Solo Sweet Satisfaction

[Alses]

~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!”

[Alses]

“Now,” Cook growled, close to her ear. “Punkwood in the middle – be generous with it, and don't compress it whatever ye do – then a sort o' pyramid shape of birch twigs all around it. Leave gaps an' space fer the air; ain't no good trying to start a fire if the air can't get to it, specially in closed spaces like this.” Catching her mildly puzzled look, he added: “Fire needs air to...well, t'be fire. Takes somethin' from the air so's it can burn. That's why smotherin' some sorts of flame with a damp cloth is better than chucking water at it – oil fires, f'rinstance. Oh, it's a very bad idea to try and put out burnin' oil with water, let me tell you!” Alses winced. “We can imagine,” she muttered, still on hands and knees in front of the firebox. “I'd say the oil floats on top of the water and when that water boils it fires burning oil all over the place.” Cook cocked his head at her. “Seen it happen, have you?” “No, but we know that oil and water don't mix; the rest was an educated guess.” “Well, ye were right on the money with that, but it ain't helpin' us get this fire going.” He handed her a length of steel and a dull gray rock; she recognized them as flint and steel. Sparks cascaded out in a wide arc as the two met, most somersaulting and dying harmlessly on all sides or leaving tiny scorch marks on the wood. A few more vigorous strikes, the action coming back to her more smoothly each time, saw the crumpled pile of fragrant punkwood start to smoulder, a thin spire of blue smoke coiling skywards, followed by a wavering lick of flame, so pale an orange as to almost be invisible. Cook didn't have to prompt her this time; she put her face as close as she dared to the weakly-burning punkwood and exhaled gently. The delicate flame fluttered and guttered, smoke billowed and for a moment she thought she'd gone and blown it out, but under the stream of air the glowing edges of the kindling shavings redoubled in their brightness and where once there had been one weak, wavering flame now there were several, spreading and multiplying, slowly at first and then faster as they took strength and substance from the kindling wood and some vital force from the air itself, greedily gobbling up the punkwood and leaving only glowing ashes in their wake. The first tentative fingers pushed and prodded at the pyramid of twigs, as though fearful of making the leap – but then a flame glowed brightly at the end of one, quickly spreading, growing brighter and hotter with every tick that passed. “That's good,” he murmured, with obvious approval, as the glow strengthened and spread and the smell of autumn bonfires filled the room. The skin of her hands and arms were tight and sore by the time she fed the last log – of the moment, anyway - into the ample firebox below the crucible, receiving relief from her labours with a touch on her shoulder and a booming cry of “That'll keep her goin' for a while!” The fire – painstakingly started with the action of flint on steel and the sparks catching in tinder-dry punkwood, then carefully fed on a loose pyramid of resinous birch twigs, then larger bits of branch before finally the full-size logs from the kitchen woodpile – was blazing brightly beneath the large glazed vat. A series of booming thuds signalled Cook manhandling a heavy brass-bound barrel across the tile floor, rolling it expertly from hand to hand across the short distance before hefting it with a mighty grunt and a rippling bunch of muscle onto a nearby trestle table. “We're goin' straight fer full production. I know as you like t'do a little test batch of stuff t'make sure ye get it right, but I've been makin' sugar syrup fer years, and we're on a bit of a tight schedule. Well, I am anyway. Now, brief look at th'barrel.” He pointed at a circular hole in the barrel's lid, one that had been expertly plugged with yet more wood and only visible due to the slightly darker seal-line around it. “That's the bunghole. The plug's weaker by far than the rest of the wood – intentionally, mind, so's it's easy to hammer in a spigot.” He produced, magician-like, a sturdy metal tap with a sharpened circular edge, evidently designed to bite through the keg's wood with ease, and showed Alses, leaning close, how to position and hold it close to the point of entry. “I love this bit,” he confided, flourishing a lump hammer at her with a broad grin. “Why don't you do the honours? Now, line 'em both up, centre of the hammer head on line with the bunghole, one swift, hard strike along the centreline. Can take a bit o'practice, but at least this is only water, not somethin' more precious, like beer f'rinstance.” Alses pulled a face; to her, beer was not pleasant in the least. “Somethin', m'girl?” Cook asked, catching a glimpse of her expression. “Beer's disgusting,” she replied shortly. “It tastes foul to all our senses.” Cook shrugged. “S'pose you like wine and those posh cocktails they serve at the Star's Shadow an' the Scholar's Demise,” he said, equably enough, but there was just a soupçon of warning in his voice as he continued: “Each t'their own, Alses, each t'their own. Partial to a pint or so every now and then m'self; doesn't get me drunk, keeps me merry. That's just the thing after a hard day's graft. Now, take a swing, time's a-wasting!” Alses shifted her grip obediently on both tap and hammer. Her muscles tensed, coiled, then lashed out, a simple application of physics sending the lump hammer's iron head crashing into the spigot, driving it satisfyingly into the barrel with a brief spray of water that jetted out of the sides. A burst of laughter, a sudden giggle, escaped from her lips, curving up into a broad smile at the sight, a reflex action spiced with just a touch of pride at Cook's face. People generally weren't used to the strength of the Ethaefal – as though perfection in every other physical respect somehow translated into weakness. “Very good,” he said, slightly suspiciously – perhaps he thought she'd used magic – and moved over to the sugar loaves. “Now, this is fairly decent sugar – not the stuff the Dusk Tower was probably stockpiling, that'd be the very best o'the best – but it's pretty fair, so's a loaf is probably about ten pounds.” He paused, evidently calculating – but not for long. “We'll need twenty, p'raps twenty-one loaves for this.” He tapped the keg, making a dull thunk. “Ten-gallon keg, y'see – yer standard proportion of sugar t'water is two to one, or thereabouts. Th'brewers have a special name for th'resulting glop; wish I could remember what it is. Begins with a B...Never mind, never mind.” He bent down with some effort and opened the spigot valve, allowing a stream of crystal-clear water to fall into the ceramic vat. He cast a glance at Alses. “Pop off and get some more of the sugar, would you? It'll take a while t'get the water to the right temperature, so's you've got time. Ye won't miss anything o'any importance, I promise ye.”

[Alses]

Conical lumps of sugar crashed into the glazed vat, sending up waves of water that slopped over the sides; with surprising agility, Cook leapt aside. “Zintila above, be careful, girl! Could have burned me!” “Sorry, Cook,” Alses replied meekly, moderating her additive efforts. Even so, the loaves of sugar quickly mounded up at the bottom, a claggy mass that, surely, was too large and clumped to naturally break apart and dissolve under the gentle influence of heat. “Won't that glaze and burn?” she asked worriedly; it was one thing to know in her head that Cook had things in hand, and quite another to feel it in her heart. He cast her a mildly reproving glance. “I do know what I'm doing, m'girl. Now, we could have done this usin' sugar nips – they're those long plier-like things on the bench beside you – but that would have taken for ever, which is why you'll find a shod staff leanin' up behind th'door. Ye're goin' t'learn the large-scale production method wi' me today.” At Cook's indicating nod, Alses explored behind the open door, pulling a hefty length of bog-oak with a brass-capped base out of the shadows. “We're turning the vat into a giant mortar and pestle?” she hazarded, and was rewarded by a brief, but brilliant, smile. “That's one way o' thinking about it, aye! Now, whilst you was getting those loaves, I added just a touch of leiyona sap into the water – ye only need a little bit, mind, and ye don't want yer syrup tastin' of antiseptic. It's t'raise its boilin' point a bit, see; we need the heat slightly over where normal water gets all excited else this won't work. O'course, if we was doing this in Spring or Summer, we could add in some juice from th'lemon harvest, or if'n the Riverfall wine merchants had any cream o'tartar left we'd be usin' that. Both o'them speed up the syrup-makin' process so's we wouldn't be here fer ages heatin' and reheatin' the mix – but just usin' heat alone's still a perfectly good way of making syrup, mark you.” He sniffed. “Specially in winter, when it's hard t'come by fresh lemons and suchlike.” Cook nodded at the vat. “I daresay ye know what t'do next. Best be a bit quick, though – the fires are goin' and it's only a matter o'time afore we're up t' temperature.” Alses set to with a will, driving the heavy ersatz mortar down onto the sugar mass that had collected at the bottom of the vat. The boom, normally so satisfying, was dulled and muted by the water, the surface chopping up into hundreds of tiny wavelets from the reverberation, all fighting against one another as a cloud of sugar crystals billowed up in the depths, diffusing into a misty, obscuring veil. She twisted the staff, rewarded with the crunching feeling of a loaf yielding and fracturing, then raised it again and sent it crashing down once more, pounding and pummelling mercilessly at the claggy mass of sugar. This time, she watched carefully the waves as they slopped against the sides of the vat – losing water wouldn't sit well with Cook, and in any case curls and whorls of vapour were beginning to rise more thickly from the liquid. Burns, whilst easily dealt with in most cases by quick application of Tanroa's Blessing, were still painful and so to be avoided if at all possible. Besides, it was good practice not to be sloppy. It was becoming more and more difficult to see what she was crushing, the clouds of freed sugar crystals forming an obfuscating layer in the water, clouding and misting it with billowing thunderheads. Cook eventually stopped her, waving her away. “That'll do for now, I think. Any really large bits ye can step in an' smash when we start t'see this mess settle down an' convert into proper syrup.” Surprisingly delicately, Cook flourished the metal stirring rod, gently moving it in the approved figure-of-eight fashion through the roiling mixture, and then handed it to her. “Only way t'get experience with this stuff is to practice,” he said. “Should have had you doin' this from the start, really, but ye'll be able t'tell it's starting to thicken up. Teachin' aint my strong suit. Now, figure-eights, like usual – this ain't difficult, s'long as we keep a weather eye on th'temperature. Don't want sugar bubbles throwin' bombs of sticky syrup everywhere. Hurts like-” Cook bit back an expletive “-like anything,” he finished, lamely. “And it can set like glass, too.” In an odd sort of way, it was quite restful, dragging the mixing rod through the thickening solution, watching clouds of sugar grains dance a shimmering fandango, mixing and mingling and slowly dissolving into serene transparency with each pass, stirring up the light rain of undissolved granules which forever tumbled down before they could plate together and glaze under the heat of the fire. With more vigorous stirring, and exposed to the continual beating heat of the fire below, those opaque clouds began to glimmer, to shimmer and glitter, curling away into viscous transparency as it became harder and harder for the rod to make headway in the thickening liquid – which was presumably a good sign. Cook looked up from his own labours, face incandescent and gleaming with sweat; he'd taken over the drudge work of feeding the fires underneath the vat of forming syrup, giving Alses the chance to feel and see the changes to the mix without having to worry about keeping the fire fed, so she could focus all her attentions and efforts on learning the syrup, its moods and character, how it reacted and responded to her. “Faster!” he urged, but she'd already spotted the resistance, the pockets of static, crystallising syrup. True-blue light flashed over her shoulders and down her arms, and she resumed the classic, sweeping figure-eights with renewed vigour, bringing beneficial chaos in her wake. “Not much longer,” Cook called; Alses' arms were already starting to lean towards stress again, twinges of phantom aches racing up and down as she stirred, mind clear of almost everything but the next sweeping stroke, scraping the last scraps of forming sugar glaze off the bottom of the vat and raising it up into dissolving circulation, saturating the water until a thick, pleasant-smelling syrup was formed. “Stop stirrin', m'girl. We can have our rest now, by my reckoning, I think. We'll leave this t'simmer-” whilst he was speaking he was ladling water over the blazing logs, sending up billowing clouds of steam “-fer about ten chimes, an' then we can test our batch, see if'n we need t'heat it more. Shouldn't think so; it's got the right glit and shimmy of sugar syrup, but I'd be a poor lookout as a chef, an' I daresay you'd be a bloody poor excuse fer a philterer, if we didn't check our materials, eh?” Alses blinked. “How do we test it?” she asked, curious. He flashed her a smile. “Ever bin t'the Respite icehouse?” he asked; at her negative, he snorted. “Thought not. Not really your sort o'place, is it? Deepest room in th'entire buildin', let me tell you! Far too many stairs t'get to it; we use a roller-ramp t'get the ice-blocks down there, and a dumbwaiter t'haul it up – that's basically a box on the end of a pulley system – so's it don't melt, but we always need someone actually down there t'shave the ice fer desserts and t'load it into the dumbwaiter.” Cook grinned evilly. “Usually give the job t'some arse who's stepped out o'line in me kitchen. A shift or two away from th'comfortin' heat of the ovens and they fall all over 'emselves t'avoid goin' back down to the ice-house.” He shook his head. “But ye asked about testin'. Basically, we ladle a dram o'syrup into a jamjar, take it down t'the icehouse an' leave it there. If we've done this aright, even when it's cooled right the way down we won't get it hardenin' and forming crystals o'sugar. If we aint, then we haven't converted enough of the sugar and it needs more heat. Simple t'rectify, but it's always best you don't need t'do that in the first place. I've been makin' sugar syrup ever since I were about ten, but it never pays t'get sloppy." His tone turned pensive, his eyes slightly distant, recalling a distant memory. "Once had a whole batch run t'waste 'cause I wasn't careful; got such a hidin' from the head chef that time. Lucky not t'be sacked, I suppose. So's I learnt to always do the ice test on a wee sample before sendin' it up to the dessert man. Saves bother in the long run, an' makes me look good and competent at me job.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now, hand me that ladle, and there's a jamjar or six on that shelf over there, see? Leftovers from the preservin' spree we went on in Autumn.”

[Alses]

Clouds of dragonsbreath rolled out in chill waves as Alses and Cook stood, stamping their feet to keep warm, in the ice-bound fastness of the cold room, burrowed deep into the rock of the mountain peak. “I hate the cold,” Alses grumbled, not for the first time. “How long do we have to wait down here?” Cook, teetering precariously on a staircase of ice-blocks, rammed the jamjar full of syrup mix into a drift of ice crystals and tottered down with a heavy sigh of relief. “We don't. You an' I are going back t'the cauldron, and ye're goin' t'have a quick lesson on making vanilla extract – it's the flavourin' I use most, so I can always find ye work making up a batch or two once I've taught ye how to do it, which takes about five chimes, if that – and we'll follow that wi' a longer one on makin' hangover cures. By the time we're done wi'that, the syrup should have cooled down enough here that we can easily check if it's gone manky or not.” “And if it has?” Alses asked, dreading the response. “We just restart the fire under the big vat and boil it up some more. Sugar syrup is forgiving, which is why every novice cook – and I suppose philterer – learns how to make it. Now, come on. Time's a-wastin', and I ain't got that much of it to spare.” A In short order, Alses and Cook were both back in the cozy warmth of the preserving room, the syrup mix still throwing off plentiful amounts of heat. This time, they headed – which is to say Cook took off like a rocket and Alses followed, hangdog, behind - for the workbenches ranged along the walls of the room, piled high with glass bottles racked neatly against the walls and a small pot bristling with a small forest of lustrous black pods. Cook caressed them gently with one podgy hand before handing a couple of them to Alses; she turned them over and over in gentle fingers, noting the glossy finish and the odd texture of the surface. They had a faint smell, too, speaking to her of delicate sweetness and desserts to enjoy with relish. “Vanilla pods,” Cook announced, happily. “Finest kind; ye can tell by that glossy finish, and that faint oily sensation they leave on yer hands. Ye can bend'em, too, which is how I tell if'n a merchant is trying t'pass off any of the lesser grades as this stuff.” He demonstrated, carefully bowing one of the pods between his fingers. “If I'd have tried that with anythin' other than the finest vanilla pod, it'd have snapped in half. Best vanilla bends, remember that.” “Yes, Cook,” Alses replied, obediently; he seemed to be waiting for some reply or other, and that seemed the most all-purpose one available. “Now, very simple operation, this. Take yer pods, lay them flat on a clean work surface – vanilla is expensive, so's if I find you've ruined a batch by bein' careless, and trust me, I will find out, I'll take it out o'your hide, Ethaefal or no – and take a firm grip on a small, but sharp, knife.” Alses blanched; she knew Cook would make good on his threat, but moved closer all the same as he beckoned her forward so she had a perfect view of proceedings. “Draw the knife down the centre of the pod, like so-” the edges of the cut peeled back slightly under the pressure of the knife's progress, and that delicately sweet scent billowed up, putting a smile on both faces. Cook grinned at her. “One o'the best bits about bein' a chef is the smells when everything's cooking nicely, and I do like me vanilla. I get first dibs on th'shipments, and the castoffs I don't use get put into bath oils and soaps and stuff. P'raps get you t'do some renderin' in the Spring; it'll be useful and I won't need t'be there overseein' ye. Not that I mind takin' the time t'teach ye the rudiments, mark you, 'specially since it saves me time and effort in th'long run, but it's difficult t'make time to do it, see. Now-” he rapped the worktop with the knife, bringing Alses' attention back to the split-open pod. “-very simple operation, this next bit. Take vanilla pod like so, and place into the bottle you prepared earlier.” There was a faint, glassy rattle as the pod hit the bottom and bounced a little before settling into vegetative immobility. Alses blinked. “Is that it?” “Well, not quite, but it's the cut and thrust o'it. Every five o'those pods in yer bottle, ye want a standard measure of this stuff in there too,” he said, tapping yet another vessel, filled with clear liquid. “Now, do four more of those pods for me.” Under his watchful gaze, Alses methodically cut long grooves down four more vanilla pods, frowning as the knife skittered off at the start, unable to gain purchase on the supple surface. A simple bit of advice - “Start yer cut with the point o'the blade, like I did, that way it don't slide all over the place,” - saw her efforts rewarded, the sharp steel gliding through the fleshy pod until, in short order, four pods had joined their compatriot, imprisoned behind glass. “Now what?” “Ye're probably stronger than me, so you can do this bit.” He motioned, peremptorily, towards the bottle next to him, decidedly larger than the little extract bottles that were lined up on the worktop. “Basic rule of thumb is a standard measure o'this stuff for every five pods.” “What is 'this stuff'?” Alses asked, having finally got purchase. “Vodka,” he replied. “Grain spirit. Strong, and this is the neat stuff – fumes'll get ye a bit tipsy if'n you're not used to them. So, standard measure o'neat vodka – has t'be the neat stuff, no flavourings or anythin' added, otherwise ye'd be defeatin' the object of this little exercise – five pods, standard measure, five pods...ye get the drift. Or ye can keep a track of yer pods and slosh in the vodka at the end; tis all personal preference.” After a careful interlude, Alses turned to Cook once more. “What do we do now?” “Now? We put them in a dark, dry place and wait for about...two thirds of a season, and it'll be ready.” Alses blinked, momentarily nonplussed. “Is that all?” “Very simple, isn't it?” he said happily. “Sixty days of waiting, and then you take the pods out and you've got this lovely vanilla-flavoured liquid to put in all sorts of things.”

[Alses]

“Now, hangover cures. I daresay ye'll find this one pretty useful; students are always after this purgative, and I daresay ye can make a pretty penny off'f it, if you've a mind.” He flashed her a quick, mischievous smile and a flickering wink, something which took at least a decade off his actual age in an instant. “Rather more complicated than sugar syrup, this, so's you'll need to pay close attention to what you're doing. Now, ye can actually use sugar syrup as the base for this, but some folks are a bit sensitive about swallowin' anything gloopy after a heavy session. Not sure why, but then I ain't at all certain why dark spirits get me hammered much worse than the light ones either. Best thing to do is start with our old friend the sovereign solvent.” He clarified, upon seeing Alses' confused look: “Which is t'say, water. Philterers an' cooks both call it that, if'n we want to be pompous. It dissolves so many things, see.” To her surprise, Cook took a step back from the worktable and gestured to it. “Be m'guest. I've put all the stuff ye'll need on there – next t'the vanilla stuff, that's right – so take a good look an' tell me what we've got here.” “Loaf of sugar,” she said instantly; it was the most recognizable, and the largest, of the ingredients arrayed before her. “Another one? We thought you said we'd not be making sugar syrup?” “And so ye won't. Sugar helps with the shakes and the trembles and the headache, but ye don't want it syrupy 'cause of the aforementioned faintin' flowers, so you just add water if it looks like it's getting a bit too thick. Keep goin'.” Hands on hips, Alses inspected the broad sweep of white ceramic tiles in front of her. Off to her left, in another glazed bowl that was half-full of water, there was a very familiar flash of green. “Taka moss,” she sighed. It seemed to get everywhere, and usually resulted in her prying it off her body with a knife whenever she forgot, for just a moment that it was sticky. Cook nodded. “Aye. Ye'll be aware it's good in teas and tisanes – and even as a chew, if ye can stomach it stickin' to yer teeth every few seconds – fer muscle pain and fatigue. We'll be preparing its extract, o'course, fer a more powerful effect, and 'cause we're after a liquid philtre even the most bleary-eyed ex-drunkard can chug down, not a solid tablet. Keep goin'.” Tawny eyes, glittering with internal fire, ran along the ranks of stuff in jars, bottles, flasks, bowls and muslin bags. “Are those ipdo leaves?” “Aye, fresh from yer garden this morning,” Cook said with a beam; Alses scowled, reflexively; she was the gardener, that was her prerogative. He didn't seem to notice her momentary glare, though, continuing breezily: “Deadens the sense o'hunger, which is good fer our purposes here, 'cause stomachs, around the time people reach fer this philtre, tend t'be empty and sensitive. Don't want people throwing up all over the place after an ill-advised sausage or something. Needs a bit o'care to extract; we can't use wood alcohol or anything caustic. Needs t'be gently sweated out over a couple o'bells, which is why it's one o'the first things we start and one o'the last things we add in.” Alses was getting into the swing of things, now, picking up the little piles of greenery, or powder, and in some cases liquid, and inspecting them carefully before checking with Cook, watching in a mildly paternal fashion, as she put her brain to work. “I don't think we know what this is,” she said at length, having stared at a piece of root – from various angles, in case that made a difference - for a good ten chimes. Cook craned his head to see, and then nodded, not particularly surprised. “At least ye asked quick enough,” he murmured, apropos of nothing very much. “Ye're not prideful when ye don't know something. That's bulboru root; people make it into tea to help with fevers and the like. Ye'll be mashing it up and squeezin' the juices out of it – and dependin' on how much we get out, ye might have to boil down the mash as well.” “The pompom plants? We just thought they were pretty decorations.” Alses blinked again at what was in front of her. “Are those zujin leaves? And we're sure I've seen these little blue flowers somewhere, too, but I have no idea what they're called.” “Ah, now, those two are the important ingredients. Make sure ye balance them out, always – one dose of zujin-leaf juice wi' one dose of taikapi extract. No more, no less, elsewise ye'll give someone a very upset stomach. That's because zujin is somethin' of a purgative, leastaways that's how Tian J'net explained it to me when I first had her show me how this is done, but it ain't the most gentle. Said it got used as an explosive laxative on its own, if ye prepared it right. Not somethin' I really wanted t'think about, so's I moved on quickly when we hit that part. The taikapi sorta gentles the reaction the zujin causes, and helps ye process all the nasty stuff that comes o'too much alcohol. Makes ye feel right and proper again, see; I call it the humanizer.” Cook gave a laugh and then looked, slightly awkwardly, at her. “Er, no offence meant.” Alses had to cover her mouth to hide a smile at his discomfiture, but he rallied and continued magnificently: “Just keep that ingredient under wraps, would you? Th'Okomo Villa ain't averse to a bit o'picking the stuff, but if everyone and their neighbour knew about it, there'd be none left fer the Okomo, and then where would we be?” Alses gave him a slight bow. “Message received and understood, Cook.” Inside, there was a broad smile that Cook and Tian – by proxy, admittedly, but still - had trusted her enough to share a semi-secret titbit with her. “Now, these are all the ingredients ye'll need t'stop a hangover dead in its tracks – if ye know what ye're doing, o'course. Any fool could mix these together an' make somethin' noxious, th'art's in making it all work. O'course, that don't mean you can't experiment now and then – though I'd advise ye against stickin' willow bark in the mix, afore ye get any ideas.” He shivered at a memory. “Worst day o'sickness I had fer years. Seems t'react with one o'the other ingredients in a very bad way, so steer clear.” Cook cleared his throat, still behind her, more an overseer than someone who'd actually be doing the preparation. “Right. Yer first step's the ipdo, cause it takes so damned long t'do. First off, ye want to strip all the stems away and get rid o'them; they add nothing. It's the leaves themselves that are important.” He watched carefully as Alses' deft fingers worked quickly, the leaves shedding their stems in rapid succession, leaving a tidy little pile of discarded stems which Alses, operating on automatic, tossed into the desultory flames behind her, cleaning up as she went. This got an approving nod – not that the Ethaefal could see it, focused as she was on her task – from Cook; it was good practice to keep the work area as clean and uncluttered as possible, and having rubbish hanging around the place was a recipe for misfortune, at best. “Good, good. Now, see those cups there? Fill one o'them about a quarter full of the vodka, and then top it up with water; ye want it nice and dilute. I knows I said no usin' alcohol, but this is so dilute it barely counts, and it gives ye an edge. Now, pour them into a condensin' flask.” 'Steady hands, Alse, she thought, manoeuvring the brimming cup to the lip of a glass balloon flask; a self-contained condensing unit that would continually cycle until completion, or she removed the heat. Basic, but effective, even if it did mean straining everything through cheesecloth afterwards to get rid of the ipdo bits. “Syna's flaming knickers!” she swore, as the liquid, instead of pouring nice and evenly into the flask, instead decided to run down the cup and splatter all over her. Cook snorted, evidently trying to hold in laughter. “Ye might find a funnel helpful at this point,” he murmured, chuckles running through his words and shaking his frame. With as much dignity as remained to her, Alses turned to rummage for the elusive funnel among the ranks of miscellaneous equipment that had ended up being useful in the preserving room, trying to ignore the spreading wet patches and silently blessing the leather apron she was still wearing for having protected her from the worst of the splashes.

[Alses]

Eventually, the blasted liquid with its cargo of ipdo leaves was safely inside the glass flask and Alses was therefore protected, at least for the moment, from further dousings. Cook nodded magisterially. “Now, ye're in luck, we've already had a big fire going, so what ye want t'do is grab an ash shovel and pack hot ashes around the flask – they'll heat it gentle-like, so's we don't destroy what we're tryin' to extract. Ipdo don't react well to too much heat, you see.” He watched her, approvingly, as she shovelled up a few mounds of red-hot ashes from the heart of the fire and packed them close around the insurating flask, whorls of vapour and condensation quickly frosting the glass, beading and dripping back down only to rise, condense, and fall once more, a cyclical insuration reaction which would continue until every scrap of the ipdo was purified and condensed out into the liquid solvent. Leaning on the ash shovel, and with a faint smear of charcoal-gray inexplicably on her nose and trailing down half of one cheek, Alses asked: “What do we need to do now?” Cook smiled the mildly sadistic smile of a more experienced man. “Guess.” Alses shut her eyes in thought for a moment and then groaned, but quietly. “Taka moss, because it also takes an age, perhaps?” “Got it in one, m'girl!" Cook replied with glee, delight in schadenfreude evident on his ruddy face. "Now this, I know you know how to do, so get to it! I'll be restin' me weary bones over on the chair over here.” She did indeed know exactly how to prepare taka moss extract, dragging over a high stool with a sigh and producing her rarely-used knife with a flourish, setting to work with a will. It was a blankly repetitive, boring procedure, the gentle, methodical teasing of curling, kinking, dripping strands of moss out of the dense, interwoven mats they naturally formed, pressing them flat and then dropping them into a flask of deceptively-innocuous wood alcohol, being careful not to breathe in the fumes spewing invisibly from the flask-top. Thankfully for her dignity - this time around, at least - Alses remembered the stickiness factor, and took considerable care to keep her hands – and therefore, by extension the rest of her, free from clinging blobs of taka moss that would otherwise ensnare her fingers and then tangle and glue themselves to her body in the most unlikely of places. One eye closed, squinting furiously and hunched over on the stool, she must have looked quite the sight to the watching chef, but he managed to keep quiet (likely through Herculean effort) and let her work, carefully dropping the corkscrewing threads of dripping greenery into the extracting fluid with an air of quiet absorption and concentration, then when the consignment of taka moss was all separated out and floating aimlessly in the wood alcohol mixture, gently blowing on a pinch of ash stolen from the pile around the ipdo flask, sending it flaring to momentary white heat, just enough to ignite resinous twigs and from there a few small logs, until a respectable, though carefully-controlled, fire burned beneath the spiralling glassware, starting off that process as well. From prior experience, Alses knew she'd have to keep a close eye on it, to prevent temperatures spiralling out of control and ruining the whole lot of it, and it was for that reason there was a small bucket of water and a ladle close at hand, to cool off any bits of the blaze that started getting ideas. Satisfied that things were, so far, going off without a major hitch, Alses turned triumphantly to Cook, bulking large in his chair. “What now?” “Bulboru root,” came the lazy reply. “Chop it finely, then crush it with the flat of your blade an' scrape the juices into a bowl.” That, at least, wasn't difficult at all, just a simple application of knife skills that even the most untutored could manage. The knobbly root, still a dirty and uninspiring brownish colour even after having been thoroughly washed, split and pared away from her blade easily enough, releasing quantities of whitish juice onto her tile board with every cut. It was an unusual liquid, she found as she scraped it into the bowl, chivvying it along with the edge of her dagger; it collected in proud droplets of itself, tight and self-contained rather than spreading languidly as water would have done, and when drops met one another they tended to rebound rather than fuse, at least until there was no other option (as in when they collected in her bowl) or when sufficient force was used. A further torrent of milky liquid gushed forth as she pressed down on the cut-up root in a gentle rocking motion, slowly and inexolerably squeezing every last drop of useful ingredient from the slices. “How much juice have ye got there?” Cook called, making ready to stir himself from his comfortable chair. He looked quite comical, really, Alses thought as she stole a glance over her shoulder, short and dumpy, with his feet not touching the floor. In stature, small; in personality, several leagues high. “Most of a bowlful,” she replied dutifully, wondering if that was enough. Evidently, it was, as Cook exclaimed: “Must have got a good an' juicy root, then,” and proceeded to instruct her on the next step. Carefully, Alses packed shaved ice into the large mortar and pestle - “Syna above, that's cold,” she'd complained, at first - forming a thick layer all over the base and some way up the sides. Cook had been absolutely insistent on that, stressing that temperature was a crucial aspect of this particular step, at least until it got mixed in with everything else at the last. By the time she'd finished, her hands were sore and crabbing from the icy chill striking through her fire-opal skin to steal the warmth of life and sensation – a situation Alses generally avoided wherever possible by wearing thick gloves and never handling snow or ice in the first place. Alas, sacrifices sometimes had to be made for the sake of knowledge and practice. Fortunately, this time at least, the remedy was close at hand, in the form of the fires all around, perfect for warming up frozen hands pruning from the unaccustomed saturation, and Alses smiled the grin of the simple pleasures even as sensation returned with a thousand pins-and-needles and her flesh empurpled from the returning blood. Then, Alses tipped in the heavy, waxy and above all thorny zujin leaf pieces – she'd roughly chopped them under Cook's direction, slicing along the raying principal veins which described the underside of the leaves, but the rest of the operation had to be done by grinding homogenisation in packed ice, so as to preserve the beneficial properties of the ice-flower leaves. Heat, even that of room temperature, destroyed them in some way, apparently. Cook had never lied to her before, and she saw no reason for him to start now, so that was probably one of a great many strange and incomprehensible truths that a sensible person simply accepted until they had more time – and money – on their hands with which to investigate more thoroughly.

[Alses]

The glassy crunch of shattering ice shards and the grinding scritch-scritch-scritch of fine abrasive sand in the mortar was as the music of the celestial spheres to her ears as she worked the granite pestle against the rough-chopped zujin leaves, crushing and grinding the vegetation into a liquid soup in a haze of ice crystals. Her muscles bunched and relaxed in a steady, predictable pattern, slowly pulverising her ingredients into a homogenous liquid even as her mind freewheeled, drifting from one butterfly thought to the next with no particular urgency and focus. Most of the time, these days, she found herself wrestling with her various auristic endeavours and, by extension, with some of the more incomprehensible texts from the Tower library. She'd thought the introductory tomes had been bad enough; they were as nothing when compared to the more advanced books. There, the poetry went on for pages, and there was only so much of that sort of thing she could take in one go. Thus, even a few chimes where she could let her mind wander aimlessly – whether that be in the bath or, as now, whilst doing a completely menial task – were precious and not to be squandered. “That should do ye nicely,” Cook observed, standing a half-pace behind and to one side of her. Alses jumped; she'd forgotten how damned silent he could be, moving on velvet-shod feet, and she'd not been focusing on her auristic Sight so his red-and-green twining-vine of an aura, so quintessentially Cook to her, by now, had been almost entirely invisible. Cook chuckled. “Not often I get t'surprise ye these days,” he commented, affably enough. “Seems like ye've got eyes in the back of yer head more often than not.” “We were focusing,” Alses retorted, although there was little heat in her voice and her mouth curved up into a small smile as she prepared squares of cheesecloth and held them taut over a wide-necked flask. “Would you mind doing the honours?” she asked, tipping her head towards the pestle and its mashed-together contents. Cook complied happily, gently pouring the deep viridian green liquid, the remnants of the ice, zujin leaves and grinding sands, onto the cheesecloth, ready to be wrapped and pressed with the flat of a knife to get every last drop of the precious active ingredient out. Now they were ready to tackle the final blending – the taikapi was apparently the last ingredient to go in, its delicate flower-petals crumbled into the mixture at the last possible moment. “Now, this bit is the tricky part,” Cook intoned, forebodingly. “Get this wrong and what you've got is mildly toxic glop rather than a hangover purgative – so pay attention t'what ye're doin' and what I'm telling ye t'do, clear?” Alses nodded obediently. “Good. Now, ye want t'pour yer moss extract into a crucible over a low fire – an' I do mean low. This stuff has a narrow temperature window; too hot and it'll go manky, too cold an' it'll form these curdled lumps and also be manky and useless. That's why ye've got that basket of ice chips, so's we can regulate the temperature more finely. I've saved ye the time of startin' another fire; the one under this crucible-” he pointed with one banana finger “-is about right.” Alses looked at it, doubtful it actually had any effect. It was a pathetically small thing, a flimsy and sparse wigwam of the thinnest birch twigs Cook had been able to find in the kindling-box (or so it appeared) and the flames were weak and wavering, only just visible. Bowing to greater wisdom, she obediently began to pour the oh-so-faintly-green and pungent-smelling taka moss extract into the glazed vessel. “That's good,” Cook murmured as she poured in a steady, unhurried stream, taking care not to splash any over the sides. “Now the bulboru juice – and ye'll need t'do some vigorous stirrin', cause that stuff is proud and won't mix easy with the rest unless ye break it up into small enough droplets.” Milky spheres rolled into the mixture with dull plomp sounds, maintaining themselves separate from the mint-touched clearness of the liquid all around – but that was where her stirrer came in, moving smoothly and swiftly through the barely-heated liquid, the hard metal breaking up those proud droplets and leaving swirling, chaotic eddies in its wake. “Ye're not goin' fast enough, girl,” Cook said, quietly. “Needs t'be afroth with bulboru droplets afore we can let it settle an' dissolve like that. Really lay into it; ye don't need t'do figure-eights all the time, you know – it's whatever stirrin' method works best fer what ye've got to hand. Figure-eights is good practice for most things, but sometimes – like now – ye just need speed. And power, too, o'course. Ye've got muscles, girl, let's see ye put them t'more use than hammerin' in a spigot.” And so Alses took up her stirring rod with renewed vigour, beating and churning it through protesting liquid until a fine, frothy film of tiny, tiny bulboru droplets formed in its wake, mounding higher and higher as she drove the rod time and again into the mixture, ignoring the burn of tensed muscles and swift, repetitive action in favour of ferocious concentration, noting every tiny change her actions were causing in the hope of being able to reproduce the philtre on her own at a later date. “That should do ye. Let it settle, now – watch carefully. Ye'll see the foam begin t'settle back into the extract mix, but watch how it dissolves in, rather than makin' those great big blobs. All those small droplets ain't able to mix together into one big mass anymore, so's they're easy to dissolve. Just like if you was makin' bulboru tea instead of this.” He sniffed. “In my opinion, o'course, the root's put to better use makin' cures fer people who've partaken too freely o'the fruit of the vine and the fermentation of the rice than in tea.” He coughed, recalling himself to the task at hand even as Alses watched the last little bits of bulboru juice melt away into the liquid. “The little bit o'heat we've got goin' on here is also helping, makes the dissolvin' process just a tad easier. Now, the reason we've got such a tight temperature window is cause o'that bulboru, see? Too cold and it'll bubble right back out again, an' the zujin gets damaged by too much heat, so's it's a fine line, at least until we get the taikapi fixative in. In th'meantime, though, ye've got to be careful. If ye start seein' milky bubbles, pop another twig on the fire an' hope ye caught it fast enough, and later on, if ye see a rainbow shimmy on th'surface, or even rainbow steam if ye've been inattentive, drop in some ice shards and hope as well. I'll be watchin' it with ye, o'course, but ye'll be doing this on yer own soon enough, and anyways two sets o'eyes is better than one. Now, stir that round gentle-like for a bit, give things time t'settle – but not too much, mind. All things in moderation.” After a few chimes of gentle, restful stirring, tumbling ingredients together under the influence of gentle heat and chaos, it was time to add the ipdo in. “Might want t'stand back a bit sharpish after ye pop it in; ipdo an' taka moss have a bit of a reaction. There might be a bit of a flash, and a bit of a smell, too.” Gingerly, and squinting against the possible blaze of light, she tipped the insurating flask ever-so-carefully so as to allow a thin stream of ipdo essence to meet with the gently-roiling liquid, the meeting releasing a brilliant green flash and a puff of noxious smoke that, fortunately, quickly dissipated, leaving only a mildly-yellow haze up near the roof beams. “Ice, Alses!” Cook said sharply, jerking her attention back to the crucible; sure enough, it was starting to boil, which would never do, and so she deftly slipped a few slivers of ice into the thickening fluid, counteracting the heat and increasing viscosity both. “Got to watch it even before you put the zujin in, Alses,” he rebuked her gently; she accepted the criticism with a flush and a muttered apology, already scattering in just a touch of sugar, something to sweeten the philtre and make it easy to take. That was easy enough, a simple dissolution in water of sugar crystals snapped off the loaf with the sugar nips and stirred in thoroughly and with the occasional bit of water added in if it looked like undue thickening was occurring. Finally, the zujin, a trickle of deep viridian green that bloomed and diffused throughout the forming philtre, twisting and jinking in the rising currents of heat and fading into rainbowed transparency as Alses dragged the stirring rod in lazy, serene figures of eight, keeping a weather eye on the temperature as per instructions. It was a delicate balancing act, letting the whole mess simmer away for half a bell, and one requiring constant attention lest a rainbowed shimmer develop into something more serious, or a faint clouding of the now aqua-tinted philtre became a milky bloom of bulboru droplets. Alses and Cook fell into a rhythm of gentle, almost desultory conversation, always with one weather eye on the mixture brewing in front of them, frequently taking the time to slide in an ice shard with numbed fingers or gingerly poke another twig into the fire, but eventually Cook flourished one of the delicate taikapi and bade her watch closely as he deftly stripped bluebell-like flowers from their stem and cupped them in the palm of his hand before gently, gently rubbing his palms together, creating a fine rain of blue shredded petals that fell into the philtre and vanished almost instantly, without trace. The only hint of their presence was a slight, a very slight increase in the bluish tint of the philtre – but then again, that could have been Alses' imagination. “Now, we give it a quick stir round, to mix that taikapi dust in wi'everything so's it can do its job, and that's that. One vial o'hangover purgative, good fer quite a few doses. Not bad for a bell or two's work, eh?” Alses blinked, her body queueing up to present a list of complaints to her brain – aching feet, sore, tensed shoulders, tingling hands, tired eyes...the list went on and on. “What do we do with it now?” Cook smiled, surprisingly impish. “I'll be taking it, and givin' it a thorough test soon, ye may be sure o'that! I'll put in a word with Tahala for ye, so she knows you ain't been slackin' off or anythin'. Thanks fer yer help, Alses. Much appreciated. Ye can pop down here and make chilblain salve or hangover cures fer the Respite whenever ye like; just be sure t'tell me that's what yer doin' and ye note down what ingredients ye've used so's I can itemise properly for Tahala.” Alses gave Cook a tired, but happy, smile. “Thank you. And if you ever need any help with anything else like this...” she tailed off, confident he could finish the sentence. “Aye, ye'll be me first and favourite port o'call, don't fret. Now, get away t'yer room, or the baths, and have a rest. Ye've earned it.” END

[Elysium]

Alses

XP:
Philtering +5
Auristics +2
Cooking +1
Brewing +2
Rhetoric +2

Lore:
Recipe: Hangover Purgative
Recipe: Sugar Syrup
Philtering: Sugar Syrup as a Base
Ingredient: Punkwood
How to Smother a Grease Fire
How to Hammer in a Spigot
Leiyona Sap, Raising the Boiling Point
Recipe: Vanilla Extract
Ingredient: Vodka
Ingredient: Zujin Leaf
Ingredient: Taikapi Extract
Ingredient: Bulboru Root
Ingredient: Ipdo Leaf
The Versatility of Taka Moss

Notes: This was a very enjoyable read! I granted you a mass of lore as you put an overwhelmingly valiant effort into the writing! Great job. Now, a quick thing; the phrasing of the lore marked "ingredient:" is to indicate a proficiency with that particular ingredient, I.E. you know the properties well enough to use it again. I just wanted to clear that up! Let me know if I missed anything!

and so, the journey continues...