“What the hell is this?
“My apron, my knife. I understand that what I did today-”
“Shiv, fuck off. What are you doing? Get that thing out of my fucking face. I'm not firing you, and you're not quitting.”
“I—I hit the chef de partie over the head. I splashed boiling water in his face.”
“Yeah, after the cunt threatened you with a knife, after he fucked up my order, after he tried blaming it on you, after he screamed and tried to abuse one of my Commis. She's gone now—probably not getting her back, so that's one more person down for the kitchen. Soon to be two. You want to know why it's going to be two, Shiv? Because I'm running out of a Chef de Partie as well, and so long as I'm here in this town, he's not going to be working at the Swan-Eating Toad. He's not going to be working anywhere. And you're not quitting. You're not quitting for defending yourself or telling a cunt to go fuck himself. I told you before. I told you at the start of this. What did I tell you?”
“Uh, you told me a lot of things, Chef.”
“What did I tell you about respect? Respect your fellowships and respect yourself. Don't take shit from them. I told you that. I told you that a thousand times. You are not a slave here, you're not a serf. You hitting him is a natural consequence of him being too much of a cunt that his cunt eyes have actually become working cunts, and he can't see what he's doing wrong. Well, he's gonna learn real soon. Yeah, he's gonna fail and learn.”
“But, Chef—”
“It doesn't matter if he's more senior than you. This is a kitchen. We work together. We try to make food together, and if it went wrong with him, then he is the problem. It doesn't matter that he's higher up; it matters that the failure happened to him and not anyone else. We all fuck up. That happens. I scream, I lose my shit, I go outside and smoke, we talk about it. It happens.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“I can fire you for being incompetent as a chef, that's one thing. I won't hate you. This happens. Sometimes you're not fit for the job. Sometimes the skill just leaks out of you, right? It burns, and you're tired, and you don't want to do it anymore. Sometimes the world outpaces you. Never, never, never is there an acceptable case where a chef makes a mistake, tries to throw it on someone else, and continues working there. This isn't the government. We’re not nobles or elites. We don’t get a free pass to be shit. You can't get away with this. People have to eat our food. There are other restaurants to choose from. Do you understand?”
“I think, Chef.”
“Good. Now put your apron back on, pick up that knife, and get the fuck back in there. There are cabbages that still need preparing.”
“Yes, Chef.”
-Georges Archambault and Shiv
125 (I)
Commis [II]
"We stand before you arrayed and at your beck and call, O Chef de Cuisine!" Whisper declared.
A grin adorned the orc's face, and he spun a knife in each hand. Both of them glistened, pure and free of bacteria, cleansed by magic and heat. Beside him, Mortar conjured a ball of flame in his hands and shaped a spatula from a hovering mess of metal. Tequila, meanwhile, juggled a series of condiments while Band stared at the Abyssal Gateway as he slowly dragged out wailing notes on his violin.
Shiv took in the orcs and squinted. This wasn't a cooperative kitchen. The orcs standing before him had arrayed not in support, but to challenge his authority, to find any hint of weakness within Shiv's emotions—any weakness in his cooking. He had disciplined them by breaking Wall earlier, but that was merely the physical struggle. The battle here was social, psychological, and above all, egotistical.
Cooking, like combat, was an essential part of Shiv. And if the orcs thought they were going to shake him, to find weakness here, they were sorely mistaken.
I am the pillar, Shiv thought to himself as he drew in a slow breath. He studied the orcs’ bodies and found them utterly calm, and studying him as well. Shiv’s fingers twitched. Whisper noticed. Band stopped pulling his bow. Tequila and Mortar grinned at each other as tension built. I am The Chef Unwavering. And today, these orcs are going to learn.
"Alright. Listen up. We’re going to prepare this basilisk methodically. Carefully. Properly.” Nearby, Gemstone lay unmoving, its heart stopped by Shiv's Biomancy—a merciful end delivered in prelude to a new culinary struggle. “You’re going to help me make this. You're going to man the stations I tell you to man and prepare the ingredients the way I ask you to. And when we’re done, you’re going to be the first to try the dish. And I will see you broken before me.”
“Oh, will you now,” Tequila said, yawning. “Do you cook with your mouth, Chef? Got a Boasting-Cooking Skill Fusion?”
“Can’t be,” Mortar sneered. “He’s bad at the former. Might not be good at the latter since we’re wasting time.”
You son of a bitch! Shiv snarled inside. But outside, he kept his expression calm and his gaze focused.
Most of their secondary ingredients were prepared nearby. Cauliflowers, mangos, loomgrapes, glass peppers, mushrooms, and more lay in sectioned piles behind the orcs. At the center of the special cooking zone, the Deathless and the orcs continued their staredown as the Court Leviathan continued to wave the dead cave biter up and down. This made the dead monster’s shadow serve in place of rolling tumbleweeds.
A small audience of off-duty Umbrals, Weaveresses, mercenaries, and more watched from a distance. Behind Shiv were Adam and Uva. The former looked confused, while the latter held a look of utter exasperation on her face.
Shiv gave the orcs a final glare before he continued his speech. “We do this the standard way. Preparations first. Portioning first. Cutting and slicing first.” He stared at Whisper and eyed the stealthy orc as his first victim. He would break Whisper here and now so the other orcs knew what was coming. "You good with those knives, Whisper?"
"Some might say so," Whisper replied. He flourished, the twin gleaming blades in his hands.
"Well then, pick a side, Whisper," Shiv said, gesturing at the dead basilisk. “Three hundred meters. Plenty of space. Whichever end you want.”
"And why am I picking a side, oh Chef?" Whisper asked. Intellect glinted behind his yellow eyes, and Shiv knew what the orc was trying to do. He was trying to annoy Shiv, trying to throw him off. It wouldn’t work.
"Because it's faster if both of us prepare the basilisk at once," Shiv said. "I could do it alone. But this makes it more interesting. Doesn’t it? Let’s see who's the better cutter.”
Whisper bared his teeth. “Ah. So it is to be a portioning duel, then. Do not blame me if I shame you, Chef. I choose tail.”
“I’ll take head,” Shiv replied, barely suppressing a growl.
“Meet in the middle?” Whisper asked. He knew they weren’t going to do that.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
“We’ll meet along the way. Whoever reaches the other first. This is a kitchen, Whisper, not a democracy. What we get to do here is determined by skill, by efficiency, by blade. If I get to you early, that means you’re not keeping tempo.”
Band vigorously pulled on his violin to give Shiv’s statement a bit more gravitas.
“Oh, I’ll keep tempo, Chef. Don’t you worry.” Whisper bowed lightly. Not slight enough to be submissive, but just enough to let Shiv know he earned a bit of respect.
Everything the orc does is manipulation mixed in with some truth, Shiv remembered. Never get it confused. Not even when they flatter you, Shiv.
Shiv never broke eye contact with any of the orcs as he magnified the size of his Skysplitter. He placed it below the huge pan he used to fry the Court Leviathan’s tentacles. With a casual flick of his hand, he channeled a rush of flame into the blade as it began to simmer. Then, he noticed the ball of fire circling Mortar’s right hand.
"Mortar," Shiv called out, "this knife is magic-amplifying. You got Pyromancy?"
"A bit," Mortar said. "You want me to heat it up?"
"I want you to get it hot. Basilisks have some regeneration, so we’re going to need to burn this deep. We're making pan-seared basilisk with abyssal mango and loomgrape glaze paired with cauliflower, mushrooms, and glass peppers. Are we clear on this?”
“Yes, Chef!” The orcs barked as one. And they responded without a hint of irony. They were loving this. And Shiv was too. Godsdammit, this is kind of fun. Is this what it’s like to run your own kitchen?
“As of right now, you," he pointed at Mortar, "are in charge of the grill. Whisper, when we're done portioning out the basilisk—and we are going to portion this entire basilisk perfectly—you're going to be in charge of cutting the vegetables and other ingredients as well. Don’t fuck up the portions.”
Whisper grinned. “Of course, Chef.”
Suddenly, a waft of smoke assailed Shiv’s nostrils. He looked at Tequila, the wand-using orc, who leaned his head back and grinned. He was smoking two cigarettes at once and was placing sauce after sauce on a nearby table. The azure sun struck the bottles the orc placed down, and their insides came alight in a multicolored glow. "Smoking's for the outdoors. Snuff it out unless you’re resting. You don't smoke unless you're on break. Got it? And we're not going on break today.”
Tequila nodded and drew in a long breath. Both his cigarettes were inhaled down to the nubs, and he spat them out, aiming at the back of Mortar's head. The large orc moved faster than Shiv expected. He caught the twin butts before they impacted him in a massive metallic fist.
“Use your Chronomancy next time, copper,” Mortar snorted.
“Copper?” Adam muttered.
Mortar gave Tequila a disgusted look. “Tequila here was a detective for a while. An inspector, even. HKPD.”
“They let you be an investigator?” Adam gawked.
“Why not?” Tequila shrugged. “It’s my Path.”
The Gate Lord’s expression grew three times more incredulous that very instant.
"Anyway, Tequila, you're going to be in charge of the sauces," Shiv continued. "I need you to prepare the mangoes and the loom grapes."
"Can I offer a suggestion, Chef?" Tequila asked, now folding his arms behind his back.
Shiv's eyes narrowed. There was going to be a trick here. "What kind of suggestion?"
"I think we could use some wine with this. Rice wine. The people here look parched, starved of a good accompaniment. We focus so hard on the main course and the side. But what about libations?"
The Swan-Eating Toad always had a set list of drinks. In truth, it was not Shiv's expertise. He was mostly focused on food. So focused that he wasn't that good at baking either. And just then, Georges’s voice echoed in Shiv's head again.
"You can't possibly be skilled at everything, even in your desired art. You don't have enough time. And those who'd have enough time still can't do everything at once, no matter how powerful they are. The important thing for you to learn right now is that you have to rely on other people. Let them do their felling work. Let them be who they can be, and don't get in their way. Even if they are an asshole, especially if they are an asshole, sometimes you just need the asshole to shit himself hard. That way, he can propel himself and drag the rest of the group with him or make a mess and clean it up on his own.”
“If you can handle the wine without it getting in the way of your actual station. Sure. But doesn’t it take months to ferment wine?”
“Only for the unskilled,” Tequila replied. “I just need some rice and wine.” And then he was looking at Uva.
“Turn your eyes away from me, orc,” Uva said, her voice low and unamused. “I am not a maid for you to command. And neither are my sisters.”
“But Sister Uva,” Tequila said, making his voice seem childlike, “I don’t know where anything is here. Please. Can you lend me your aid…”
“No.”
Tequila frowned and turned a troubled expression on Shiv. “Is she this cold when you fuck her? Does she feel like an icebox? You into that kind of thing?”
Adam sputtered. Shiv gritted his teeth, and Uva’s stare turned to a vicious glare. The Umbral’s right eye twitched. “Shiv. Dearest. I fear this brute has tragically lost the will to live and is fated to die in his next mission. He will be surrounded by enemies after wandering too deep into an ambush. I shall mourn for him in advance.”
“Poor bastard,” Shiv said, shaking his head as he looked at Uva. “Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.”
“Why are you looking at each other?” Tequila asked. “What are you saying? If it’s tips you want, I can offer them. I served as a sexual consultant for some of my colleagues while I was an inspector.”
“They will miss you,” Uva muttered darkly.
Tequila’s smile froze for a moment. “What?”
“That rice wine better be godsdamned good, Tequila,” Shiv said. “Otherwise, I’m not sure if I’ll remember you in a few years.”
“Ah.” Whisper sighed as he waggled a large finger at Tequila. “Our habitual line-stepper has stumbled over another line again.”
“What? It was an honest question.”
“And yours will be an honest death,” Whisper replied with a casual shrug. “Between the Deathless and the Sister, I think the former offers a better end. Especially since none of us will euthanize you if something happens.”
Tequila grimaced. “That’s a horrible thing to say to a fellow orc.”
“Think. Before. Talk.” Band grunted each word at Tequila while shaking his head.
And that was another thing about orcs—if you bit down on one of their mistakes, the other orcs might just join in on bullying them with you. Because everyone was fair game for domination and abuse.
“Should have just mixed the sauce, sauce-mixer,” Mortar rumbled, laughing. Then, Band and Whisper laughed too, leaving Tequila to contend with the hard gazes levied upon him by Shiv and Uva.
“Oh, Challenger, this might be a short run,” Tequila mumbled to himself.
"And Band," Shiv said, staring at the final orc.
Band lowered his violin and grinned at Shiv. "Yes." His voice was like gravel grinding against a chalkboard surface. "Your. Orders. Chef."
Shiv had something special planned for that one. He had a knife—the same kind Georges gave Shiv. And there might be something there connecting Georges to the orc. Something Shiv wanted to know about. “I want you preparing the main dish beside me later. But start with the vegetables on the side. I want to see how good you are.”
“Why’s he special?” Mortar grunted. “This is bloody favoritism, Chef. I ran the chain.”
“Yes. But he has a Moonsteel chef’s knife,” Shiv said. “And I want to know why and from where.”
Mortar eyed Band and let out a grunt. “I could tell, Deathless. I could tell you all about this sentimental bastard. All kinds of things.”
“Fuck. You,” Band snarled at Mortar, but the big automata-armored orc just blew Band a mocking kiss.
Shiv’s Outside Context Problem trembled—and that provoked a reaction from Band. The musical orc’s eyes widened, and his violin immediately came aglow with violet energy—so much Divination mana it spilled into the visible spectrum. He pulled hard on his bow just as Shiv started to have a vision—the screen gone since there was no Rose to filter the details through. Before Outside Context Problem could trigger, the orc canceled it out with a screaming note from his instrument.
Outside Context Problem 61 > 64
A splash of Vitaemancy broke away from Shiv. The vision died. He clenched his fists—but froze as Band held his violin high.
“Tell. After,” Band said. A mana strand hovered just a meter away from his head. The musical orc glared at Mortar with an expression of loathing. If this hate was fake, Band was one hell of an actor.
“Shiv?” Uva said, her tone focused and cold as winter. “Are you alright?”
“Just fine,” Shiv said. “No idea what he just did, though.”
“He canceled out something,” Adam said. “I saw a pulse of Divination—broke my focus for a moment. It conveyed a message to me too…”
“Told. World. Stop. My. Secret. Tell. Later. Cook. First.” Band sneered at Shiv. “Tell. Everything. If. Cooking. Not. Shit. Most. Cooking. Shit.”
And that confirmed something for Shiv. Band had definitely had an encounter with Georges before. “Not shit, huh? Fine. I’ll show you not shit. Commis! Stations!”