Three Conditions
The doenjang they'd brought into Afterglow Fortress hadn't been a large amount.
It hadn't been a small amount either, though.
What filled the barrel was enough for Karem to eat on his own for months, or to serve guests whenever the mood struck—at the very least several hundred portions. Alone, he could have lived on it for months and still had some left. Now it was gone.
Well—completely gone was an exaggeration. The barrel that had once been packed full was down to half.
In its place, though, he had gained something.
People grow closer when they share the same food, or so they say. Karem had grown closer to the cooks of Afterglow Fortress—not the vague respect and curiosity of before, but something warmer, more affectionate.
The kitchen claimed a far larger share of his daily routine, and while he built friendships with the cooks, servants, and maids he picked up all sorts of news. Who in the inner keep was having an affair, how some servant's hometown had beaten back a pack of undead, how the onion harvest had been bumper near the fortress villages—petty gossip, for the most part.
About a week of that boredom-killing chatter later, Karem finally returned to his real work.
Catherine had come back.
"So, is it all finished now?"
Karem set the last of the doenjang—sliced brisket and brisket doenjang noodle soup—in front of Catherine and Gordon as he asked. There was no subject in the sentence, but the meaning was obvious.
"The field survey with Hartmann is done. Going home, though—that's still a long way off. In the end we have to request an audience with His Lordship the Margrave and get his permission."
"I thought you said you had broad discretionary authority?"
"I do. But discretionary authority still has its limits."
Catherine wrinkled her nose at the steam rising from the bowls—not in distaste, but in pure bafflement.
"So what is this... pasta made of?"
"Pasta is pasta."
"I mean this smell. I've never smelled anything like it."
"Does it matter?"
While she was still talking, Gordon had already started eating. After so long without home cooking (of a sort), he looked thoroughly satisfied.
Meat that was soft yet still had enough fiber to give a good chew. A thick, savory broth that wrapped warmth around a throat gone cold. A rich fragrance that filled the sinuses, lungs, and mouth all at once.
"This broth is incredible. How do you get it light and heavy at the same time? There's even a little clam flavor."
"I mixed kelp stock with clam-shell stock."
"Then what's this thick part that clings to the tongue?"
Gordon smacked his lips and kept ladling broth and noodles into his mouth. The thick liquid carried the scent of vegetables and the sea, underpinned by deep beef—excellent.
"Meju. Bean garum, basically."
Excellent indeed.
Gordon froze for a second and set his bowl down. This time Catherine's frown carried a genuine note of distaste.
"...Kid. That horrible stuff you were secretly brewing in a corner last time—"
"Yes, bean garum. What? You liked the soy sauce just fine."
"...True enough."
The soy sauce had been delicious. A single drop held a complex, heavy umami that no one would believe came from beans—pure essence, like dew.
Still, looking down into the bowl made the corner of Catherine's mouth twitch. Even after a rough straining, the smell of fermenting meju had once shattered a grand magician's purification spell in a single blow—an overwhelming stench on par with the poison-gas attack of a toxic monster. Nearly fainting from the odor of something that claimed to be food had been humiliating.
Of course the aroma rising from the bowls now was so appetizing that comparing it to that earlier stench was an insult. It was thoroughly foreign, unlike any cuisine in Europa.
And there was something else—a faint, strange sensation. A prickling? A light-headed lift of the heart?
Not just an exotic taste or smell, but something harder to name. Too subtle to mention, so faint it might have been imagination. While Catherine pondered, Gordon finished his bowl and grumbled.
"Damn it. Beans."
"You ate it all just fine. Why the complaint now?"
"Because I didn't know it was beans."
"You don't like beans?"
"I hate that grassy, chalky aftertaste. No wonder the finish felt pasty. That was it."
He said so, yet only a tiny puddle of broth remained in his bowl. It looked like an excuse, but Karem could tell from Gordon's face that the man meant it.
"Shall I clear it, then?"
"...No. I've changed my mind."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah. Picky eating... suddenly feels stupid."
Catherine, answering Mary, trailed off toward the end. Meju had started as a bad memory, but watching someone finish the whole bowl and then declare they didn't like it made the whole thing look ridiculous.
Mary immediately loaded a spoon with noodles, broth, and toppings and fed it to Catherine.
Only after the spoon entered her mouth did the skeptical crease between Catherine's brows smooth out.
"...Ha. That vicious square brick produced a flavor like this?"
"The soy sauce was made from that same vicious square brick, you know."
"Then what was that rotting-undead stench back then?"
"Fermentation smell. The same kind you get with cheese."
At the word cheese Catherine let out a short sigh. Cheese, too, could give off a reek during or after fermentation strong enough to knock out a blood-starved wyvern. By comparison, the stink of fermenting meju was only middling.
"Once it's fully fermented, meju actually smells pretty appetizing."
"True. Not as good as fresh-baked bread and melted butter, but the roasted-nut and rich-grain aroma was impressive."
"See?"
Mary's testimony backed him up. She had been there from the earliest days of making meju with the Prayer Meter—a highly reliable witness.
"Anyway, that means everything we can do for now is finished."
Catherine slurped another spoonful Mary offered and savored it.
"By the way... something feels odd."
"A little chalky, right?"
"That too, but... hmmm."
She took the next spoonful. The taste was good, yet something rose faintly—so faintly she might have missed it. That tingling lift...
At first the unknown sensation had made her wary. Once she started eating, though, she couldn't stop.
Gulp.
"Until we get an audience with His Lordship, we have free time."
"Uh, Mage-nim. Don't you still have work left?"
"Hm? What work?"
"All those provisional contracts, letters, documents. You need to sort them, don't you?"
Gordon asked while demolishing the brisket with gusto. Catherine snorted as if the idea were absurd.
"That little pile? I can knock it out in one go when I have a free moment. Provisional contracts are nothing. I'll do them all before bed."
"You said you had nothing to do until the audience."
"I'll refuse every annoying invitation and finally get back to the experiments I've been putting off."
She accepted another piece of brisket from Mary and gave a small sound of approval. Even after cooling a little, the meat stayed tender yet springy, full of pure beef flavor—she wondered which cut it was.
So why do I feel so uneasy?
Karem, sitting there perfectly fine, bit his upper lip. They were only chatting, yet something fretted at him. Had he forgotten something?
Still savoring the brisket, Catherine pointed straight at him.
"I'd forgotten, but since we have time, we might as well finish the experiment."
"Hm. Why are you pointing specifically at—"
"You. Yes, you. We need a proper examination of the holy relic."
In front of everyone, Karem slapped his forehead.
"Damn it! I can't believe you still remember that...!"
"It would be stranger if I didn't, kid. And what kind of way is that to speak to your master?"
"I'm going to get hit with a nonstop barrage of magic...!"
"Why are you squealing like a noble girl about to suffer something unspeakable!?"
"Would an ordinary person sit there calmly when he's about to be used as a magic target?"
"Then who else is going to test it if not you?"
"Why? Gordon's right there."
The unexpected buck-passing made Gordon point at himself without thinking.
"Me? You're throwing me under the cart?"
"You're a Sword Master. You could take at least one hit of overpowered magic, right?"
"Well, it's not that I couldn't. Strictly speaking, though, I'm a guest."
"...Ah, crap."
Karem was genuinely thrown by the calm reply. He had grown so used to the man that he had forgotten Gordon was still a guest—even if he had been forcibly dragged along the day after finding a job while boarding. No matter how skilled the guest was at holding an army at bay single-handed, you didn't treat a guest that way.
"Please take it as a joke."
"A joke?!"
"Haa... so in the end I can't escape becoming Lady Atanitas's magic test subject."
"I'm not going to carve you up and turn you into a chimera. What's the problem? This grand magician is offering to appraise a piece of gear with unknown performance for free."
She wasn't wrong. A grand magician's appraisal started at dozens of crown gold coins. That price bought stability, certainty, and a guarantee of value.
But Karem knew exactly how Catherine would "appraise" the holy relic. Defense testing would mean blasting him full of magic. Maybe not—but almost certainly yes.
He glared at Catherine's fingers, which were twitching as if they itched to cast.
"It won't leave a single scratch on you. Why are you so scared?"
"That's a separate issue—I'm just scared!"
"From what you said a minute ago, it sounds like you're going to do it anyway."
"Yes."
"Then why all the complaining?"
"Agreeing to do it and being scared are two different things."
Catherine, Mary, and Gordon looked at him with incomprehension, indifference, and pure incredulity respectively, but Karem was serious. The relic's exact specs did need checking; he understood that. Still, not being afraid when magic was about to fly at your face would have been weirder. It was the same as people getting scared by horror-game jump scares—even when they know the threat is unreal, fear is still fear.
"A knight who draws his sword should at least cut a tree. Since the topic came up, we can start right—"
Catherine planted a hand on the table and started to rise, then tilted her head in thought. Karem watched and wondered what now.
"Before that, we should have a snack."
"...You haven't even finished the meal yet."
"Once the appraisal starts and snack time rolls around, you'll have to leave with Mary anyway. Of course, if you hand snack prep entirely over to Mary, that's another matter—"
"I'll go prepare it right now!"
Karem said it and hopped down from the chair as if the earlier grumbling had never happened, landing on both feet.
"Tsk. You could just quietly do magic experiments with your contractor."
"Oh-ho-ho-ho. Absolutely not. Not when I consider how opportunistically you keep trying to snatch work at every opening."
"Someday you will show a gap."
"If you think you'll take any more work from me here, you're mistaken."
"I never give up. Have you forgotten who puts more hands into the snacks right now?"
"...Well, we can discuss that later."
Karem, still warily eyeing Mary—who stared back with the blank intensity of a raptor eyeing prey—suddenly turned toward Catherine.
"Any requests?"
"Mm. We've been eating a lot of heavy things during all these meetings. If I'm going to eat something, I'd like it light."
"Hmm, a light dessert..."
Pickish, but not an impossible request. Dessert ingredients were heavy by nature, yet light, refreshing desserts did exist.
"Ah, and leave out the butter while you're at it."
"What."
Mary let out a death-squeak like a raccoon that had just witnessed an orc dancing ballet.
"Whew, kid. Do you have any idea how popular your recipes have become? My mouth still feels greasy—"
"Contractor. What on earth are you saying? Leave butter out of a dessert? That is—"
"How many times have you already eaten desserts without butter?"
"A dessert without butter! That's like a magician without mana!"
"...You just want to eat it yourself, don't you?"
Standing a step away from the suddenly harmonious master-servant bickering he hadn't heard since leaving the tower, Karem sank into thought beside Gordon.
"Light, and no butter. Getting picky."
"Ah, while we're at it, I'd like to add one more thing."
"Go ahead."
"I want cheese in it."
"Aren't you feeling greasy?"
"What? Me?"
Gordon waved the idea away as if it were nonsense. This was a man who could polish off dozens of egg tarts in one sitting. A few greasy days wouldn't make his stomach turn.
Still—three conditions that had just gotten even fussier. Karem's head began to ache.
No butter, light, and cheese in it?
But looking at Mary's reaction, leaving out the butter might not be an option after all.