~The Kitchens of the Towers Respite~ Timestamp: 56th Day of Winter, 512 A.V. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The third bell of the afternoon saw Alses and Cook amid the richly-fragranced pantries and storehouses which supplied the Towers Respite's prodigious kitchens. On every side, thick cedarwood shelves, further reinforced with sturdy iron brackets, supported earthenware pots of spices, flour, nuts, dried fruits and a hundred and one other things that Alses' meagre culinary knowledge couldn't identify, all of them breathing their own particular scent which mixed and mingled into a complex melange in the still air. “Today, my girl, ye're going to be learning about flavours. More specifically, about sugar syrup an' its many an' varied uses. Don't pull that face, it's useful knowledge. Good fer getting' kids to take their medicines, and fer takin' the nasty tastes of yer philtres away. Useful travellin' base for 'em, too – less likely to slop all over the place at th' wrong moment, less likely t'spoil, too.” He grinned at the change in Alses' expression. “Thought that'd get yer interest. Ye'll also be lookin' at destructive distillation, 'cause I'm running low on flavourings fer desserts, and students without their sweeties get very stroppy indeed. Bit like you would be if'n the Respite woodpile vanished before winter was through. Might look at hangovers, too, if we've got time an' I'm in a good mood.” He flashed a smile at her. “A little bird happened t'see you in the Scholar's Demise arguin' cocktails with th' barman the other day, see.” Cook clapped his hands together briskly, not giving her time to respond, although the sound muted by the baffling shelves. “That's enough o'that, though – we've got work t'do, my girl!” He led the way confidently along the labyrinth of pungent passageways, his little shoes twinkling and flashing in the light as they moved. Like many people blessed with an ample girth, he was surprisingly light on his feet, and Alses had to hurry to keep up with him. After a few chimes of seemingly-identical turns, they came to a stop in a sort of clearing that was piled high with rough wooden pallets laden down with tall cones and bags of something, wrapped in sturdy brown paper. They were familiar, somehow, touching off a fairly recent memory... “Sugar,” she said absently, just as Cook said the same word. He blinked at her in surprise. “You know what the stuff looks like before it's on the table?” he asked, evidently shocked. “Stockpiling Day at the Dusk Tower,” she said by way of reply. “Some of the Dusks must have very sweet tooths, given the amount of the stuff I saw being hoarded.” He laughed then, a booming bark that was very loud in the confined space. “Well then, my girl, take four of the loaves – sugar's called loaves when it's parceled up like this, don't ask me why 'cause I've no damned clue – and follow me! T'the preservin' room!”
A Sugar, Alses learned, was surprisingly heavy, as she struggled after the rotund, although sprightly, chef, and so it was with no small relief that she thumped them down on a sturdy, battle-scarred worktop when they reached their destination, a room very near to the vast drying sheds – if the roar of furnaces through the walls was anything to go by. Cook was already moving about the place, running podgy fingers over work surfaces and inspecting cupboards with a practised eye. “Ah, good, good! Now, apron, apron – there's one on the hook by th'door over there, see. Pop it on; sugar's nasty stuff when it's hot.” Cook was similarly attired already, bulking large in a rather battle-scarred leather apron – it was surprisingly heavy, Alses found, as she dropped it over her head and reflexively shrugged a few times to settle it, before turning her gaze back to him and spreading her arms for inspection. Cook nodded approvingly. “Excellent. Don't want yer pretty skin scarred an' burned.” “We don't scar,” Alses pointed out automatically; he looked skeptical. “Really?” She nodded. “Really. No matter how deep or wide the wound, it heals without a trace.” Her lips quirked into a self-mocking smile for a moment. “The glory of an Ethaefal.” He harrumphed. “Well, that's as may be – I ain't that fond of seein' people bleed, so's I won't ask for a demonstration - but I didn't have ye pegged as havin' a hankering for pain. Sugar burns are some o' the worst – the stuff sticks as it burns ye, see, and getting' it off's no job for the faint of heart. I trust I don't have t' paint ye a picture.” He sniffed. “Not that it'd be a fit subject fer art in any case.” Alses blanched. “Delightful,” she muttered; Cook nodded as he saw the warning had gone in, and then tapped a long metal stirring rod on the side of a very large crucible to direct her attention to the currently-empty pot. “Sugar. Best t'heat it in something glazed and smooth – makes it easier to stop sugar glazes and the like formin' as it heats up. Can't have lumps in the syrup. Now, fer yer standard basic syrup – and for makin' rum, too, although we ain't going into that t'day - sugar and water is what we need, a kilo of sugar to a half-litre of boiling distilled water's yer standard starting solution.” He glanced at her. “Don't suppose you have any magic that'll start a fire, do ye?” Alses shook her head, regretful. “Alas, no. We could see into your head if you wanted, or make your apron hold out against a warhammer, but fireballs are beyond me right now. I'll get round to it one day soon, I promise.” She grinned at him. “It'd make Winter so much easier to bear, being able to balance fireballs in my hands and start fires like-” she snapped her fingers “-that.” Cook snorted. “Just s'long as ye don't end up like those poor bastards at th' Dawn Tower in the djed storm, tryin' to burn the city down, that's all I'll say.” He paused, and then, appealing to a mage's perceived greater knowledge, continued: “That's not likely t'happen again, is it?” Alses sighed. “The Dawn Tower probably doesn't have enough people left to cause that much damage again,” she said quietly. “Although we do believe they're strengthening the Tower defences to stop a djed surge breaking through again. The Dusk Tower has certainly been doing that, and I'd lay good kina on the Twilight Tower following suit, too.” She reached out and lightly touched one of the skyglass support pillars close by. “Trust in the skyglass; it's immune to djed and quite strong. Your best friend when magic starts to tear loose, believe me.” Cook nodded, satisfied with her answer, and then gestured peremptorily. “Well, let's get t'building a fire then! Chop chop!” |