Winds of Change (2)
Nobles and men of power always had their reasons for chasing after something new.
To stand out more than the rest.
To set their domains on solid ground.
To flaunt their authority over those around them.
To eat the food they loved.
And wherever a noble’s interest turned, money inevitably followed.
What was better than money? Even more money.
Merchants, who could smell the flow of coin better than anyone, stayed close to nobles and the powerful for the sake of greater wealth and the authority to protect it.
Sophoros of Torcello was no exception.
“I am most grateful that you have granted me this audience—”
“No need for such formalities. Unlike your shortsighted, short-lived kin who grew so myopic after the fall of Palatino, you respect the customs and laws of this land that are older than your brief lifespan. More than that, you diligently pay your taxes. A merchant like you—especially a human—is always worth a little of my precious time.”
A single sentence long enough to require three breaths.
Contempt woven so naturally into every word.
And an anachronistic sense of chosen superiority that slipped out without effort.
The truly vicious part was that the speaker meant every syllable as genuine praise, affection, and friendship.
“To think I would see you again so soon after your last visit.”
“Your Grace, for a human whose lifespan is less than half that of us elves, a single year is an exceedingly long stretch of time.”
“Ah, Donatello. No malice intended. The words ‘one year’ and ‘long time’ simply refuse to connect inside my head.”
“Your Grace, it is Sophoros, not Donatello.”
At the steward’s quiet correction, Galera Margrave raised one eyebrow. Was it?
He had, quite openly, forgotten the name of the man standing right in front of him.
Yet Sophoros’s expression did not so much as flicker.
Of course not. He was Sophoros of Torcello—the merchant who had climbed from the lowest street peddler to president of a nationwide merchant association.
To a man like him, a sentence stuffed full of racial superiority was less threatening than the knives and spears that flew during negotiations in some back-alley black market.
“How could I possibly mind? Speaking as one who has seen and endured every filthy underside of the trade, merchants are greedy creatures by nature.”
His host was a High Elf—blue blood among blue blood in Berseingeto.
More than that, he was Galera Margrave. Rumors claimed he was one of those ancient fossils who had personally witnessed the fall of the old Palatino Empire.
In other words, the ultimate old fart.
Catering to a High Elf old fart swollen with superiority was simple enough.
“Even so, no matter how bad our own kind may be, can we really compare to dwarves? Especially dwarf merchants?”
“Ah. So obvious I nearly forgot. Shortsighted and myopic is one thing—there are creatures who are also savage and violent.”
And just like that, the composed, dignified face of Galera Margrave twisted with pure disgust. The steward standing beside him wore the exact same expression.
Elves and dwarves famously hated each other. That enmity was known even as far away as Adobis.
“From the way you speak, those greedy little moneybags have done something to you again?”
“Oh, no need to add the word ‘again,’ Your Grace.”
“True enough. They are always causing trouble.”
“Still, casting greedy eyes on a gift meant for Your Grace is a clear breach of commercial ethics, is it not?”
Just recalling the situation made Sophoros’s teeth grind.
In Iceland the market for Red Witch’s Fingers had exploded. Demand was outstripping supply so badly that prices looked ready to rocket; he had been busily scooping up the crop when those damned bearded bastards sniffed opportunity and began muscling in on his territory.
And where a battlefield appeared, crows followed. Every lowlife hanger-on had started circling as well.
Because of them he had secured barely half the market he originally intended to lock down.
Yet crisis and opportunity were always twins. The moment he sensed the shift he had thrown the contested goods out as bait, and every improved strain released afterward had fallen cleanly into his hands.
“Those damned short, bearded coin-pouches dared eye a gift meant for me?”
“I humbly ask that you accept the gifts I have prepared.”
At Sophoros’s words the waiting secretary stepped forward and respectfully presented several small boxes and a single book to the steward.
Galera Margrave received them through the steward. Almost absently he read the title stamped on the cover.
“Little Genius Chef Karem’s Amazing Recipe Collection?”
“Have you heard the rumor that Red Witch’s Finger is not a poisonous herb after all?”
“Ah, yes. That talk has begun to circulate.”
“These are recipes from the boy who proved it and created the dishes—Karem, a commoner-born chef from Iceland in the Seophon Kingdom.”
“What?”
Galera Margrave’s face contorted at once.
Seophon was a kingdom High Elves genuinely loathed—almost as much as they loathed dwarves.
“The boxes that accompany the book contain the actual crops the boy developed with such remarkable success.”
As the Margrave’s expression smoothed out again, Sophoros quietly exhaled in relief.
Fortunately the gifts had worked.
Or rather, the greatest reason of all was the chef’s origin. Galera Margrave disliked the Seophon Kingdom and its nobles; he felt no particular animosity toward the commoners they ruled.
The same held true for most High Elf nobles of Berseingeto.
Seophon’s cuisine was famous for meat. Berseingeto, being an elf-majority nation, was famous for vegetables.
Of course they did not eat only vegetables—yet the proportion of vegetables was overwhelmingly high.
And Galera Margrave, a great noble of the nation more devoted to vegetables than any other on the continent, now dragged the boxes closer himself as though his earlier anger had never existed.
There were three boxes in total.
The first needed no inspection. The sharp, spicy scent belonged to Red Witch’s Finger—the fruit that had lately begun to be whispered of as a spice rather than a poison.
The Margrave casually pushed it aside and opened the remaining two boxes in turn.
Plop. Plop. Thud—
“This vivid, glossy red…”
“In Iceland they call them tomato and bell pepper, I am told.”
“Hmm? Novel names. Any other meaning behind them?”
“That much I do not know…”
“I see.”
Galera Margrave cut the conversation short and returned his attention to the tomato and bell pepper.
Both fruits were plump and glowed with the same luminous red as rose hips, yet they differed considerably.
The second box held tomatoes. Slightly curved and conical, they looked plump; when touched they felt bursting with juice, yet the skin was springy and soft.
The third box was different. The bell peppers, faintly wrinkled and stout, felt quite firm—yet they were surprisingly light, and tapping them produced a hollow thock-thock.
Fresh sweetness and a bright, cool fragrance rose and teased the High Elf great noble’s nose.
Gulp.
“Tomato and bell pepper, is it.”
“Both fruits are improved cultivars of Red Witch’s Fing—”
“Hold. Improved from what?”
Galera Margrave cut him off, unable to ignore the claim.
“I understand if you find it hard to believe. Yet I swear upon the grace Your Grace has shown me and upon the guarantee of the Duke of Iceland himself—these are improved strains of the fruit I mentioned earlier.”
With a skeptical look the Margrave opened the first box he had shoved aside the moment it arrived.
Scarlet skin. An ugly shape like a witch’s wrinkled finger. And a pungent reek that made comparison with the bell pepper’s scent an insult.
He turned to the steward, who was frowning just as deeply.
“Do they look like the same species to you?”
“Apart from the color, there is no great difference—”
“Short. The point only.”
“Then yes. They are of the same species.”
At the steward’s confirmation Galera Margrave finally relaxed his expression. Before even the countless years he had spent eating vegetables, his High Elf affinity with plants confirmed that Sophoros spoke the truth.
Alone he might have dismissed it as illusion. But two High Elves had reached the same conclusion.
Curiosity about the recipes that used these fruits followed at once.
So he ordered his underlings to prepare the dishes written in the cookbook using the gifted produce.
“What? His Grace ordered us to do what?”
“H-His Lordship said to cook the Red Witch’s fruits and the improved ones he received as gifts, following the recipes in this book we’ve never seen before—”
“Are you insane?!”
“Gyaaaaaah! M-my tongue! My tongue!!!”
“Damn it, we can’t not use it, so keep the Red Witch’s Finger to the absolute minimum!”
“Focus on the bell peppers and tomatoes! Treat that evil red powder strictly as a spice—like pepper! Like pepper!”
The Margrave’s sudden order turned the kitchen upside down.
Even in Galera Margrave’s kitchens the rumor that Red Witch’s Finger was a spice similar to pepper rather than a poison had begun to circulate. But no elf had paid it any real attention.
Elves were long-lived by nature, and long-lived races valued stability over change.
That did not mean they blindly trusted only their own experience. A noble’s kitchen was a cutthroat place; any cook who refused to adapt was naturally weeded out.
But this sudden?
Sadly they had no room to resist. They were, after all, mere hired help.
The sole silver lining was that the human merchant who had brought the gifts had also delivered cartloads of each fruit.
Naturally the cookbook, being Seophon in origin, overflowed with meat. The cooks nearly blew their brains out trying to localize everything into Berseingeto style.
While Galera Margrave sat in private conversation with Sophoros and the steward, thinking the wait had grown rather long, a line of footmen and maids entered bearing plates.
Poppers, fried tomatoes, eggplant lasagna, bell-pepper quiche, mushroom steaks of every variety, galettes, cheese-and-tomato pizza, stuffed roasted peppers, countless pastas and dumplings from all across Europa made with the sauces in the book, vegetable terrine, Caprese salad—dozens of dishes that featured Red Witch’s Finger, tomato, and bell pepper.
The recipes from the book, desperately rearranged by the cooks, appeared in full glory.
“So, Sophoros. In the eyes of a human who thinks only meat is supreme—how does it look?”
“Good heavens, Your Grace.”
Sophoros was sincerely impressed.
“Are you saying every single one of these is made of vegetables?”
Of course that was not what had truly startled him.
How in the world did they prepare this much in so short a time?
It was not the sheer number of dishes that surprised him. His host was a Margrave of Berseingeto—owner of one of the largest ports in the entire kingdom. Preparing this much food was trivial.
“Has anyone else presented Your Grace with these fruits and the book before me?”
“Hmm? You are the first.”
“Oh.”
Sophoros was astonished for an entirely different reason.
Galera Margrave interpreted the reaction in the most flattering way possible and thoroughly enjoyed it.
“All the dishes are ready, Your Grace.”
“At last!”
The Margrave shouted as though he had been waiting forever.
In truth he had. In Berseingeto, villages went to war and domains went to war over the simple claim that “your vegetables taste bad.” A High Elf like Galera Margrave could hardly be less passionate.
At the announcement that everything was prepared, he tucked a napkin into his collar. The table was already filled with a rich, savory aroma so fresh he could barely endure it.
While he clung to composure, elf servants who were clearly fighting the same battle brought the dishes forward.
Red Witch’s Finger was red. Its improved cousins, tomato and bell pepper, were also red.
Honestly, the closer the plates came the more his appetite seemed to flee despite the wonderful smell. No—up close they really were too red.
Click.
“Hmm.”
Galera Margrave hesitated for the briefest instant.
He might adore vegetables with all his heart, but everything was red—every dish, in part or in whole, was red.
The steward shared the exact same brief hesitation.
“Then I shall perform the tasting.”
“Ah, yes. Do so at once.”
Whatever his private thoughts, the steward began tasting every dish with his personal utensils without the slightest outward pause.
Galera Margrave and Sophoros watched him.
Time passed, yet the tasting showed no sign of ending. The wide plate that had held roughly half the dishes on the table slowly emptied.
Anyone could see the steward was completely absorbed in the food—red sauce and oil still glistened at the corners of his mouth.
When the plate was finally clean, the steward set down his utensils with liquid grace.
“The dishes I have just tasted contain no poison.”
“Oh, excellent. Then—”
“I shall now taste the remaining dishes.”
“Wha—what?”
Ignoring the dumbfounded stares of both Galera Margrave and Sophoros, the High Elf steward calmly ordered the servants to fill a fresh plate.