So What Now?
Gordon had other options.
If he only asked, his lord Alfred would have gladly given him a room in Winterhome and let him stay through the winter until the fief recovered. He would have provided quarters for Gordon’s vassals just as readily. Or rather, Alfred need not even have been involved. The countless nobles, knights, and men of influence Gordon had met and mingled with at the recent banquet—any one of them would have helped if he simply said the word. Especially any noble whose lands were set to border the Barony of Bolton.
Neighboring fiefs rarely stayed on good terms. Petty squabbles between border villages, disputes over forests, rivers, lakes, or mountains that straddled the line—those happened every year. Even if the common folk somehow got along, a single quarrel between the lords’ kin could snap the chain of inherited grudges into place overnight.
On that front, I’m pretty free, Gordon thought.
How many nobles held grudges against a wandering mercenary, after all? None in Iceland, at least. His new neighbors might have been different, but the man appointed Baron of Bolton this time was no ordinary sellsword. He was a Sword Master—and one with no ties or enmities in the Seophon Kingdom. On top of that, he had a direct line to a ducal house.
But all of that is debt and burden too.
Nobles would claim no repayment was needed, of course. Most would be content simply to leave a good impression. Even the lords who should have been natural rivals of Bolton would have raced to offer him their finest guest chambers. Still, if he accepted the kindness and wiped his mouth clean afterward, people would talk behind his back about his lack of shame. Stretch it a little and it was the perfect way to shatter a reputation.
Asking Alfred would free him from all of that. After all, if the very fief he had just granted was reduced to ash before its new lord even arrived, the responsibility fell squarely on the granter. But going to him with my hand out from day one… The optics were terrible. First impressions mattered. He had rescued Iona and displayed a Sword Master’s might, yet if he scurried to his lord the moment trouble struck on his first day, it looked bad—no matter how justified the circumstances. A man of his caliber running to his master over a little setback? Those who held power, those who were nobles, cared about appearances more than anyone.
And yet I can’t refuse help from either side.
He could have wintered in a prime spot inside Coldon’s inner castle. Alone, he would have chosen that without hesitation. But he was no longer alone. He had taken an entire mercenary band as vassals. His generous lord had offered some support under the name of consolation money, which was a relief, yet it was still not enough.
So who could offer his people steady work without putting him in debt to a crowd of nobles, while still looking respectable from the outside?
Only one name came to mind.
Catherine Marigold Atanitas.
They say half the oil used in Coldon right now comes from the mage’s fief.
Technically it came from the estate belonging to the Mage’s Tower, but that was beside the point. What mattered was that she could introduce his vassals to relatively stable work through the winter. Catherine, who had been flabbergasted when the man she thought was gone suddenly reappeared, listened to his circumstances and reasoning, then cheerfully recommended his retainers to the village of Fungusby.
Housing and income for his vassals until spring reconstruction began. A place for Gordon himself to stay. Even the smoothing over of awkward circumstances through personal connection. One debt to one person solved every problem at once.
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re trailing after me like a lost puppy.”
Karem paused in his endless stirring of the vast pot of red sauce, wiped the sweat running down his face, and kneaded his aching arms and hands. The dense sauce never stopped moving under the long ladle; even a grown man would have found it punishing, let alone a body that had not yet finished growing. Rest, however, was impossible.
“If it’s that hard, just make your house elf do it,” Gordon said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You said you dumped every tough job on her before.”
“I did think of that, but—”
“But?”
“She’s already got so much on her plate.”
“What’s one more pot of something that smells this good?”
Karem had considered that too. “I can’t ask someone who’s zipping around adjusting speeds all over the place to stand in one spot stirring a pot forever.”
“Then just put me on it. I’m bored stiff.”
“Even if you’re unemployed, you don’t make a guest do housework.”
“I’m not unemployed!” Gordon bristled. “This is… how do I put it… an early winter vacation forced on me by external circumstances.”
“How is that different from being unemployed?”
“There’s a huge difference.”
“Which is?”
“Unemployed people aren’t nobles.”
Gordon let out a long, soulful “Kuuuuh,” clearly moved by his own brilliance. Karem, who neither understood nor cared, simply resumed stirring once his muscles loosened.
“So why keep stirring that pot without a break? You’ve been at it since before I got here, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got pretty solid stamina. How long?”
“Since morning.”
“On purpose?”
“Obviously.”
Gordon tilted his head, baffled. Karem could not stop. Every turn of the ladle sent onions and vegetables melting into tomato sauce, along with far more minced, sautéed meat than sauce, swirling in a thick vortex. A single moment of carelessness and every scrap of that meat would stick to the bottom and burn.
What he was making was less a sauce than a dish in its own right—the very definition of a preparation with more meat than sauce.
Ragù.
Bolognese.
The thing people casually called meat sauce.
More meat than curry. More meat than jjajang. More meat than sauce itself. Meat sauce!
It had been one of the many romantic ideals of Karem’s previous life. Back then, environment and cost aside, he had never dared tackle the cleanup and had settled for videos and store-bought versions. Now everything was different. He had a kitchen. The ingredients cost him nothing. And he even had Mary the brownie to take over the endless stirring… except Mary could not stay in one place long during the day. By the time he realized it, he was already stirring. Mary had been deeply sympathetic too. If only they had timed it better, he would not be killing his arms with a ladle…!
“Ha. Look at this. Killer.”
Unable to resist the aroma any longer, Gordon stepped closer and peered into the pot with open admiration. Every time the ladle moved under Karem’s hand, the sauce inside resisted with a thick, sticky sound. Gordon’s eyes flicked sideways to the red sauce that had dried in geological layers on the pot’s side—about the thickness of a little finger. That meant the sauce had originally filled the pot to that height, and only after the moisture evaporated was this meat-porridge denser than sauce taking shape.
“Smells incredible, right? Tastes even better.”
“Looks that way just from a glance.”
“Though the arm of the guy actually making it is about to die…!”
“How much longer do you have to stir?”
“Let’s see.”
Karem set the ladle aside and quickly scooped up a full spoon of the meat sauce. So dry and dense it looked almost like a solid chunk of meat—practically a meatball.
“Ha, shit. Just try it already.”
“Hold on. I was savoring it.”
Gordon’s impatience finally won; Karem popped the spoon into his mouth and fell silent. Cheeks, tongue, and teeth worked slowly. One hand still idly turning the ladle, the other holding the empty spoon, eyes closed, Karem’s tasting stretched on. The longer it lasted, the stronger the temptation grew for Gordon.
A dish that stirred a man’s romantic soul had simple requirements: meat, meat, meat, and even more meat. The red mass in the pot—more meat porridge than sauce—met those requirements with room to spare. Overflowed them, in fact. Gordon was teetering on the edge of simply diving in face-first when Karem finally finished savoring.
“This should be enough.”
“Oh, so—?”
“Time to get Lady Atanitas her lunch. Aigoo, my arms are killing me.”
Grumbling nonstop, Karem snuffed the hearth fire, fetched eggs from the storeroom, and began making pasta dough.
“Gordon. This is a weird time to ask, but are you going to ea—”
“Of course I am. What kind of man looks at this and doesn’t eat?”
“That feels a little hasty.”
Still, Karem had to admit he did not know a single man who would refuse.
“Here—just a taste with the spoon.”
“I’ve been waiting for those words.”
“Yes, wait—no, you maniac. Taste, not a full meal. Taste!”
“This is a miscalculation.”
Seated in her laboratory clearing the backlog of work she had postponed, Catherine murmured the words while staring at the parchment in her hand. It was a settlement report—specifically the yearly settlement for Fungusby, the village that had nearly been wiped out the previous summer. Mary, who was clearing away the lived-in clutter that filled the office, glanced over Catherine’s shoulder as she passed.
“The profit margin has actually risen compared to before.”
“Huh? You can read this kind of document?”
“I once kept household ledgers for contract holders.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
Catherine straightened the head she had been tilting in puzzlement.
“Isn’t that good news?”
“Yes. A delightful miscalculation. An estate I thought was ruined has come back as an even bigger gold mine.”
“You look flustered, though.”
“Does it show that much?”
Mary nodded while carefully setting a plate so no crumbs would fall onto the tray.
“When someone who normally finishes a document faster than she blinks sits staring at one paper for ages, anyone in the tower would notice. And if the contents of that parchment are true—”
“Anyone would be shocked.”
Catherine had lightly paraphrased the florid verbiage covering Fungusby’s annual settlement, but the knowledge only made her head heavier.
“From winter through early summer it was nothing but losses, and yet a single season surpassed every year’s profit put together?”
“Oh? You mean you didn’t know?”
“I only thought to look it up after I heard about it.”
Having agreed to arrange Gordon’s winter employment, Catherine had finally dug through the stack of postponed papers and pulled out the Fungusby settlement report that had been buried at the bottom—the “this is how much tax we owe this year, loyalty loyalty” report.
“Consumer goods usually make more money than luxuries or weapons, sure.”
Catherine scratched her head, still unconvinced.
“But isn’t that usually from bulk trade margins? How many times more did the oil sales bring in than the mushrooms?”
“Well, half the oil used in Coldon right now is produced in Fungusby, so of course.”
“I know that, but—”
Reason understood; instinct still rebelled. The two contradictory impulses left Catherine speechless.
“When I got the letter saying they intended to swallow the entire Coldon oil market, I thought it sounded like an ogre asking for a social dance invitation…”
“Put the headache aside for now.”
Mary gently but firmly plucked the parchment from Catherine’s hand.
“I’ll prepare your meal.”
“What? Is it already that time?”
Knock-knock-knock.
A knock sounded at the office door. Through the gap seeped a rich beef aroma laced with spices that could not quite hide its deep, savory acidity—an utterly mouth-watering scent slipping into the room.
Ragu Sauce
This is a picture ChatGPT drew for me.