The Exclusive Chef Learning to Fight
Europa's environment differs from region to region.
But like any place where people live, autumn carried all sorts of meanings—large and small.
It was the harvest season that closed out the year's farming.
The last chance to prepare for the year ahead.
A time to take stock of whether one was ready to survive the winter.
And, of course, the season of festivals.
Whether in a tiny village or a great city, the festivals held after the harvest to thank the gods and enjoy a feast were almost universally alike.
In fishing villages and ports near the sea, it was usually a festival of abundant catch.
In towns and villages nestled against mountains, forests, or dungeons, it was a hunting festival.
Where people farmed, it was a harvest festival.
They were all similar celebrations in the end. The only real differences lay in the local produce on offer and which god received the prayers of gratitude.
That held true even in Iceland, the remote frontier of the Seophon Kingdom—the very front line of civilization.
People lived here too, after all.
Iceland's regular autumn festival, however, was not a hunting festival.
It was Memorial Day.
In other words, a requiem festival.
Things might have improved of late, but Iceland's history had been overwhelmingly closer to death than to life for far too long. That was why, on the front line of civilization, people had spent early autumn every year since ancient times preparing for winter while comforting the dead.
They threw lavish drinking parties so that those who had gone before could travel safely to the afterlife without lingering regrets. They also brought proof of slain undead still roaming the land to the temples in exchange for rewards. The festival was boisterous and rough, and it usually ended in complete chaos—but for all that, Memorial Day remained a requiem. From long ago there had been a belief that the departed would rather join a cheerful drinking bout and enjoy themselves together than sit through gloomy prayers.
Last year, of course, it had been canceled because of Winter-Ascend.
This year's Memorial Day, however, was held as usual.
The Felwinter family naturally invited guests to honor their ancestors and treated them to a modest feast (modest for a ducal household, which still meant considerable scale).
And of course a festival required a constant supply of food and drink. Karem was supposed to help prepare the festival dishes—except he was nowhere near Winterhome, let alone Coldon.
Right now he stood at the entrance to the highway stretching north through Iceland.
The party was fairly small: Catherine leading the procession, with Karem and Mary following, plus the clerks Alfred had ordered to join them, the attendants who would carry out their work, Gordon for any unexpected trouble, and a handful of guards.
(Gordon, who had been giddy over his temporary new job, had been fired after a single day and forcibly dragged along.)
Their destination was Afterglow Fortress, the northernmost stronghold of Iceland—the seat of Margrave Richard Felwinter of Hadrianus.
The procession had pulled over onto the shoulder for a rest that doubled as a meal stop.
Mary was directing the attendants as they prepared ingredients for the guards' food.
Karem had originally meant to cook Catherine's meal—and, while he was at it, something for Mary, Gordon, and himself as well.
But Gordon had insisted he loosen up his stiff body first, so Karem rose from his seat gripping a small heater shield and a club instead of the whisk and kitchen knife he would normally have been holding at this hour while helping with the festival.
Seriously, can't you land a single hit?
"Argh, I can't do this anymore."
"You're following the most important lesson just fine—why the theatrics?"
"Gordon. My arms are tingling."
"That's why I'm going as easy as I can. I'm not even holding a weapon, considering your situation."
"You crazy bastard."
Rage boiled up so hard a double curse nearly slipped out. He barely managed to rein it in, which at least kept the swearing to a minimum.
Gordon wasn't wrong, after all.
What Gordon held right now was not a weapon.
Or rather, as a chef, Karem refused to think of it as a deadly instrument.
A spoon.
Just a silver utensil less than a handspan long—the kind you used to scoop broth, with a handle that stuck out a little when gripped and a slightly pointed oval bowl that dipped inward.
Karem ground his teeth.
Gordon twirled the spoon and laughed as if he found the whole thing ridiculous.
"You do realize any other mana user would empty a whole chest of crowns for a chance like this, right? And you're still complaining?"
"Yes, yes. One-on-one swordsmanship tutoring from a Sword Master. How wonderful."
"Wow, you get it!"
"I'm not doing this because I want to! I've thought so from the start—you got dragged out of nowhere, lost your job in a single day, and now you're taking that frustration out on me, aren't you!?"
"Oh, that's exactly right."
"Damn it!"
People hated being told to do even the things they liked. Having to do something he already disliked because someone else ordered it? The automatic "I don't wanna"s tumbled out of his mouth on their own.
Yet even while he sniped, Karem kept at the whole miserable business—had been doing so ever since they left Coldon.
In his previous life, anything related to exercise had interested him only at the bare minimum needed for survival and health; even games hadn't held his attention. That attitude hadn't changed after his reincarnation in Europa.
Still, he had no choice.
"You grumble the whole time, then the moment we start you follow along just fine. Some complainer you are."
"Because it's Lady Atanitas's order!"
"Then just say you don't want to. It wasn't even an order in the first place."
"Now that you mention it..."
"She only suggested it, didn't she?"
"After thinking it over a bit, I figured I might need it."
Karem readjusted his grip on the shield and club.
That conclusion had hardened during the recent involuntary magic-tool shopping spree.
Why would I need self-defense magic tools? She clearly means to drag me all over the place.
Of course, Karem would almost never actually fall into danger. He stuck right to the side of Archmage Catherine, and she herself would be under heavy protection while blasting magic all over any battlefield.
But the world had a word called "what if."
If Catherine ever found herself in peril, or if an enemy somehow slipped through, he figured he needed at least a minimal ability to protect himself. That was why he was meekly submitting to this labor he hated.
"All right, you've rested enough, yeah?"
"Weren't we stopping to rest in the first place?"
"Sure, sure. Let's finish with this round and call the training done for now."
"And then you'll do it again this evening?"
"Of course I wi—"
"I'm doomed!!!"
"Quit the theatrics."
Before Gordon could finish speaking, Karem launched himself forward. A textbook ambush—except Gordon had already read it the instant Karem tensed his legs. To a Sword Master, anything Karem did was merely cute. If he couldn't even predict that much, he might as well throw away the title.
Still, in just a few days Karem's skill had improved by leaps and bounds. Of course he was nowhere near good enough yet.
Gordon casually knocked the club aside with the spoon, then lightly swept Karem's calf and hooked his leg.
Whoosh!
Karem lost his balance in an instant. There was no dramatic tumbling across the ground—he'd done this too many times already. Using the heater shield and both legs for support, he rode the half-roll's momentum and forced himself back upright.
No talent for the sword, but maybe some real knack for fighting itself?
At first Gordon had decided Karem had no outstanding talent at all—just an ordinary kid who'd never held a weapon. That opinion changed once he started teaching him various weapons.
Practice longswords and shortswords, daggers, blunt weapons, spears and other polearms, shields—items made for training young pages. At first Karem couldn't even find the center of gravity; he toppled under his own weight and nearly sprained bones more than once. But he adapted quickly. Before long he could handle every weapon to a certain level, and that level kept rising with each session.
He might never become a master, but he had enough talent that no one would look down on him wherever he went. The sort of prospect that would make an ordinary knight recruiting pages take a second look.
Karem spat out the mouthful of dust he'd scooped up while rolling.
"Ptooey! Just one hit! Take just one hit!"
"Whoa there, watch the language. Where's the respect for your elders?"
"I'm barely holding it in right now, you rotten—!"
"Oof!"
"I have to hurry up and cook for our Lady Atanitas!"
Oh? Not bad. The club carried more force than expected. It still didn't land, of course, but it was enough to make a momentarily careless Gordon shift his feet and dodge.
Gordon was certain now.
Karem had no exceptional talent for any single thing. What he did have was an outstanding talent for fighting—no, for survival. And fighting was a crucial part of survival.
But this kid really doesn't seem interested in anything except cooking.
You could tell just from the way he was screaming with his eyes rolled back: he had to feed his employer before she got hungry.
Catherine, who felt more like a guardian than an employer at this point, had only asked Gordon to train Karem up to the level of basic self-defense. Anything more would interfere with his actual work, and she would never let a situation that dangerous arise in the first place. Teaching him a somewhat aggressive form of self-defense should be enough.
Gordon reached that quiet conclusion and was about to say they should wrap up training—when he saw the ominous magic kitchen knife, Winter's Lie, now gripped in Karem's hand.
"Wait—hey, Karem?"
"You're a Sword Master. You can take one hit, right?!"
"Uh, you're joking, right?"
Click—whoosh!
Flames roared to life along the magic knife. Karem gripped it in both hands and charged straight at Gordon.
"Just one hit! Please, just one hit!"
"Oh dear. He's completely lost it."
Naturally—
"Head!"
"Ow!"
—it was nowhere near enough.
"Hmm. Can you still move?"
"If I hadn't been tempered by cooking, I'd have collapsed already."
"As I've said before, if it's too hard you can leave it to me."
"It's not that bad, so stop testing me."
"Tch."
Karem brushed off the predictable offer and hauled himself upright in one motion. At least the cold weather meant he hadn't broken a sweat and wouldn't need a separate wash—small consolation though it was.
"Anyway, what should I make..."
Just then—
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle—
An intense sound stabbed at Karem's ears.
Steak.
The last pile of steaks that had ridden along in the supply wagon from Coldon was waiting its turn to be grilled one by one under the attendants' hands.
"Oh, steak."
Gordon finished putting away the gear, walked over, and followed Karem's gaze to the steaks pouring out thick smoke.
"Lunch is steak today?"
"Unless there's something else you're craving?"
"Craving, huh."
Gordon stroked his chin, eyes tracking a steak as an attendant flipped it.
"I do want steak, but I also want something fresh and tangy."
"Greedy, aren't you. Fresh and tangy..."
"And soup if possible."
"Fresh and tangy... soup?"
Fresh and tangy soup.
Such dishes certainly existed. Two sprang to mind immediately: tom yum goong, which addicts would hop on a plane just to eat, and borscht, the eternal soul food of the Slavs. But he also wanted steak. The latter could be made right now, yet you couldn't just toss a grilled steak into the pot and call it done.
"Would a sauce be all right instead?"
"As long as there's a decent amount of it, like soup."
When Mary opened the supply wagon's door, Karem's headache only grew worse. He had already been wrestling with the problem; the mountain of assorted ingredients scrambled the recipes he'd been sorting through in his head even further.
"Hmm. Among the vegetables, only tomatoes are left—no, wait, there's this many bell peppers too? Weren't they pretty popular at Winterhome?"
"People who aren't professional cooks still aren't used to them, so they tend to pile up."
"Ah, right—you only started using them recently."
"Not even a few months yet."
"History's shorter than I thought."
"Things have been changing at a strangely rapid pace this past year."
Mary answered Gordon as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
In that instant a single menu flashed through Karem's mind.
The taste of steak, plus a fresh, tangy broth. Strictly speaking the dish used it as a sauce rather than a soup, but it was one menu that could satisfy both desires at once.