Soon enough only Char and Fendle remained around the cooking fire. A second fire with uncut logs set up for sitting in a circle around it had been created near the tents, so most people had gravitated over there.

Char added more wood to his fire, getting it hotter to boil water, and looked at Fendle. Even in the flickering light, the circles under Fendle’s eyes were pronounced.

“I wish I had a proper oven to bake with so I could make cookies to go with the tea.” That was the only topic he could think of to draw Fendle into conversation. Char didn’t know why he felt Fendle needed the distraction, or why Char was the best one to offer it, but Char still had to try.

Fendle snorted, grinning at him. Char’s ploy worked as some of the tiredness fell away. “I’m sure they would love cookies, but I’m also pretty certain we don’t have any chocolate with us. Maybe our medic has some in case someone needs a sugar kick, but it wouldn’t be enough for proper cookies.”

Char shrugged. “The bigger problem is we don’t have flour or a flour substitute. Or eggs. I can make really good, non-chocolate cookies too.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that,” Fendle replied, his voice certain and entirely free of sarcasm, which was a nice change. Normally, people quickly tired of Char’s obsession with cooking; sarcasm and disdain crept into voices, along with sneers and snide looks. Fendle had more than enough time to develop that tendency but hadn’t. Perhaps that was why Char was feeling so insistent about supporting Fendle as best he could.

“How are we doing on supplies, by the way?” Fendle asked. “The meeting this afternoon was basically a bitch fest, unfortunately. It appears the six mercenary groups here were all paid to assemble in this location, after which they were promised more pay to jointly attack an unnamed target. Apparently, per Tarken, we’re to sit on our asses and run through all our supplies while we wait for someone to deliver the second set of instructions. Since no one actually knows when those instructions will arrive, all they could do was complain about not being properly outfitted for a long campout.”

Char nodded. “We’re okay for now. We have your supplies combined with everything we scavenged.” He didn’t explain aloud about commandeering all the extra food from the mercenaries Fendle’s group had killed, but his meaning was clear. “Plus, tonight the only ingredients I used from our stores were some mushrooms and spices. The fish and onion we were able to forage fresh. With the foraging included, I would estimate our stores will last for two weeks, but if we think this is going to take longer than that, I can start rationing the second week and stretch it another week or so.”

Fendle sighed. “I really hope this won’t take nearly as long as two more weeks. The message will have to arrive soon since all the mercenary groups are here, so this should be done in a few more days. Then it’s about four days ride to the city, and we can always stop in a town to buy supplies on the way if needed.”

“Then I won’t worry about rationing any time soon,” Char replied with an easy shrug. “I’ll keep an eye on our stores though. Just in case.”

Fendle smiled at him. “I really am glad we decided not to kill you.” He clapped Char on the shoulder. The flickering firelight was kind enough to hide the way Char’s cheeks warmed. He felt as if he had kept his face too close to an open oven door, the blasting heat giving him the equivalent of a sunburn. New recipes, the chance to try unique ingredients, or an opportunity to learn techniques from a master in his craft; those were all instances that had his stomach fluttering and excitement flashing through him. Never before had it been from a smile and a friendly touch. Char had no idea what any of it meant, but he forced his lips to curve into an answering smile before his face alerted Fendle to Char’s confusion.

Friendly chatter moved closer as the dishwashing crew started walking back from the lake. Fendle took a step back, releasing his gentle grip on Char’s shoulder.

“I need to double-check the duty roster for tomorrow,” he explained.

Char frowned at him. “And get some sleep.” The words slipped out before Char could stop them, but Fendle only laughed at the motherly admonition.

“Yes. I’ll get some sleep too.” He smiled at Char one last time before striding off toward the other fire.

The washing crew delivered a full pot of fresh water, so Char busied himself making tea, hoping his odd, albeit not unpleasant, swirling feelings would abate soon.