At My Age, Do I Really Have to Do This? (2)
Karem followed the others into the warehouse near the port and shuddered hard.
The warehouse entrance marked a perfect divide. The temperature inside and out might as well have belonged to different seasons.
"Ugh, why is it so cold?"
The weather had been turning milder, so Karem had dressed thinner than he would for true winter. He rubbed his arms without thinking. Inside the warehouse, it felt as if Iceland had slipped straight back into early winter.
To survive and breed in every possible environment, living things sometimes undergo strange, almost unbelievable evolutions. The pistol shrimp that fires plasma shockwaves—something modern science still hasn't weaponized—to hunt distant prey. The grass tree that turns entire stretches of land into a sea of fire during its breeding season, incinerating every rival plant. Cordyceps fungi that slip through an insect's spiracles, seize its muscles, and take full control of the host. The list goes on.
This other world was no different. Trees packed the warehouse wall to wall except for the paths left for people to walk. They all exhaled cold air at once, pricking the skin and making every fine hair stand on end. The workers inside wore thicker clothes than anyone outside. The people from Adobis, especially, were bundled in fur so heavy they looked like bears—and even then they still shook visibly from the cold. Yet every one of them carefully inspected the quality of the timber with their own hands.
The moment they stepped inside, Olivier pulled his loosened cloak tight again and breathed out a white puff of mist.
"Hoo! Looks cold enough at a glance. Want me to lend you a cloak?"
"Oh, really? Then just one—"
"I was kidding. This is the only one I've got. You're young. You can tough it out, right?"
"…"
"Hoo. Still, having to do this kind of work at my age. What a life."
Karem gave the old man a look that said he was a pathetic elder who had wasted his years, but Olivier ignored it completely and kept lamenting his fate.
Catherine finished speaking with the representative of the mages who had arrived earlier to inspect the raw timber. She walked over, planted a hand on her hip, and scolded him.
"Old man. What are you grumbling about? Get to work already."
"I'm far too old for this sort of thing."
"If you're that old, go die already. But look at that—you're still alive. So get moving! Kid, you stick with Mary and stay out of the way."
The work waiting for the two archmages throughout the warehouse was simple enough. Just like the other mages, they checked the quality of sample trade goods in storage and reported anything off to the nearby managers. Any experienced lumberjack could have done the same judgment, of course. But every last one of those men was out felling trees right now. Even with every mage from Obsidianberry and Adobis pressed into service, they were still short-handed. So even archmages had to pitch in personally.
The method itself was basic. Detecting the mana in an object was the very first mana technique every mage learned. To Karem, who had zero talent for magic, it just looked like they closed their eyes for a second and brushed a hand over the stacks of wood.
Curious, he lightly touched one of the logs himself. Stacked thick as they were, they poured out sub-zero cold, yet it wasn't as biting as touching actual ice. Whether that chill would last under desert heat, though… he tilted his head.
"It's not actually that cold once you touch it."
"That's because this is Iceland—cool even in midsummer. Trees like Melbourne oak, McMurdo birch, and Vince cycad release more of the ice mana they hold the hotter the day gets, dropping the temperature around them."
"So out on the open ocean they'll get even colder than this?"
"Obviously. Still not cold enough to freeze solid, and once they're processed the mana leaks out, so the effect doesn't last as long."
Just as a large pot of food cools more slowly, these trees held their ice mana and chill for less time the smaller they were cut.
"Hoo. Cool as it is, moving around this long is making me warm."
"Cool? Don't you mean freezing cold?"
"I specialize in ice magic, so I feel the cold less than most people. I'm not wrong."
"How convenient for you."
Come to think of it, even when she first came to Coldon she had worn nothing more than light clothes and a single cloak. Remembering the price of that cloak, Karem felt a forgotten shiver of dread creep back up his spine.
Catherine nodded at his words, then stepped up to another pile of logs, laid a hand on them, and shook her head.
"It's not all good. The flip side is that heat nearly kills me. In that sense, Iceland is practically my domain."
"Hmm. Is that so?"
Karem copied her posture and rested a hand on the wood. So that was why even a little spice sent her into a fit. She handled spicy food worse than Alicia, whose young palate was still soft. Maybe there was a reason after all—something closer to constitution than mere preference. Every spicy dish he had ever offered her, kkakdugi aside, had been piping hot and steaming. The thought that floated up in Karem's mind was none other than cold noodles.
He had more than enough kelp and other stock ingredients. No gochujang, but with sugar, fire-mashon powder, and garum he could cobble together a decent sauce from whatever fruit was on hand. The noodles themselves would have to be handmade somen—tedious work, so he would just put Mary on it. She would be thrilled at the extra chores. That much was certain.
While Karem was mentally tetrising ingredients and recipes together, Catherine stretched and asked,
"Kid. What are you planning for lunch today?"
"Not sure. Is there something you'd like? Even if you don't feel the cold as much, your body still runs cold. Something with hot broth, maybe?"
"Broth, no. We've been eating heavy lately, so something lighter this time? But I still want meat in it."
"Light with meat… nothing impossible there."
Vegetables she wanted, and meat too. Plenty of ideas came to mind. Shabu-shabu, for one. In this world, reaching into a shared pot with your own utensils would be considered shockingly rude, so the ingredients would need to be pre-layered into something like mille-feuille shabu-shabu—or mille-feuille nabe, as it was also called. Or grilled meat on a copper grate, wrapped in all sorts of vegetables. He had brought a copper grill along, and oak firewood was easy to get by the cartload this time of year. The broth for the first option was already gone, though, and the second might be too plain and earn him a scolding. Time for a variation, then.
"How about lettuce wraps?"
"Lettuce? What are you wrapping with lettuce?"
"Meat fried until it's almost burned and crispy, vegetables stir-fried with it, tossed in a bright sauce, piled into a lettuce cup, and then—one big bite—"
He mimed scooping up an imaginary wrap, stuffing it into his mouth, and chewing with a crisp crunch and a swallow. It was one of the signature Chinese-American dishes people often mistook for authentic Chinese food. No oyster sauce or soy sauce on hand, so he would need to improvise as usual, but that was nothing new. He wasn't worried.
Every flavor he described was one Catherine already knew: crispy minced meat, smoky vegetables, a tangy sauce, and the fresh crunch of lettuce. Her eyes lit up and she started to speak—
"Karem Hubae. Contractor. I'm afraid that will have to wait for next time."
"What—why out of nowhere?"
"While the two of you were chatting, someone came by. Your lord has invited you to a meal and has a request as well."
"My lord? An invitation is one thing, but a request?"
Mary simply looked at Karem and jerked her chin toward him.
"Me?"
"Yes. Karem Hubae. You."
Kid. Did you pull something without me noticing?
What 'something'? I've been following you around all day.
Employer and exclusive chef stared blankly at each other.
Thankfully, nothing had blown up and no one had done anything wrong. If anything, this was a request for Karem's help.
Catherine followed Alfred toward the restaurant Horizon of Iceland, while Karem was steered into the kitchen attached to it. The cooks were already waiting for him.
Their reactions split cleanly into three camps. The familiar faces—Winterhome cooks who had met him once or more through Jigmeser—greeted him warmly. The ones who had been told a temporary head chef was coming, only to see a kid walk in, eyed him with open dislike; those were the Horizon of Iceland staff, and of course they were the majority. Extreme reactions on both ends. And then a handful who watched him with pure professional detachment. Their clothes alone, before even their skin tone, advertised that they were from Adobis.
"Head Chef Karem. It's been a while. We were in your debt last time."
"I already asked you not to call me head chef—it's too much. Just use my name…"
"Oh, we couldn't possibly. Age doesn't matter when you're the one responsible for an entire kitchen. If we did that, the executive chef would take a frying pan to us the moment we got back."
At those words the other groups of cooks went round-eyed. Cooks had ranks too. A cook in a noble's kitchen and a cook in some village inn were not the same. And a cook of a ducal house sat at the very top of that ladder—or close enough. Yet here these people were bowing and scraping?
The Winterhome cooks meant every word. The title of head chef in charge of a kitchen was no empty flattery. Beyond the intense interest of the ducal family itself, these men freely shared secret recipes that a house or royal line might pass down for generations. Any cook would naturally bend at the waist.
Still feeling the weight of their deference, Karem fidgeted awkwardly with both hands.
"Just checking, Alberto—I'm not in charge of the banquet itself, am I?"
"Of course not. All the banquet dishes that need time are already prepared. Head Chef Karem only needs to make a few desserts to grace the table."
"That's a real relief."
"And while you're at it, if you could point out any flaws in our techniques—"
"Point out? That sounds far too arrogant. Let's call it an exchange of opinions, please."
Karem stuck his tongue out in genuine discomfort. Even Jigmeser's shameless flattery had dialed back a little; everyone else still needed more time to adjust their attitude. This was going to kill him with awkwardness.
Under a crossfire of goodwill, suspicion, and curiosity, Karem fled to the station he had been shown, moving like a late office worker clocking in.
Attached Materials
— Chinese-style Lettuce Wraps —
A picture drawn by ChatGPT.
— Workaholic Brownie Mary —
