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  1. - Top - End - #1
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Default Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    Well, my friends, I'm here to fulfill my promise. Once again, I'm awfully sorry to have messed with you about the previous story. When I can, I will reintroduce it here. As a replacement, I'd like to offer my short story, "Phoenix For The Amateur Chef." This story is now appearing in Sword and Sorceress 30 and won runner-up honors in the Baen Fantasy Award in 2014. And I absolutely can post it here from beginning to end.
    Spoiler: Dude, Who Are You?
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    I write under the name G. Scott Huggins, and I'm a minor science-fiction and fantasy author who's loved this comic and this site for a long time. Links to my work are in my sig file.

    Spoiler: Why Are You Doing This?
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    Because it's fun, and because I hope that if you think this is cool, you might conclude that you want to read more.

    Spoiler: What's The Connection to OOTS?
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    In a way, this story was inspired by OOTS. A long time ago, when strip #744 came out, and Tarquin served Elan phoenix pate, I wondered what it would be like to be one of those poor chefs. Birds tend to die very easily when stressed. So I started a story about someone who had to cook phoenix without getting killed. It didn't go anywhere. Then, years later my wife and I were watching Masterchef, and the whole idea just... jelled. I'd forgotten about the original inspiration by then, but one day when I reread the strip, I just went: "Yeah, that was where it started." "Phoenix" isn't set in the D&D-verse. But it could be, I suppose, with effort.


    Phoenix For The Amateur Chef
    by
    G. Scott Huggins

    First Installment

    Feathers ablaze, the phoenix fell.
    Its sobbing death cry silenced by a coat of ravening flame, it corkscrewed to earth, bleeding dirty white fire. The thick black smoke left a smear across the dusk.
    By the time it struck the cliff face thirty feet above our heads, it was a ball of charred meat. It bounced. Splashed. We ducked the searing gobbet of flesh. Of the fallen bird, only a little pile of ash and bone was left, and even those were rapidly whitening, like charcoal.
    I looked at Tywin, who stood sucking his teeth and polishing his great stonebow. He dropped the remaining stones to the earth, unanointed by Trelesta’s unguent.
    “Well, crap,” I said finally.

    #

    The memory snapped me out of my fatigue-induced daze. I was still in the Imperial Kitchen. For the hundredth time, I looked at the cage that held my plucked phoenix, safe in its enchanted sleep, lest it should suddenly have combusted into a pile of inedible ashes. For the hundredth time, I bit back a growl at Tywin’s cheerful smile, and the jaunty way he laid out our utensils.
    Shaking, I laid out the four eggs I had prepared last night, and Tywin fetched the small pot of marinade in its ice water bath. I had calculated the ingredients over and over since noon, and Tywin had pronounced it good. But I wasn’t worried about the entrée. That I had tested.
    I looked at the plucked phoenix that would be my main course. For that, there could be no test except the one that I had to pass or die.
    I groaned. The dishes were already more prepared than I was.
    Last edited by Vorkosigan; 2016-05-25 at 05:46 AM.
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  2. - Top - End - #2
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Professor Gnoll's Avatar

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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    I was enjoying your last story, so I look forward to seeing where this goes.
    Ah, phoenix. A challenge even for the most talented of chefs. But that mouthwateringly spicy flavour makes it all worthwhile, don't you think?
    Hazama avatar by me. Other avatars that I've made:
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  3. - Top - End - #3
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    Professor Gnoll: Thanks for the kind words.

    Second Installment

    The only reason I was still alive was that His Imperial Majesty didn’t kill people at Family Dinners. They were supposed to be happy occasions.
    What was a Family Dinner? Well, His Imperial Majesty said any ordinary King could have banquets. He had these, of course, but was not about to be counted among selfish and ordinary monarchs. He certainly wasn’t about to keep the Imperial Master Chef on retainer and then let her sit idle.
    No, His Imperial Majesty was pleased to share his treasure, and so every month, the Master Chef arrayed the Great Hall for an immense feast, or at least an immense supper. And the entire staff of the palace ate whatever the Emperor was having.
    It was a meal dreaded by all.
    His Imperial Majesty prided himself on his refined and delicate palate. And he loathed anything predictable or pedestrian. He wished to delight his “family,” as he spoke of us, and when His Majesty wanted people delighted, they damned well were delighted. So I had sat with my fellow sorcerors, trying to look delighted.
    I grew up in a seaport. A Fellowship in the College of the Wise had meant a chance to get away from the things that poor people could (or more often, had to) do to seafood. Even there, the poorest of us knew that jellyfish were for tossing back, not for serving with fine vinegars in thin, quivering slices. They now writhed in my stomach like cold, living fat. I had managed to down the steamed scarabs by squinting and pretending they were bad lobster. The bird’s nest soup was what did it. And I might have made it even through that if I hadn’t happened to say idly, “There aren’t as many twigs or grasses as I would have expected from bird’s nest soup.”
    Sitting beside me, Chief Diviner Ghislane looked over with a little smile. He was the only one at the table not picking his way through the food; he actually enjoyed the Family Dinners.
    “My dear Hanael, these bird’s nests are not products of grasses and leaves. These are the nests of the cave swallows of the Eastern sea-cliffs.”
    “And they don’t have plants there?”
    “Not many. The male cave swallow attracts his mate by painstakingly constructing his nest with regurgitated fishbone. This gives the meal its subtle undercurrent of sea salt, augmented by the kelp…”
    “Bird vomit?” I was eating bird vomit? My spoon fell from my hand. “Well, when do we get to the urine course?” I asked, desperate to distract myself. My superior, the Archmage Trelesta, shot me a quelling glare.
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  4. - Top - End - #4
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Third Installment

    I looked up, and there, not five feet away, a silver-chased platter in her hands, was Master Chef Angwy, immaculate in jacket and toque. The platter was laid with pale yellow, white-flecked spheres. The cheese course! Salvation. I swallowed gorge. A bite of cheese would be just the thing to soothe my injured stomach.
    “Casu marzu, from the islands of Sardica,” she intoned, eyes stabbing at me. Oh, yes, the Emperor’s favorite had heard me. I looked down, pretending to be mute. When she finally stood before me, I reached quickly for the platter. My fingers nearly sank into the very soft cheese, but I popped it into my mouth nonetheless.
    The flavor wasn’t just sharp; it was stinking! And then I felt the wriggling. My eyes popped open. The platter still hovered before me. The white flecks on the pale yellow balls… moved.
    The tiny maggots crawled across the cheese, and even as I stared, one jumped off the dish, and landed on the bridge of my nose.
    I quickly rose, but my stomach rose faster, and all five courses of my dinner splashed over the table, the cheese, and Master Chef Angwy’s spotless front.
    Faintly, I heard screaming, and sensed those at my table leaping clear. The vomiting seemed to go on for hours. At last, the only sounds in the great hall were my own agonized coughing and spluttering… and the laughter from the lower tables. I was much better entertainment than the food.
    I looked up, wanting to die.
    Angwy had dropped the tray and stood with disbelief and rage on her face, dripping with the contents of my stomach from chest to ankles. But beyond her, at the high table on the dais, white fury on his face, His Majesty stood.
    “My Lord,” Master Chef Angwy said, icy tones ringing clear in the dead stillness. “It seems that Sorceror’s Apprentice Hanael wishes to critique your choice of menu.”
    As if moving through clearest treacle, the Emperor raised his hand. Before I could think, two guards were at my shoulders, taking me, not away to the dungeons, but ever-closer to His Imperial Majesty, himself.
    They didn’t have to force me to my knees before him. I collapsed there. Dazed, I heard Angwy stride up behind us.
    “Your Majesty,” she said. “For the crime of lèse-majesté, evidenced by contempt of your great gift to us all, only death can answer.”
    I saw His Majesty open his mouth.
    Then I heard Archmage Trelesta’s voice from behind me: “Your Majesty,” she said, with a deep bow, “My apprentice’s insult was not to you, as the Imperial Chef makes out, but to her. It is no injury to Your Majesty if her cooking sickens some.”
    I stared back at her. What was she doing? I heard Angwy sputter and then say, “Are you giving me the lie, Archmage?”
    “Of course not,” Trelesta said smoothly. “Apprentice Hanael is. Aren’t you?” I felt her nudge me sharply.
    Grasping at the hint, though it was nonsensical, I managed to gasp, “Yes. Yes.” Didn’t she know that accusations of lying were tantamount to challenging the accused to a duel?
    “So be it, filth!” Angwy snarled. “A duel it shall be.”
    And that as the challenged party, Angwy would have…
    “Choice of weapons?” His Majesty rapped out. His face was thunderous with rage at me, but his gaze was on Angwy.
    A slow, evil smile spread across her face. “Kitchens,” she said.
    Kitchens? I heard my own bewildered voice. “What shall we do? Slice each other into bits and cook one another?”
    Angwy’s mouth curled contempt. “Of course not. You called lie on my word and insulted my art. Should you outdo me, you shall live. Should you not, you shall die, in the manner of my choosing. Do you know that I sometimes talk shop with the Chief Jailer? We use many of the same techniques. He only gets to use them when His Majesty is… especially displeased. We have taught each other much. What shall we prepare for Your pleasure, Your Majesty?”
    His Majesty hesitated. Then he, too, smiled. “Master Chef Angwy, I believe I have always wanted to try… phoenix.”
    “As Your Majesty desires,” she purred.
    Last edited by Vorkosigan; 2016-05-28 at 05:09 PM.
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  5. - Top - End - #5
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    NOTE: Sorry for being late on this. I haven't forgotten the serial. Long story short: I had to put my cat I've had for nineteen years to sleep this morning. Normal parts of my routine were... really not on my mind.

    Fourth Installment

    #

    But now Angwy entered the Kitchens and stormed up to me, eyes blazing, mouth tight.
    “What is this sick joke?” Her eyes shifted from me to the plucked bird in the cage between us. “That’s not phoenix,” she growled. “What are you cooking here?”
    “I beg your pardon?” I said. “It most certainly is phoenix. And I haven’t seen your proposed menu either, unless you’d care to share.”
    “You wouldn’t comprehend my art, you…”
    “Excuse me, madam,” snapped Tywin, from behind me. We both whirled on him. Gone was the cheerful demeanor. He spoke in the crisp tones of an officer. “Do you mean to give me the lie? This bird is a phoenix, shot a day ago, by me. Now which man of your acquaintance do you so dislike as to designate your champion in such a duel?”
    Angwy fumed. “Keep your tricks to yourself, then. Enjoy roasting.” She stalked off to her underchef and began screaming at him.
    I shuddered.
    “Now what’s got her frightened?” asked Tywin.
    “Her?” I asked in disbelief. “Frightened?”
    “Scared as a soldier before battle. One who’s been told that the enemy will run, and who’s now watching them advance. I’ve seen it.” The clock sounded. Fifteen minutes. Our escort appeared. My life now depended on me and Tywin and the phoenix.

    #

    It was Archmage Trelesta who had introduced me to Tywin. I clutched her summons in one hand and the Imperial Order in the other.
    “Why did you have me challenge her?” I shrieked. I kept thinking I would awake from this nightmare, but it just went on.
    “It was the only way out,” she said. “If the Emperor had charged you with lèse-majesté, you would be dead now. Now, you have a chance to live.”
    “By learning to cook phoenix?”
    She shrugged. “I didn’t say it was a good chance.” She rapped at the door.
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  6. - Top - End - #6
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Fifth Installment

    I stared at the Imperial Order:
    His Imperial Majesty requests and requires your attendance upon the day after tomorrow at half-past six of the clock:
    You shall prepare for His Majesty and two guests a simple three-course meal, consisting of an entrée, a main course, and a dessert, equaling or surpassing His Majesty’s accustomed manner of dining. All courses shall prominently feature the flesh of the phoenix. The nature of the courses shall be registered with His Majesty’s majordomo by noon, at which time you will be granted the use of the Imperial kitchens.
    Cooking of the meal will be done in His Majesty’s private audience chamber, with what ingredients you please, within a space of two hours. You will be granted the assistance of one (1) sous-chef. Stoves shall be provided according to your needs. Fail not in this charge at your peril.

    Peril. That word was so horrible my brain skipped right over it and fixated on the next most terrible word.
    “Dessert?” I howled. “How can you serve a phoenix dessert?”
    “How can you serve phoenix at all?” asked Trelesta. “If anyone will know, he lives here.”
    Chief Huntsman Tywin opened the door. He was a bald man of about fifty, and he nodded to Trelesta cautiously.
    “You here for breakfast?” he asked.
    “For two, please,” she said, and we entered the lodge. Amazingly, it smelled like the best breakfasts of my childhood. My stomach growled. She plucked the note from me and passed it to Tywin. “What do you make of this?”
    He read it, then spat: “I can make a pile of smoking ash. Burn it and bake the ashes in a pie. Say it’s phoenix. No one’ll know the difference.”
    “I’ll know,” I gulped.
    Trelesta sighed. “She is most skilled. It would be quite vexing if I had to train another apprentice so soon, just because this one is no cook,” said Trelesta. “Please see what you can do.”
    Last edited by Vorkosigan; 2016-05-29 at 05:51 AM.
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  7. - Top - End - #7
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    I wonder if anyone is reading this...

    Sixth Installment

    Tywin stared at me. “Have you ever cooked anything?” he asked, doubtfully, crossing to where potatoes and herbs crisped on a black stove.
    I blushed. “Sort of.”
    “How’s that?”
    “My family ran a fish-fry stall. By the seaport.”
    He started. “You mean one of those dockside shacks that sells fried everything?”
    “To everybody. Sailors are starving because they’ve worked so hard, and passengers are starving because they’re not throwing up for the first time in a week.”
    Tywin smeared something on two plucked birds and plunged them in a pot of bubbling oil.
    I blinked at them. “That… that’s how we always did fringe fries.”
    “What? Those crispy potato-peels? Did people actually buy those?”
    “You’d be amazed.” Suddenly, my mouth was watering. “Those smell wonderful. Are… are you a real cook?”
    “Faugh, no. Just a man who’s had to eat me own cooking most of me life. First as a soldier, then as a huntsman.”
    My heart sank. “But how do you get it to smell that way?”
    “Ah, that’s the herbs and spices. Eleven of them. Don’t even fry-stalls have a spice jar?”
    “Vial.”
    “Everyone says that, but they eat there anyway…”
    “No, we bought the spices in a vial. Pre-made.”
    “Pssht. I do that, too. Can’t hunt wild sage, basil, onion, garlic and marjoram every day.” He took the basket out of the oil and drained it. “But sakes, girl, Royal Cheffery isn’t any different! Your fry-stall knew what people want. Angwy knows what the highborn want. A vant-guard, they call it. Stuff you can barely stomach. Eat.”
    He handed me a pheasant. My fingers sought a place cool enough to hold. Avant-garde this might not be, but it smelled like the food of the gods. I bit into it. The rich, dark flavor filled my mouth, sage and onion dancing along my tongue with an undercurrent of honey and something stronger.
    Trelesta bit into hers as well, and sighed. “But the principal problem Tywin, is…”
    He sighed. “You want me to shoot Phoenix.”
    “You owe me a try, Tywin. I do have a potion that induces sleep the instant it strikes the blood. Can you smear it on your arrows?
    “Sure,” said Tywin. “Will it let a bird survive being skewered through the breastbone? Because that’s what arrows tend to do.”
    “No.”
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  8. - Top - End - #8
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    Seventh Installment

    Tywin snorted. “I’ve a stonebow for pigeon and such. Fires smooth bullets; couldn’t you enchant one of them with a sleep spell or something?”
    “Hardly,” Trelesta said. “Hanael?”
    “Spells can only be held by living things.” I explained one of the basics of sorcery. You can’t ‘pass it on’ through dead wood or stone,” Then a thought struck me. “These stone bullets. Could you put points on them?
    “They’d wobble all over the sky. No hunter in the world could do that.”
    My heart was pounding in my chest. “And if you could?” I picked up the stonebow.
    “You just said you couldn’t enchant anything not alive.”
    “No, I just can’t transmit a spell through anything not alive.” I cast the spell over the stonebow and passed it to him.
    “What’d you do to it?” Tywin growled.
    Stole an Imperial military secret, I didn’t say. But Trelesta nodded. I handed him a bullet. He placed in in the groove, and it began spinning like a top.
    Eyes wide, he carried the bow outside.
    He test-fired it. Twice. Then he looked at me.
    “That triples the aimed range. You’re giving this to me?”
    “Giving?” I smiled. “I think not. It’s your salary. For being my hunter. And my sous-chef
    “You know, stones kill. Wounding your bird is still a slim chance.”
    “It is a chance we shall have to take.”

    #
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  9. - Top - End - #9
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Eighth Installment

    Watching the calcined remains of the chance “we” had taken, I imagined how I’d write the recipe down:

    Phoenix Flambé

    Ingredients:
    One (1) medium-sized phoenix
    One (1) skewer (arrow, javelin, etc.)
    One (1) vocabulary (filthy)

    Preparation:
    Place phoenix on fireproof surface. Skewer phoenix. Allow phoenix to cook in resulting 3100 degree flame for about ten seconds (as if you had a choice). Employ vocabulary. Scrape ashes into a pile.

    Out of the blue, an idea struck.

    Let stand one minute, then make Scrambled Eggs Phoenix! (q.v.)


    A gentle wind struck, too, and I turned to Tywin, panicking. “Your cloak!” I yelled. He gave me a quizzical look. “Your cloak! Hurry!”
    He cast aside the bow, and my hands flew to the clasp of his cloak, which I immediately flung over the ash.
    “That was a new cloak summer before last,” he observed gloomily. I ignored him. I couldn’t see any ashes escaping.
    “Hunted much phoenix?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Naw. My brother shot one just to see ‘im flame. Da whipped ‘im. For cruelty. Well, and you could burn down a whole damn forest that way. Fortunately, it was fall and rainy then, too. If this were high summer, I’d have told you and the old witch to bugger yerselves.”
    I doubted that. He owed her something. But I knew how much I needed Tywin’s good will. I felt the cloak, and was rewarded with a faint thrill of triumph.
    “Then you probably haven’t had to study their biology.” I raised the cloak. The faintly golden egg shone up at me. And a few more of these might just save my life:

    Scrambled Eggs Phoenix

    Ingredients:
    One or more (>1) medium-sized phoenix eggs
    Salt and pepper to taste

    Preparation:
    Heat oil in frying pan. Break phoenix eggs into pan. Scramble eggs. Until cooked. Hope. Serve.

    #

    “No, you may not serve Scrambled Phoenix Eggs to His Majesty,” said majordomo Selzden Grammel. His fussy little mustache twitched as if something smelled bad. On second thought, that was probably me. Burnt feathers stank, and I hadn’t had time to wash.
    “But sir,” I bowed. “The eggs are phoenix eggs. Logically, they must be the same thing as phoenix meat. The order states that phoenix must be in all the dishes. They do not say in what form.”
    “Sorceress,” Grammel said, looking down his nose. “As any scullery maid in the lower kitchens could tell you, eggs are dairy products, while phoenix is…” he looked me up and down, “fowl.”
    “Tell me,” he continued. “Did you have any other ingredients for this dish, or were you just going to scramble a mess of eggs on something hot and hope? Master Chef Angwy is preparing Slow-Roasted Phoenix for His Majesty. I think she would suggest you taste-test some… other options. Aconite, perhaps.”
    “Aconite is a poison!” I blurted.
    “Precisely. But faster than what the Master Chef intends for you,” he grinned.
    I fled, his laughter echoing behind me.

    #
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  10. - Top - End - #10
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    Anyone still reading?

    Ninth Installment

    Now we were entering the Emperor’s lavishly-appointed private audience room, but I found that I could look at nothing but the ovens and stoves that had been provided, and the judging table.
    On the left sat the Prime Minister, a Court favorite, obviously. On the right sat a slight bald man I didn’t know with a fussy mouth and trimmed beard. His Majesty sat in the center. He favored me with a blank, closed look, and then broke into a beaming smile.
    Angwy had just entered behind me.
    I slumped. I was doomed. All Tywin and I had done, and all we would do, was for nothing. If I made a brave enough show of it, the Emperor might “only” banish me. Or just make Angwy kill me quickly. I’d never had a chance.
    And there was an audience. One row of seats, filled by the Royal Court. There was Chief Diviner Ghislane; it probably killed him he wasn’t a judge. Tywin’s boss, the Imperial Forester. And Archmage Trelesta, looking resigned but alert. I supposed I was glad she was there. I had enjoyed working with her. I had enjoyed the whole job. Except the vomiting, obviously.
    Majordomo Grammel rose. “My Lords and Ladies of the Court, Your Imperial Majesty,” he bowed. This was it. “Today, for our entertainment and culinary edification, His Majesty has commissioned a contest between The Imperial Master Chef, Dame Angwy Sabachka, and her most vocal critic, Third Assistant Sorceress Hanael Letzterhoff.”
    There was a smattering of applause and muted laughter.
    Grammel continued. “Assisting His Majesty in adjudging tonight’s contest will be the Lord Prime Minister Willifred Mosquwm, and His Majesty’s most admired guest, Sir Graam Ewesprach Bastich, whose Grille d’Inferne has such a following here in the capital.”
    I stumbled. The Bastich? The cooking legend? I glanced at Angwy, and she was frowning. Was it possible that she’d not expected to find herself measured on such exacting scales? Then I shook myself. If she was worried, I ought to be petrified. Except I already was. And there was no time for more thought. Grammel was already speaking: “Ladies, you may begin!”
    I reached forward, but Tywin restrained me. “Hasty cooks ruin meals. You’ve got two hours. Slow down. One thing at a time.” I nodded. Methodically, I placed the three eggs in the basket. Grammel spoke again,
    “To whet our distinguished judges’ appetites, Master Chef Angwy has elected to begin with a course entrée of chilled phoenix pate de foie gras with truffles and armagnac, cold salad and baguettes grilled.”
    Gods be good, I had an appetizer with a cooking time of two minutes and the bitch was still out the gate in front of me! Cold entrée! Her sous-chef was serving the Emperor, who was licking his lips. And with an amused curl of his lip, looking at me.

    #
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  11. - Top - End - #11
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

    Join Date
    May 2006
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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    Tenth Installment

    The candlelight in Trelesta’s Library could not keep out the chill of the fall night, nor was it bright enough to ease the ache in my eyes.
    It was all in front of me. Everything about the phoenix in Trelesta’s Library, and therefore everything in the Imperial Library, and therefore, quite probably, everything that was known in the entire world. In this one book by Alfredus Maximus, an obscure thaumatobiologist.
    Why phoenix? Why couldn’t it have been, say, manticore? Sure, its sting or flesh would kill a man in three heartbeats, but the poison was child’s play to neutralize if you just had a mandrake root and three colors of cloth! The tiny entry mocked me with its archaic diction. I imagined what I would say to Alfredus if I’d had him in front of me:

    Lytle is knoun of the lyfe and powers of the phoenix (you don’t say!). The byrd is gretely magyckal (what was your first clue?), and nigh ympossible to captvre whyle lyvinge, because unlesse handled with grete care, the phoenix tendeth to die (the news just gets better!) and vpon deathe, to yncandesce in a torrent of flaume, such that the whole byrd be redvced to ash.
    Vpon mine own captvre of this most rare byrd
    (it’d just kill you to mention how, wouldn’t it, you poxy dead bastard?) I plvcked a single fether. Thys prooved vnwise, as the byrd died at once, sending up a grete conflagration which bvrnt many valuable materieles (and serves you right!)
    Examination shewed that the fether was indeed, in greter part of finest metal, which alchemie revealed to be magnesivm. In the 4 or 5 moments elapsed before the carcase spontaneously combvsted, fearfvl heat emanated from the byrd, the which, I believe, was the cause of the ignition. As the bones and viscera were distinguishable upon very close examination, I dedvce that the grete heat doth originate in the byrd his skin.
    My examination seemeth to have hindered, but not prevented, the formation of the phoenix his egg, which took a fortnight to hatch (so much for sitting on the thing tonight and tomorrow) and did produce a byrd like unto the firste.
    Yt cannot be saide of a certantie, whether this be the same byrd, or it his offspring, yette if it be the same, then immortalitie is among us. But even yf it be notte the same, then surely the phoenix his defence is as nigh perfect as may be, for what hunter would dare another such deadlie morsel, yf once it survived the unwisdom of attempting such preye?


    How could Angwy slow-roast a phoenix? According to Maximus, even plucking the bird would kill it. And magnesium burned hot enough to melt lead! Was it really possible that the bird’s skin got hot enough to ignite the feathers? Sorcerors knew metals, and that would be nearly twice as hot as the hottest oven I’d ever heard of.
    There was only one answer. I would have to discover what Angwy had in her kitchen. Because even if I had a plucked phoenix in front of me right now, all I knew to do with it was heat it and hope. So you think I should look into other options, bitch? How about yours?
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  12. - Top - End - #12
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

    Join Date
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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    Eleventh Installment

    Angwy had taught me not to make an enemy of a chef. It was time to teach her not to make an enemy of a sorceress. The secrets of high gastronomy were her weapons. To steal them, I would rely on the lowest magics, known to every student mage who had ever haunted an n-dimensional library. Her notes would be in her kitchen. And while I didn’t dare try breaking into the Imperial Kitchen, I could always Goggle it.
    I fished out my Glass Goggles and wound up the clockwork on the side. I hoped there was enough power in their surge engine. When it started humming, I began my chant.
    Slowly, the great kitchen swam into my view. Guiding the Goggles, I peered through walls and into her office, where stood three shelves of books. I browsed titles: The Art of Fringe Cooking for Masters. The Viceroy of Cooking. The Brutal Gourmet. Now:
    “Phoenix,” I sang.
    And the library went dark. Not a glimmer of arcane light showed.
    As I feared. No one knew how to prepare phoenix. There was no recipe here. Like many master mages, Chef Angwy kept her most cherished secrets in her mind alone.
    Nevertheless, if I did come up with a way to capture Phoenix, I would need actual recipes. A Phoenix was about the size of a large duck or goose.
    “Duck OR Goose entree,” I sang. And half the tomes on the shelves lit. I peered within: Bacon Stuffed Goose Drumsticks. My Goggles memorized the recipe. Pate de foie gras. Goggles. Brandied duck tongue. Goggles. Balut, whatever the hell that was.
    “Game birds” lit up almost every tome on the shelves. I Goggled a dozen. Then the most vital encanta: “Goose OR duck AND dessert.”
    A single small volume lit in three places. Two featured foie gras, cream and sugar, and one said “Chocolate tongue profiteroles.” Goggled.
    I had the recipes, but no clues about phoenix. Could the kitchen tell me anything? “Slow Roaster,” I intoned, winding the surge engine tighter.
    A largish box lit. I examined it.
    Perhaps it was special, but as far as I could tell, it was an iron box, with a rotisserie and a handle to turn it. Would she use it for phoenix? Likely. Especially useful for phoenix? I couldn’t know. Angwy had mastered a sorcery I couldn’t hope to learn in a night. I was done.
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

  13. - Top - End - #13
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    BlackDragon

    Join Date
    May 2006
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    Default Re: Phoenix For The Amateur Chef (Serial)

    Sorry, folks, I've been really sick lately. I*s anyone enjoying this, perchance?

    Twelfth Installment

    Back in my chambers, though, I had to face facts: what did I have? One phoenix egg, and a collection of recipes.
    I couldn’t think like a chef, so I thought like a research student: Start basic.
    I scribed the recipes from my Goggles into a book. Then: “Eggs,” I said. Three titles appeared:

    Crème Brulee de Foie Gras au Chocolat
    Chocolate Tongue Profiteroles
    Balut

    I looked out the window where stars burned. Start with the weirdest one, you’ll only get more weary as the night drags on.
    I brushed the last entry with a finger… and read salvation from the pages:

    Balut

    This island entrée is for only the most discerning gourmand, as the hoi-polloi are uniformly incapable of developing a palate necessary to appreciate the interplay of flavors resulting from a proper preparation of this dish.
    Harvesting the eggs presents difficulty, as one must precisely gauge the development of the egg required. Of course, any common avis domestica can be used, but the truly distinguished palate can accept no substitute for the wild partridge or pheasant.
    Once, chefs selected eggs approximately 7/10 of the way through the incubation period, but today’s gourmets prefer chicks matured for at least 4/5 of their incubation, cultivating tender but defined bones. The higher quality dining experience results from the unique crunch thus obtained. Traditional balut is marinated in the style…


    Phoenix eggs would be good for one of the dishes… maybe. It was a meat dish and an egg dish. It was definitely haute cuisine, Angwy would have to allow it or be shamed.
    If only I had the eleven days to incubate it. If only I had more time! I cursed myself. I should have cast a time extension spell on myself while I’d had the chance; I could have made this night last twice as long for myself. Of course, I’d have needed a willing substitute: the Law of Conservation of Time meant that for me to double my subjective time I’d have needed someone else to halve theirs. But Gods above, I could have bribed any of the guards or maids to do that, and all it would have cost them would have been feeling a little tired the next day! When I had studied at the College, we had Timeshared with each other so that everyone got two nights to cram the day before they faced the Examiners. Perhaps if I waked Trelesta, she’d be my Time Sink for the night. Or not.
    Still, I had little choice. I couldn’t extend time for myself for the eleven days it would take the egg to mature for balut…
    I stopped. Oh. As simple as that, was it?
    I snatched the pair of scales from my desk, weighing the egg: two ounces. Multiply by eleven days. For the egg to age 264 hours in one hour, The Law of Conservation of Time stated that I would have to experience only one hour in 264. I would appear to be in a coma for eleven days.
    But now I got to factor in the Law of Conservation of Mass. The egg weighed less than a thousandth of what I did. In the hour of the spell’s duration, I would experience a mere 15 minutes.
    Trembling, I scribed the runes around the egg, and up the side of my arm, and then spoke the words of power. The candle flame shifted toward a greenish yellow. I saw the moon begin crawling across the sky with visible speed.
    When the light returned to normal, I picked up the egg. The ink had faded considerably. Steeling myself for failure, I cracked it.
    Hi. I'm a hero. But I can't tell you why. It's classified.

    Miles Vorkosigan.

    Once Head Librarian of The Silverthorn

    Author of "Abandoned Responsibility", a tale of great ships, greatswords, and a halfdragon girl lost on an ocean wider than worlds. And it's free to listen to on Podcastle, along with its sequel, "Responsibility Descending."

    For more free F&SF, join my Facebook Group, Scott's Fort. And if you like them well enough to part with money to read more, I'm on Amazon.

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