The Hero's Gaze

Tears streamed down Alaric’s cheeks as he diced yet another raw onion. Swiping the pile of chopped onions into a giant pot bubbling away, he realized he still had another bag to chop. He wasn’t sure if it was the onions or something else causing his tears. A cacophony of steaming kettles, flaming cooking pits, and clanking pots and pans filled the air. The clamour of pots and pans drowned out the shouts of cooks and the hurried footsteps of servants. Alaric wiped the clear fluid from his nostrils with the back of his sleeve and returned to cutting whole onions and scraping them into the pot as fast as he could.

A cracking sound ripped through the air as Alaric straightened his back. Servants working at cooking stations next to him looked up in shock, then resumed their thankless tasks. It had been three days since they arrived in Kira and the last two of those Alaric had spent in the deeps of the kitchen on Duke Galen Fairsheild’s estate. Working eighteen hours both days had left Alaric too exhausted to search for clues to Kethryll’s whereabouts or investigate the duke’s involvement in this thickening plot. Alaric leaned over the pot and sniffed, then added a pinch of starch. He tried asking the other kitchen staff about the duke, but most just ignored Alaric or gave him indifferent shrugs. The only bit of information was that the duke had locked himself in his study for the last few weeks. Alaric had tried getting access to the estate building but couldn’t get past the hawkish eyes of the Chef. How did Elara slip past? That cloak of hers must hide more secrets. If Alaric wasn’t in the kitchen, he was asleep in his room. The servants' quarters were isolated from the main building, and guards constantly patrolled the grounds. Alaric began to question whether he’d been stolen into indentured servitude.

The waning light from the tiny windows cast long shadows across Alaric’s workbench. He felt a panic rise from deep within his stomach. Tonight was the night of the banquet and rumour among the servants was that every big wig in the region would be in attendance. He and Elara had yet to formulate a plan and to make matters worse, Elara slipped out of the kitchens before noon and hadn’t been seen since. More snot and tears flowed with each chopped onion.

He scanned the kitchen looking for Elara. The Master Chef’s eyes bored into the back of

Alaric’s skull and a high-pitched cry rose above the chaos. “You!”

Alaric dropped his head. His knife was a blur as he diced through a handful of onions. A petite woman dressed in a pristine white chef’s uniform and toque appeared in front of Alaric and waved a wrinkled stump of her finger in his face. She wore a permanent scowl just like her sister, her eyes were narrow slits.

“Why are you so slow?” Her shrill voice climbed higher. “Or are you just slow?”

Alaric muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Her voice reached an octave only dogs could hear.

“Yes, Chef,” Alaric clenched his jaw and scraped the pile of diced onions into the pot.

“This is the best help my sister could find,” Chef dipped what was left of her index finger into the pot and tasted it. “Not bad, rookie,” her eyes widened for a split second before returning to narrow slots. “What did you add?”

“Just some diced bacon that I smoked,” Alaric’s chest puffed out. “Family secret.”

“Enough of that, now I need you to listen to me.” She poked him in the chest leaving a juicy saliva patch on Alaric’s apron. “Seeing as your wife disappeared, we are down a sever.”

“She’s not my wife.”

“Well, whatever she is, she’s gone.” She waved a hand as if she was dismissing a dish rat. “The guests will be arriving soon, and I need you to take her place. Go get cleaned up, you’re a mess and see the seamstress about getting you a server’s uniform. Then report to the Head Server; he’ll instruct you on what to do. Well, go on damn it.”

“Yes, Chef,” Alaric cleaned up his station and raced to. This was the break he’d been waiting for. Hiding in plain sight he could move around the estate manor, hopefully find where all the gunpowder and counterfeiting material had been delivered to and hopefully Kethryll. He could just start busting down doors now, but that would just give the conspirators a chance to escape in all the confusion. And guests could be taken hostage. Alaric’s mind started to twist down the drain of possibilities. Then a thought occurred to him. Once whoever is behind all this has taken out the elites, they probably wouldn’t have any more use for Kethryll, if they hadn’t already. If for nothing else, he had to stop the bombing plot. Alaric quickened his pace.

The seamstress’s workshop was in the same building as the servant's quarters. From the path to the building, through scattered trees and bushes, Alaric could see the outline of another building far away on the other side of the grounds. What stood out to him was that there were always guards stationed outside, and the patrols of the grounds seemed to originate from there.

The seamstress measured Alaric for a formal server’s uniform that was used only for special occasions, and he was surprised that he’d gone down a few pant sizes. Maybe working all day sweating had some benefits. The seamstress gave Alaric a set of clothes from a rack filled with a range of uniform sizes. They must go through a lot of staff. Shaking the thought from his head, Alaric then raced to the wash house to get clean before returning to his tiny quarters. Tiny was an exaggeration. The cot he’d slept on filled the room and from the water stains on the bare wooden floor Alaric assumed that his room used to be a storage closet. He changed into the server’s uniform, making sure to secure his magical pouch in his pocket, and then reported to the Head Server.

The duties were simple. Make sure the guests were fed, and they never saw the bottom of their drink. “But above all else, don’t speak to the guests,” the Head Server stressed. “Don’t even make eye contact.”

Alaric was then tasked with setting up the Grand Hall by bringing platers from the kitchens filled with varieties of smoked meats, exotic fruits and tiny onions impaled with toothpicks. He stepped through the servant’s entry to the Grand Hall and gazed about. On the opposite side of the room was lined with giant glass double doors that opened to a patio area with views of the estate grounds, in the distance rose the Eldermist Mountains. Central to the Grand Hall was a polished ballroom floor, to the right was the head of the room with a stage where a few musicians were setting up their stringed instruments. Behind them, the wall was lined with ornate tapestries and two oak wooden doors in each corner, and to the left long tables were pressed against the wall with the other servers placing the different dishes from the kitchen. Alaric walked to the middle and turned around, tables and chairs covered in fine white linen, the finest porcelain plates and the clearest crystal were scattered from the wall to the edge of the dance floor. His eyes flicked up to see that the wall was covered in oil paintings of Duke Fairsheild. All with him bare-chested, engaged in hand-to-paw mortal combat with all sorts of wildlife, including a man-size mouse wearing a top hat and monocle. Alaric shook his head. “Oi.”

Alaric spun around to see the Head Server striding up to him. Sweat glistened off the man’s brow. Alaric couldn’t tell if he was nervous or just naturally sweaty

“If you’re done catching flies with that gaping maw, you call a mouth, open those patio doors. Then get to grabbing trays. Move!”

The sun finally settled down for the night, soft music started to fill the air and guests who were on the lowest rung of the social ladder began pouring in from the patio area. The men wore slim tailored suits with long tails, which was the last season's style in the capital, while the women wore bedazzled two-tone dresses of all colours. Alaric’s eye twitched trying to understand the fashion. It was always something that he could never keep up with. By the time he got around to getting fitted with the hottest threads, it was already out of style. He took one last look at the upper crust of society before heading to the kitchen.

With a loaded platter in hand, Alaric walked around the room like a cow with its hooves stuck in buckets. The guests barely acknowledged his existence, and if they did it was to berate him. It wasn’t long before a staff member started announcing the more important guest. With each one, the floor would watch the entrance with mild applause then mutter under their breath the latest gossip on the new arrival. Whether they had properties sold or bought on their behalf, the discontent of the great unwashed and a few salacious tales made Alaric blush. But there were no rumours about Kethryall.

Alaric felt a tug on the end of his elbow. An old man stood squinted as he looked up at Alaric. The man's bald head was like a weathered leather cap, and hanging in the shade of his red bulbous nose was a thick white moustache while drooping ears framed his square head. A red stash covered in polished military medals was wrapped tight across his withered chest. A small pin that looked like a closed fist was on the lapel of his shirt. It was the fourth or fifth one Alaric had seen scattered through the crowd.

“Can I help you, sir?” Alaric bent down.

“Huh?” the man cocked an ear at Alaric.

“Help, sir,” Alaric raised his voice. “Did you want something to eat?”

“Retreat?” He yelled. “Never!”

“No,” Alaric pointed to the food on his tray. “Food.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you want some?” Alaric mouthed the words with exaggerated movements. The old man nodded with each syllable, then his eyes lit up at the end.

“Why didn’t you say so,” A wrinkled hand snatched as much as possible and jammed them in his mouth. Crumbs lodged deep within the moustache. “I’ve seen you on a battlefield or two, haven’t I? A general knows a warrior when he sees one.”

Alaric felt a flicker of panic. He didn’t expect to get recognised in this region. “Oh, no.” The old man shrugged and then turned around. Alaric let out a sigh and turned his attention to the crowd. People started mingling outside. If he could get outside, maybe he could slip into the darkness and snoop around. Before he could move, Alaric felt a tug on his elbow.

“The last guy had the worst selection.” The general scooped up the last of the food on Alaric platter.

Alaric just nodded.

After returning to the kitchen for another platter, Alaric went outside and was astonished at the majesty of the grounds. To the left, an archway sculpted from the hedge wall framed a torch-lit pathway, which meandered gracefully before merging with a gravel road. Horse-drawn and stone-powered carriages unloaded their snooty passengers and quickly moved on for the next carriage to arrive. To Alaric’s right, a stone-faced guard blocked the entrance of a path that faded into the gloom. The guard uniform did little to conceal the man’s bulking frame.

A flicker of movement in front of Alaric caught his eye. He moved closer for a better view. A gentle slope rolled down from the end of the paved outdoor entertaining area. At the bottom marble fountain, the largest and most intricately carved Alaric had ever seen, threw streams of water dozens of feet into the air and twinkled in the moonlight. It was surrounded by concentric rings of gardens that were filled with every coloured flower.

Small knots of nobles mingled within their cliques, oblivious to Alaric’s presence. He scanned his surroundings again. Why was a guard posted there? It seems odd as the direction of the path led away from the main building. Then Alaric remembered that barrels of gunpowder were delivered here. More would have been if they hadn’t been stolen from him. They must have been stored somewhere secure, away from the manor. The risk of having it explode or be discovered before tonight was too great. That other building. But Alaric still wasn’t sure how the duke was involved, if he was involved. He was running on assumptions. What was that saying?

“When you assume, you’re an asshole,” Alaric muttered to himself.

He decided now was the time. He approached the guard. “How’s it going?”

The guard ignored him. Alaric silently cursed himself. He wasn’t sure if it was a guard with the personality of a statute or if it was a statue with the personality of a guard. Either way, he’d need a better approach, and there are too many witnesses for him to just knock the guard out. Alaric quickly took stock of the guard, he looked almost resentful of his duties. And if he knew anything about men in uniform, they all marched on the same thing, from the lowest grunt to the highest general.

“One of these nights huh? Listen, the old boiler in the kitchen will nag my nut off if I don’t move this food, and the wet fish out here ain’t biting. Mind if I go out back and give some to the boys?”

The guard remained frozen. Alaric felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. In the briefest of moments, the guard’s eyes flicked to Alaric’s then to the platter and finally to the crowd. He gave Alaric a quick nod, smiled and walked around the guard only for the brute to place a meaty paw on Alaric’s chest.

He stopped mid-step. The guard scanned the grounds, swallowed a stuffed mushroom then dismissed Alaric with a grunt.

The path was lined with waist-high hedges broken up by large bushes. Music softened and the light waned as Alaric strode down the path. Getting his bearings he stopped at a bend in the path. He could see the main estate building and soft lights coming from the servant’s quarters on the other side of the grounds. He knew he wasn’t too far from the mysterious building. Approaching footsteps echoed in the night. Alaric backed into the hedge until he was on the other side and held his breath. The footsteps continued past. Alaric sighed and then scanned the grounds. He could see the roof of the outlying building a hundred feet in the direction that the curve in the path would have taken him. The hedge row would conceal his approach. Alaric padded forward, platter in hand.

Taking a wide berth around the guard posted at the door, Alaric crept towards the building. Beams of light streamed from long thin windows that were low to the ground. He bent down to peak in.

He gasped.