Queen Agatha's Meal

Gordan strutted into the lower kitchen, smelling like gold-plated perfume while the char-faced pimple-necked culinary aid bent over, struggling to stir a giant pot, his stomach slouching over the warm rim.

“Dinner should be ready to serve by the witching hour, Bandit, that's thirty ticks,” Gordan said in his friendliest tone possible.

Bandit looked to Gordan for a split-second, then silently continued, quickening his stirring speed. Gordan wandered over presumptuously with his chest puffed out and his hands behind his back, ready to lean over and take in the waft of perfectly seasoned venison inside of a stew. But what he saw was far from it. No scent came from the pot, and venison was clearly not on the menu. An entire lamb, wool and all, was swirling around in a clear liquid, probably rainwater.

“Lamb? Who told you we were having lamb? It's Moonshade's Eve!” his friendly tone had vanished entirely.

“Mistra did, milord,” Bandit rushed.

Gordan lost his temper. “Give me that!” he snatched the handle of the heavy shovel-sized spoon from Bandit, took it out of the pot and wedged it underneath before shifting all his weight on the handle and tipping the pot’s contents onto the dirty wooden floor. The dead lamb slid out soaking wet while Bandit took a few steps back, looking painfully at the mess.

“I ordered venison, Bandit. I ordered it through you.”

“I know, milord, and I told Mistra, but she doesn’t listen to me. She got her orders from the guard.”

“And who is more important? The man worth more than this entire kitchen? Or ‘the guard’?”

“Y-you, milord.”

“Right. Get onto the venison stew, will you? Our guests will not be happy if the main course comes out late. And neither will I,” he added threateningly.

Bandit’s belly jiggled as he strode off to find Mistra. If he had to start from scratch, there was no way the food would be ready within a half hour. He prayed to Gore that the head chef had some spare ingredients for the venison stew, including the meat.

He passed under wooden archways and cracked marble walls trying to devise an idea to successfully cook an entire venison stew before the queen’s guests finished their entrees. He’d heard of chefs who lived a century ago using water straight from the Dragon’s Breath Cellar to speed the process, but nowadays that water could only be legally used for brewing alcohol. If Mistra hadn’t already cooked the meat herself, he would have to steal that water. Otherwise, he would be banished from the city or executed by Gordan like the last culinary aid.

He waddled briskly through the dining hall, dodging seated guests along with the queen at the head of her long table making sure her golden cutlery lined up perfectly with the overhanging embroidered table mat, and then he entered the upper kitchen.

Mistra was there, decorating a cake behind rows and rows of wooden cheese platters. “Chef, have you, by any chance, cooked the venison stew?” he asked with a nervous twitch in his cheek.

“Venison stew? That was your job wasn’t it, Bandit?”

“Yes, Chef, originally it was, but you told me to cook an entire lamb instead.”

“Enough with the excuses, Bandit. If you can’t get the right meal sorted before its time, I should never have hired you in the first place. Get back to work.”

“Sorry, Chef... I don’t have any venison in my kitchen at all.”

Valerie briefly stopped decorating the cake to glare at Bandit, then nodded toward a set of stairs leading down to her own larder. “Think,” she said as she tapped her head with a forefinger, leaving behind a patch of icing.

Bandit nodded and sped down the short stairway to a wooden door. He opened it and upon looking down he discovered that the venison had been covered in salt to keep it from rotting. 'Bastard!' he whispered. This would slow the process even more. He heaved the slab of meat into a wooden crate, then shifted loaves of bread, bags of flour, oils and juices around the shelves to find vegetables and dried herbs, a worryingly low number of carrots before he threw the raw ingredients in with the venison, then he used a piece of cloth to hide the crate's contents ensuring the guests wouldn’t notice on his way through the dining hall. The last culinary aid who accidentally revealed his ingredients was inevitably executed by Gordan. One of their ingredients was rumoured to be snake dung, however... but you could never be too careful.

Now was the difficult part. He needed Dragonwater if he wanted to keep his citizenship, and possibly his head, an ingredient that he would only find in the Dragon’s Breath Cellar beneath the Winery.

When he arrived back at the lower kitchen, he struggled to heave the pot back over the fire. He added the raw ingredients before adding some cold water from the rain bucket outside, then relit the woodfire beneath the pot. But if this were to be his way to cook this meal, he would be waiting hours. He had only twenty minutes before the entrée would be served, and his main meal should legally be ready by now.

Gordan had luckily disappeared. If he knew what Bandit was about to do, he would probably stick him in the pot himself. Gordan famously loved his Redrun Dragonwhiskey, and if he received word that the winery was low on Dragonwater because of a chef, well...

Nevertheless, Bandit walked back through the hall in sight of the queen and her guests and quietly turned down one corridor early. He’d only been down here once in his life, and that was with a tour guide when he was visiting the marvellous castle of Redrun as a child. The sight of the distillery’s entranceway was so exhilarating that he could never forget it. He even remembered the way after having neglected the route for years.

He walked as quietly as he could and followed a long horizontal red shaft with glimmering golden dragons winding around it like vines, holding up the ceiling and through the keystones of repeating archways above him. The shaft led to the large arched double doorway, hinged in gold and plated with more fiery patterns, silver this time. Two white gargoyles in the shape of baby dragons carved out of marble guarded the doorway, while their tongues held flickering candles as silver wax melted down their chins. He turned to the right, down a much narrower, much less exciting corridor, skipping the magnificent distillery entirely, and started to spiral down a staircase to the Dragon’s Breath Cellar.

He pushed the door open with a struggle and a hideous scrape of iron on concrete and ahead of him, locked in a large cage, was a brown dragon just bigger than a lamb. Protruding from the gaps between its layered scales were tufts of black fur like millions of spiders’ legs. The creature choked up embarrassingly small flames, aiming for the golden barrels that were placed in front of it. Golden barrels that were filled with Dragonwater. Dragonwater.

When the dragon had swallowed its last ember. The boiling water gained the smoky opacity of Dragonwater. It boiled much hotter without turning to steam and would take hours longer to become still before it could be used in the distillery.

Bandit snuck up on the dragon as its spiked tail barged around restlessly in its cage. This dragon was new to its trapped life. It looked impatient. Ready to hunt. As Bandit kept his eyes on the dragon, like the great buffoon Mistra always told him he was, he accidentally kicked a metal bucket of water, luckily cold, which clanged and spilled all over the grey bricks of the ground. The dragon turned around, instantly spitting sparks in Bandit’s direction. As he backed away with singed armhairs, the dragon screeched. From behind him, Gordan’s voice echoed. “Didn’t I tell you that the main course needed to be ready in ten minutes?” he asked.

“Yes, milord. But there was no way the meat would cook in time...”

“You should’ve thought about that before you decided to cook an entire lamb. I just went into your kitchen. That venison stew was cooking on full heat with no attendance. Are you purposefully an arsonist? Or were you not educated on the dangers of fire?”

“N-not educated, milord.”

“Well, I can't say I'm not surprised. You’ve already been replaced by another. He’s going to restart the meal while the queen waits a while longer. She'll be sure to know whose fault it was...”

“If she’s waiting, milord, then I can start. No need to hire someone else!”

“Oh, but I’m afraid you’ve already broken the law, Bandit. Dragonwater?”

“I haven’t taken any Dragonwater, milord.”

Gordan stared down at the bucket in front of them, where water had spilled out onto the concrete.

“That wasn’t Dragonwater, milord!”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No! It was cold, milord! Clear!”

“Yes, it is now that it’s all over the ground. You’ve wasted an entire batch worth of Dragonwhiskey, Bandit... you’ve ruined my Flidæ evening. And the Queen's, which has even more malicious consequences.” Two large guards came marching into the small doorway, and overtook Gordan, staring Bandit down with dented silver axes in their hands.

“No, please...,” Bandit begged.

One guard stood in front of the doorway while the other revealed a goat’s leg from behind his back. He approached the dragon carefully while Bandit watched and failed to swallow as his mouth had turned to a desert. The dragon screeched and swirled its tail around, staring at the goat’s leg impatiently. The guard took a key from his belt and unlocked the dragon’s cage before tossing the goat’s leg at Bandit.

Bandit immediately kicked the meat towards the dragon which was now crawling along the concrete with its eyes not set on the leg, but on Bandit. He looked back to the doorway where the other guard bared his rotting teeth with a malignant smile as the dragon crawled menacingly over the goat’s leg. A spark flew out of its mouth, and the hair between its scales stood on tall like the spikes of a porcupine as it screeched again. It may have only been the size of the lamb in the pot, but it was hungry. It growled and revealed its gnashing black teeth, charred by its own fire through some genetic defect. It stopped in its tracks only a few steps away from Bandit, and he watched as it closed its eyes and churned its stomach. Bandit tried to run to the doorway, but the guard pushed him back. He fell and winced in pain as a sword sliced open his calf.

“No, no! Please! I’ll never consider using the Dragonwater again! Milord! Gordan!”

The dragon’s eyes opened, and a great burst of flame covered Bandit’s body. He screamed silently as his vocal cords turned to ash and his clothes melted into his skin. For a second, Bandit’s limbs whirled around haphazardly. His heart sped up to match the frequency of a rat's before he became senseless and fell to the ground, charred by the dragon’s fire. The dragon approached, ready for its first overcooked meal in a week, while Gordan approached, smiling. The dragon instantly coughed and backed away as Gordan’s empowering body trod over top of the blackened pile of Bandit. He pulled out a knife, bent over, and started working on the limbs.

Queen Agatha anxiously awaited her meal, it was already ten minutes late, and the guests were riled after finishing their entrees. Mistra was looking around the dining room frantically, apologising to as many people as possible, but a sigh of relief followed when Gordan entered the room with a covered plate, smoke streaming from the small gap between the cloche and the plate.

"Oh, it's Dragonwarmed!" Queen Agatha enthused.

“A change of plan, your grace... the assistant chef has had an accident in the kitchen. Don't fret, though, as I took over.” He laid the plate in front of her while the Prince Consort looked to Gordan with relief.

“About time, Gordan! These events usually go by your plan, so I trust the meal will be as delectable as the last!”

Gordan lifted the lid of the plate, and the smoke rose to the ceiling before they could see what he had revealed. Then finally, a blackened slice of meat revealed itself, still burning from the oven.

“What is that? I can barely see it!” said the Prince Consort.

“Only the finest dragon-warmed goat!” said Gordan.

“Warmed?! It’s burnt!”

"All the better," said Queen Agatha. "Have you tasted Dragonwarmed meat, my love?"

“If you’ve ever witnessed the dragon’s breath, your grace, then you’d know whatever it touches burns as hot as the sun,' said Gordan proudly. 'But, not to worry! The dragon's rageful flames create the finest foundation for spices and herbs! It may look burnt, but I assure you it will be the greatest meal you’ve ever had!”

The Queen’s husband immediately cut a loaf off for himself, eager to satiate himself no matter how the meat was cooked. He smelt it, nibbled it, swirled it in his mouth, then took a bite large enough to fill his cheeks. Followed by a sip of Dragonwhiskey, he sat back in a splendour only a king should know. Fulfilment.