The One-Armed Cook and the Blind Gardener
"Sniff sniff! What's that smell?"
Death had materialized in front of them before anyone noticed. His black eyes, hidden behind long bangs, glared menacingly at the bag of bread. Sensing danger, Rita instinctively hugged the bag to her chest and took a step back.
"Big Brother!"
The men came rushing out in a crowd.
"…Big Brother?"
When Bayul tilted his head, Rita whispered in his ear. "They're Death's younger brothers. When I posted the servant listing, he went and brought his own siblings. What am I supposed to do, Young Master?"
Rita made a face like she was at her own funeral. It reminded her oddly of the day she'd first taken Death on as a servant. The two men calling themselves Death's brothers carried an atmosphere just as distinctive as their older brother's — pitch-black hair and skin white as porcelain, every one of them.
In Rita's own words, they gave absolutely nothing of the servant about them. Honestly, at a glance you'd have taken them for the older brothers, not the younger.
And above all, the biggest problem was that one of them was missing an arm, and the other was blind.
"So you're telling me that the two of you wish to become a cook and a gardener, respectively?"
At Bayul's question, Bar and Amon nodded furiously, as if they'd rehearsed it. Their determination to become servants, come what may, was plain to see.
Bar and Amon. Unlike Death and Amon, who wore their hair long, Bar kept his in a short two-block cut. His dream, he said, was to someday cook a meal that would earn Death's genuine praise.
The third brother, Amon, was blind — he couldn't see a thing — yet curiously, he wore glasses. Silver, square-framed spectacles covered his face, as if to shield his tightly closed eyes.
Amon was hardly short, either. Unlike Bar, however, he was remarkably slender, and his long hair was braided into a single plait for ease of movement. His dream, he said, was to build a garden that would make anyone who saw it gasp in admiration.
"Why are they going on about their dreams here? I'm serious, this is ridiculous."
At their self-introductions, Rita leaned toward Bayul's ear and grumbled in sheer disbelief. Her voice was loud enough to be heard, but there was no room to call her out on it now.
The aspiring cook was missing an arm, and the would-be gardener couldn't see. Bayul had never heard of such a pairing anywhere.
"Um… cooking and gardening alike are never easy work. I've never done it myself, but cooking means standing in front of a hot stove, so it can be dangerous. And the garden — well, as you know, the height of summer is nearly upon us. You could suffer heatstroke… and the tools are sharp, so injuries come easily. I'm sorry to say this, but I think the work would simply be too demanding for the two of you."
He circled around and around before delivering a polite refusal. Instantly, disappointment clouded Bar and Amon's faces. Bayul was sorry, but there was nothing he could do.
"If that's all you're worried about, there's nothing to worry about. My cooking tastes terrible, sure, but I'm not the sort to be scared of a little fire. And Amon may have peculiar tastes, but he's never been hurt in his life."
"Don't you dare lie to me! How is a person supposed to cook with one arm? You think the kitchen is some easy place that lets just anyone in? Every single meal, I have to prepare food for at least ten people. How would that even work?"
Cooking slowly, by yourself, for yourself — that might not be so hard. But what Rita wanted was a skilled cook she could hand the entire kitchen over to.
"And a gardener's job is to tend and cultivate a garden beautifully. How is someone who can't see supposed to plant flowers and prune trees? What kind of flower is it, what kind of tree — no, he wouldn't even know where his own two feet are standing. Isn't that right, Young Master?"
Cruel as it sounded, every word out of her mouth hit the mark. Rita was saying the things Bayul couldn't bring himself to say.
He had no idea what circumstances had cost them an arm and their eyesight, but think about it however he might, entrusting the kitchen and the garden to these two simply didn't sit right.
"Then let's see it with our own eyes."
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"Since you don't seem to trust my word. Bar. Amon."
"Yes, Commander… Big Brother!"
At Death's summons, Bar and Amon sprang to their feet.
"Shall we start with the kitchen?"
Death strode ahead toward the kitchen as if it were his own house.
"Can he really cook?"
"Who knows… I suppose we'll find out when we get there."
They were men he'd have to refuse anyway. Watching them do the work with his own eyes would make that refusal easier to accept.
"The dish doesn't matter. Make whatever you're most confident in."
Cooking wasn't her main trade, but Rita was a chef of genuine renown even in Hamilton. With an air of show me what you've got, she pointed to where the ingredients were kept.
Bar's black eyes wavered, restless as a stray with nowhere to go. He'd come here because he needed the job, but now that he'd actually arrived, he was at a loss for what to cook.
"I could go for potato soup right about now."
You can manage that much with your eyes closed, can't you? If you botch it, I'll cut off the other arm too?
Death's frost-blue glare seemed to say exactly that. If he didn't pass muster here, a horrifying future awaited him.
No — no way!
Bar's hands flew into motion. First he peeled the potatoes, washed them, and diced them fine. Then he dropped them into a pot, poured in water, and set it to boil while he fetched the milk. As the potatoes softened, he added the milk and mashed them to a silky finish. And at the last, he didn't forget a knob of butter and a sprinkle of salt.
"Whoa! H-he's doing it one-handed, and he's so fast?"
Rita rubbed her eyes again and again, as if she couldn't trust what she was seeing. Bayul, too, could hardly believe it — he stood blinking, mouth agape.
It was an uncanny sight. This was supposedly a man who'd never cooked in his life, yet the way he moved around the kitchen was remarkably natural. The most astonishing part was how he peeled the potatoes one-handed.
She'd worried he might cut himself, but his knife work was so deft it made the worry feel foolish.
Swift, precise knife strokes. Quick, sure fire-building.
Not a single flaw to be found. Except for the taste of the soup.
"But why does this taste so wrong? I was watching every second of it — what on earth did you put in? Did you sneak something in when I wasn't looking?"
It was true. He'd done everything perfectly — the prep, the cooking, even lighting the stove — and the food tasted absolutely awful.
How to put it. It was the kind of taste you simply couldn't force down your throat?
"Didn't Death say it earlier? The food tastes bad, but there's nothing wrong with his cooking."
Nod.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! How can it be exactly, literally what he said! What good is a cook whose food tastes bad! So you can chop ingredients — so what! It has to taste good, taste! I could never eat food like this!"
"Then teach him."
"Excuse me?"
She'd lost count of how many times he'd said something like that today. Death squared his shoulders and made his demand to Rita, who was scowling in open exasperation.
"Teach my little brother to cook. If you make his food at least fit to put in my mouth, I'll really, truly clean my hardest."
"…And what exactly are you telling me to do right now?"
"After eating your cooking, I found I simply couldn't stomach this brat's— ahem, my brother's food. So in a way, this is your responsibility too."
The word shameless had surely been invented for moments precisely like this. Not content with coveting the master's food as a mere servant, he'd even blamed the loss on her — and now, on top of it all, he was asking for her cooking secrets.
Young Master, is this man out of his mind?
Rita shot Bayul a look that begged him to do something, and Death grinned and added, "Well then — garden next, shall we?"
Swept along by Death's momentum, everyone trailed quietly after him as he headed for the garden.
With summer closing in and the grass grown wild, the garden was in a truly sorry state. Ian had tended to it now and then during the week, but he was no professional gardener, and his recent absences on imperial business had left the problem urgent.
"Why have you come outside without resting, my lord?"
Ian, who had been quietly sunbathing and savoring a rare moment of leisure, sensed something strange in the air and came over to them.
"He says he'd like to try some field training."
"Field training?"
"Yes. He says his dream is to build a garden that would make anyone who sees it gasp."
Rita pointed at Amon as she spoke, loud enough for him to hear. Thanks to a certain someone who'd managed to cook one-handed, she was a little on edge now — but still, she was certain there was no way he could pull this one off.
How was a blind man who couldn't see an inch in front of him supposed to tend a garden? It simply couldn't be true.
"I should first ask permission of the master of the house, I think."
Amon turned with his eyes closed — and faced Bayul exactly.
"May I proceed as I please?"
"…Yes, well. Do as you like."
The moment Bayul gave his approval, Amon picked up the shears with confidence and stopped in front of a tree.
"How did he even know there was a tree there?"
Unshaken by Rita's muttering, he took a small, deep breath as if warming up, and then began pruning at a staggering speed.
"…!"
Ian's eyes narrowed. A blind man who couldn't see was moving faster than a trained assassin. There wasn't the slightest hesitation in how he handled the shears, nor in the fluid footwork that carried him back and forth.
Every one of those movements was unmistakable evidence of martial training — and of considerable skill at that.
Ian stepped back and studied Death and his brothers with quiet intensity.