Мерседес Лэки - Passages

“I say the bugger’s filling his own pockets,” a young woman close to Imra yelled out, and there were cheers from the crowd. “The Errels are the wealthiest family this side of Polsim. They own everything, ’cept the fields north of Reyis’s farm. This isn’t what the Herald planned.”

“Careful, Merelyn,” the man on the platform, Reyis, called out, and some people nodded. “Or those loyal to the Errels will seek revenge on your cooking.”

Someone laughed. “Seems more to me Merelyn will take revenge through her cook’n regardless.”

There was a bout of laughter, and the woman who called out, Merelyn, waved at them all and then disappeared into the door of the inn.

“Imra.” Izli appeared at her side. “Come.”

She joined the girl at the blacksmith’s as the argument in the octagon continued and met the owner, Riduil Araric. He was heavyset, but not from lack of movement. His girth was that of muscle, hard-bound and sturdy. He was bald save for the sprout of hair from his chin, which he kept in a very short braid and a blue bead.

He greeted Imra with a smile. “Nice to meet you, lass. Don’t you worry about yer horse. I can get him shoe’d in no time. Have him ready for travel tomorrow.”

“That would be wonderful,” Imra returned his smile. “Would you recommend the inn for my stay?”

“I would,” he said and then he leaned forward, and with a conspiratorial glance to his left and then his right, whispered, “But I wouldn’t eat the food. There’s a nice tavern at the end of the road out of town, toward Polsim.”

Izli pushed at Riduil’s side, but the man didn’t move. “You stop that. My mom’s cooking isn’t that bad.”

Imra looked at Izli. “Merelyn is your mother?”

“Yeah,” Izli said and moved past them to take Mouse’s reins. “Come on and I’ll show you in. We’ve got rooms.”

With a nod of goodbye to Riduil, they stabled Mouse, and Izli helped carry Imra’s bags into the inn. The interior was just as impressive as the exterior. Soft white plaster walls were accented by thick wood beams that ran along the ceiling. Lamps flickered high above and flames on sconces illuminated each of the tables. The floor was well-kept, a detail Imra hadn’t seen often in all of her travels on Circuit.

The crowning glory of the main room was a grand hearth in the back, made of the same stone as the town’s entrance. Atop the mantel sat a collection of lanterns, a few of which Imra knew were antique. The place smelled a bit odd—as if someone had dumped a lot of cinnamon and oregano into a fire.

Merelyn greeted them, coming out of the kitchen and moving around the bar where a single customer drank from a large mug. “Well, hello. I seen you in the crowd.”

“Mother, this is Imra. Her horse threw a shoe, so Riduil’s taking care of her.”

“Well, good. Izli, put her things up in the largest suite—”

“Oh, please. No. Just something small,” Imra interjected.

But Merelyn put her hand on Imra’s shoulder. “As you can see, we’re not crowded. I get a few travelers from time to time, but only because they take the wrong path from Endercott to Polsim. Izli, the bags.”

Izli rolled her eyes at her mother and took the bags up a set of stairs to the right of the bar.

“Now, can I get you something to eat? It know it’s just before noon, so you’ve got to be hungry. First meal’s on the house.”

Imra looked around at the empty tables and said, “Do you usually get busier after noon?”

The man at the bar gave a snort.

“You be quiet, Simon Dod,” and she flicked a towel at him. “Pay him no mind. He’s in his cups.”

“The ale’s the only thing good around here,” Simon said. He turned on his stool and smiled. He was older than Imra, with graying hair and a full beard. But his clothing was nice and clean, and he wore good shoes. “If you want to eat—”

“Not here,” Merelyn held up her finger.

“I noticed a rather odd smell . . .” Imra began as she moved around the bar and into the kitchen—and stopped at the entrance. The place was an unmitigated disaster. Flour decorated just about every surface, as did sprinkles of spices. Meat sat out on the center table, half cut and without covering! There were vegetables and fruit mixed in bowls and in a bin close by where it was obvious whatever was on the bottom was rotting.

No . . . she would never eat anything that came out of this kitchen. Imra pivoted and looked at Merelyn behind her.

Merelyn shrugged. “I’m not a cook. I do better at building things than making things taste good.”

Imra sighed and removed her shawl. She set it on the only stool not covered in something and rolled up her sleeves. “Well, then, given I have plenty of time before my horse is ready, and you’re not expecting a crowd for lunch, I’d say we start by cleaning this place up and sorting out what you have.” She held her finger up when Merelyn opened her mouth. “I’m hungry. And there’s enough here to make a nice stew, an apple pie, and I believe some bread, though I can see flour replaced dust in this room, I’m more interested in where the bag itself is.”

Four hours later, in a very clean, and very organized kitchen, Imra and Merelyn stood at the center table. Stew simmered in a pot over a fire, an apple pie cooled on the window sill, and three loaves of bread rested on a rack nearby. Before them were twelve glass containers filled with what Imra insisted were the most essential spices to good cooking. “I’m going to point and you tell me what’s inside.”

Merelyn nodded.

“And remember—think of this as your tool belt. Or your tool case. These are your hammer, saw, lathe—”

“I got it. Just point.”

So Imra did.

“That’s . . . cardamon . . . no, carda mom . Ginger . . . cumin . . . tumor—no, turmeric. Coriander, rosemary—that’s an easy one—mustard, oregano, black peppercorn, bay leaves, basil—oh, and cinnamon.”

“Very good!” Imra now pointed at one of the containers. “What is it and what is it good for?”

“That’s basil. You can eat the leaves fresh or cooked. It’s taste is more subtle than the peppercorns. Enhances chicken, fish or lamb. It’s really good in tomato dishes—I’m not a fan of tomatoes—”

“So you’ve said several times.”

“—but it’s very good at enhancing the flavor of potatoes, cabbage, squash, and we used it in the stew.”

Imra patted her shoulder.

Merelyn put her hands on her hips. “You were right. As long as I think of them as—”

“What is that smell?” Izli demanded as she came into the kitchen. Behind her was Simon, and behind him came the man from the platform, Reyis. Up close he was nice to look at. His eyes were dark brown and very expressive.

“Merelyn,” Reyis said. “Who is your new cook?”

“She’s not a cook! She’s staying here while her horse is reshod. This is Imra. Imra, this is Reyis Loraqen.”

“Nice to meet you.” Reyis’ hand was warm and calloused. “Is it possible to get some of that stew I see in that pot. Oh, and some of that bread.”

“And apple pie!” Izli gushed over the still steaming treat. “Mother! Did you cook all of this?”

“She did,” Imra said.

“With instruction from Imra. And, yes. Simon, would you like some too? You know you never—” She turned to the stew to find Simon bent over the pot with a big wooden spoon. “Simon Dod!”

And he dropped the spoon in the stew.

Merelyn laughed as Imra and Izli helped dish out bowls, broke bread, and poured cups of weak ale.

No one spoke until the pie was cut and shared, and a man wondered into the kitchen. He asked about a room and a plate of whatever that wonderful smell was. Izli and Merelyn jumped up to immediately accommodate their new guest, leaving Imra and Reyis alone.