The Unwanted Wendigo [ManxMan]

Chapter Twenty-nine: To the Market

~Chapter Twenty-nine: To The Market~

Sneaking through the halls of the palace is a lot harder than it used to be since most of the guards now know my face and likely also know that I should not be without a chaperone. However, I do not think most of them mind the supposed breach of protocol, as none of them try to stop me or ask where my chaperone is, and one even points me in the last known location of my target. Since my target is not my target until I meet a certain requirement, though, maybe I should call him my future target.

Still, armed with the knowledge of where my - future - target will likely be for a while, I head for the kitchens. Since it is well after dinner time, as it is closing in on eight, there is not a lot of activity, but the head chef is still present, as are a few of the staff, who appear to be cleaning or testing recipes. As usual, nothing in the room smells even remotely tasty, but it still smells good in a spice way.

"You've returned," the head chef says, without even looking away from the soup pot he is stirring. "Do you need something?"

"Just a pan and some ingredients," I reply, as I have no intention of asking someone else to make what I have in mind for me.

"What kind of pan?" The cook asks, fiddling with the stove's knobs before turning his back on the soup and moving to one of the cabinets, which he then opens to reveal a large number of varying pots and pans.

However, since I am someone who knows next to nothing about cooking utensils, I hesitate. "Er..."

The cook gives me a less than impressed look, but he does not seem surprised. "What do you plan to make?" He asks, crossing his arms over his pristine, white apron.

Does he change aprons every time he spills something, or is he just that good?

Though I know that there is little to no chance anyone in the kitchen will tattle on my mission to my target, I still eye the cook and the rest of the staff before reluctantly admitting, albeit rather vaguely, "A hot drink."

If my unclear answer hinders the cook's ability to pick a pot, it does not show, as he just plucks a pan with high sides out of the cupboard and sets it on the stove next to his soup pot. "This is called a saucepan, and if you ever want to use my kitchen again, you had better remember that."

Not at all perturbed by the chef's gruffness, I grin. "Will do."

"Now, what ingredients do you need?" The chef asks, heading towards a door that provides the room with most of the food smells, which means it is probably the pantry.

"Don't know," I reply, and then smirk at the incredulous look the chef gives me before adding, "but I'll know them when I smell them."

The cook sighs again, but seems to accept this as nothing more than a weird quirk. "Just make sure to wash your hands before you touch anything."

"Sir, yes, sir," I reply cheerfully, turning on my heels to locate the nearest unoccupied sink, and it is pleasing to note that my response gets a few snickers from the other staff members present.

When the chef sighs again, it sounds almost like defeat.

- - - - - - -

Forty minutes and two failed attempts at making the drink later, I am feeling pretty good about myself as I balance a silver tray in one hand while I knock on the wooden door before me with the other. A couple of moments later, there is the sound of quiet shuffling beyond the door that slowly gets closer. And then the door swings open to reveal my target - a certain tired-looking king who should really be in bed instead of in his office.