A Lavish Desert Feast
As the servant brought out a cool beverage, the landowner gestured invitingly for us to drink.
Taking a sip of the chilled drink, a tangy sweetness lingered in my mouth.
"Oh, this is good. What is it?"
"It's called tamarind drink. Mashed tamarind mixed with water, sugar, and lemon juice."
"Mmm. This is really delicious."
As we drank heartily, the landowner watched with evident pleasure before shouting something toward the outside again.
"What'd he say this time?"
"'Bring it in,' he says."
Moments later, the servant returned, this time setting down a large tray on the floor. On it were a plate holding a half-melted lump like soft cheese, a jar of honey, and a basket of bread.
"Ah, I see."
Rowell let out a low murmur of admiration, smacking his lips.
"What's that?"
"Kaymak. It's made through a complex process with milk, turned into that creamy mass. Truly delicious."
Rowell kept smacking his lips repeatedly—it must really be that good.
"But why keep bringing out more? He could've just offered one drink. He hasn't even asked why we're here."
"That's how people in desert nations are. When guests visit a home, they must treat them with utmost hospitality—it's their culture. They consider skimping on guests a great dishonor."
"Ah, got it. So we should accept whatever they offer as a matter of courtesy."
"Exactly. Eat first, then talk business."
The servant drizzled plenty of honey over the kaymak-like cheese lump and offered it our way. The landowner gestured animatedly in the desert tongue, urging us to try it.
"Tear off a piece of this bread and dip it here."
Rowell took the lead, demonstrating. He tore off a strip from the flat, plate-shaped bread and dipped it deep into the kaymak before eating.
"Mmm... mm... as expected... mmmph..."
He couldn't even finish his words, tearing off another piece and dipping it again. I quickly followed suit, dipping bread into the kaymak.
"Whoa... this is seriously good."
First came the bread's slightly coarse yet moist texture, then an unannounced wave of rich nuttiness flooded in. The heavy savoriness filled my mouth, blending with the sweet honey into a flavor beyond words.
"Wow, this is... wow..."
How had I wandered all over Al-Behbad without ever tasting this? Well, back then the mission came first—no time for luxuries.
With Idi constantly on the verge of collapse from dehydration and Brione bitching nonstop about the heat and filth, what sanity did I have left? The one semi-normal member, Saintess Blaze, was busy healing Idi, dragging her to baths, and roasting Brione into silence.
Looking back now, we were never a normal hero party. Hell, no hero party I'd ever had was normal. Always top-tier skills, but each one missing a screw somewhere.
I still remember that pickpocket klepto. A real piece of work, way beyond Marim. One day on the street, he suddenly shoved a woman's panties at me. When I asked what the hell, he said he'd swiped them off a pretty girl who just passed—'a gift,' he claimed, stuffing them into my hand. I smacked him upside the head and told him to return them; he just said if I didn't want 'em, he'd keep 'em, and neatly pocketed them.
True lunatic, that one.
Anyway... Watching us shove bread into our mouths nonstop, the landowner beamed with genuine joy. Then he shouted outside once more.
"Hey, Rowell. Don't tell me more's coming."
"Probably. Even the poor here serve food with all their heart—imagine a landowner's mansion."
"Mmm... fine. Whatever they bring, we'll gratefully eat."
Soon, servants filed in, setting down plate after plate before us.
Let's see: whole roasted ribs and yellow rice. Round fried dumplings and vegetable salad. Red sauce with meat and veggies, plus triangular slices of flatbread. Vinegar-pickled tomatoes and stir-fried minced meat with onions. Fish grilled crisp with slits all over...? Fish too, huh.
"This spread is insane."
The landowner gestured grandly with both hands, urging us to dig in just like before. Rowell expressed thanks in the desert tongue, and we scooped small portions by hand to taste everything.
Some I'd tried in my hero days, others were total firsts. But every single one was delicious—no duds.
Anyone watching might think we came just to eat, but what can you do? Duty of a guest.
We ate until we were stuffed, then politely pushed the empty plates forward.
When the landowner asked something, Rowell smiled and replied.
"He asked if it was delicious and filling. I said yes, thank you."
"Alright, time for business?"
"Ah, but he says wait a moment."
The landowner called out, and waiting servants entered with more food.
"Huh? More...? I'm full."
This round looked like dessert. Glossy brown baklava. Harissa loaded with nuts. Lewani dusted with white coconut powder. Super-sweet shalay sharma. Honey-glazed donuts baked golden. Thick white laban, and more...
The landowner gestured wildly for us to eat, and Rowell gave thanks.
"Master, please eat. Even a little will make the landowner happy—and that's good for us too."
"Mmm... okay..."
Rowell and I were already bloated, hesitant to start, but we forced down some dessert anyway. They say there's a separate stomach for sweets, and sure enough, the sugary bliss went down easy.
I seriously couldn't eat another bite. I choked down a few sips of laban—their traditional desert drink—and shook my head.
The landowner chuckled loudly, chattering away in the desert tongue.
"He's thrilled we ate well, asks if the hospitality fell short. I told him it was perfect."
"Good... hope that's the last. I might puke."
"Looks like skipping dinner tonight."
"Yeah... now, real talk."
Rowell covered his mouth for a small burp, cleared his throat, and began conversing fluently in the desert tongue. He summarized key points for me in the gaps.
"Recently, all their coffee trees withered for no reason."
Blah blah.
"Neighboring nations too—coffee's completely run out."
Blah blah.
"Weather's normal, no conditions harming the crops, yet this sudden blight has everyone baffled."
Blah blah.
"The palace is investigating, but no results. Even the priests are getting involved now."
Priests here meant something like our priests or saintesses—clergy. If they're stepping in, they've truly found zero clues.
What the hell's going on...? This doesn't feel normal...
"They've got some stock left in the warehouse, but not enough for what we want. Maybe a month's worth at best."
"Fine. Buy what we can. Beggars can't be choosers. But..."
I crossed my arms, deep in thought.
Desert folk are coffee-farming experts. It's their cash cow via western trade. If even they don't know the cause, it's not natural.
Not some political spat halting trade and hoarding either. They trade with multiple desert nations—not insane enough for one to unilaterally cut ties. Only hurts themselves unless all collude. And desert states? They hate each other—constant wars. No way they'd cartel up.
What then...?
"Master? What are you thinking?"
"Rowell, ask this: Any unusually red sunsets lately? Blood-red."
Rowell asked; the landowner looked mildly surprised, turning to me.
"Yes. A few months back, every few days."
"Goat herds breaking fences, rampaging the streets?"
"Huh...? That happened too...?"
Rowell and the landowner alike stared at me in shock.
"Or a very young woman giving birth to a non-crying baby?"
The landowner leaped from his cushions, excitedly babbling.
"How'd you know? How do outsiders like us know city events so well...? What the...?"
"Ha, that fucking bastard..."
Instead of answering Rowell's question, a low curse slipped from my lips.