The Dark Arm of the Maker

One

"You call that a tart? Maker's fires, were you raised by wolves?" Neveshir strode across the kitchen, eyes narrowed on the deflated excuse for a pastry lumped into one of his finest tins.

The new hire — scion of some wealthy city family or other — stepped up to defend his abomination with lip curled. "I apprenticed to a master pastry chef at the culinary institute, and he said that one should never use a tin like—"

"He can say whatever the burning heavens he wants." Neveshir straightened. Height had its advantages. Looming over cocky prats from the culinary institute was one of them. "You're in my kitchen, now. Your feeble attempt at a tart is an insult to my tin — not the other way around."

The prat's coffee-dark eyes skipped from Neveshir's face down to the silver chain peeking from his collar, then further still to the fabric of his tailored black coat. The slightest sheen clung to his rucked sleeves — a mark of quality fireproofing.

Neveshir's bare wrists drew the prat's attention. The prat knew what he was. They all did. The missing iron jewelry should have given him pause, but much to Neveshir's frustration, that wasn't the case.

The prat's nose lifted in the haughty gesture of a man too accustomed to getting more credit than he was due. "At the institute—"

"What's your name?" Neveshir interrupted.

"Chef Idris, sir—"

Neveshir whirled, coattails flapping. 'Chef' Idris? Not on his watch. "Esra!"

"Yes, Veshir?" Esra materialized beside the oven, flour smeared across their apron, glasses askew. They lifted a brow at his long-suffering sigh.

He didn't miss the curled half-smile sitting in the corner of Esra's mouth. They'd warned him the kid had an ego bigger than the Delveri Mountains. He supposed this was his comeuppance for giving Idris a shot despite Esra's misgivings. After over a decade of working side-by-side — time in the army together notwithstanding — he ought to have trusted Esra's judgment.

"Something the matter?" Esra continued, far too chipper for someone who had been up baking since sunrise. The sunny disposition Neveshir had found incomprehensible in combat made a fine attitude for a pastry chef.

"You were right." He swore he saw Esra's lips twitch in response. "Put Idris back on the line."

Idris threw an over-the-shoulder scowl Neveshir's way as Esra corralled him towards the corner to peel potatoes with the apprentices.

Let the prat glare all he wanted. This was Neveshir's kitchen, the fruit of years of labor, the only good thing that had ever come from his two hands. He wasn't about to risk it on some kid who thought learning began and ended with his fancy institute education.

With Idris sorted and the offending tart thrown out the back door to feed the chickens, Neveshir continued his survey of the afternoon's activity. Mouthwatering smells filtered through the kitchen from stone-tile floors up to arched overheads. Chopping and chatter filled the room, interspersed with sizzling and bubbling and the friendly crackling of the fire.

His eyes skipped past rings of workstations to the blazing central hearth. The fire within stretched wider than a man and as tall as the ceiling. It licked at the mouth of the open vent as though it would climb to fill the sky if it could.

A knot formed in Neveshir's breast as his eyes rested on the flame. He rubbed at it with scarred knuckles, willing it away. Now wasn't the time to dwell — not tonight, when every touch had to be perfect.

He paused beside the outer workstations where apprentices with discerning eyes arranged finished trays. They placed garnishes by hand and paid loving attention to detail, just as he'd taught them.