“Yes, Sire. I'll handle it.” Juri hurried away.
“He's usually smarter than that,” King Cynric said as he entered the kitchen.
“He's just rattled.” I followed him in.
He grunted, then strode across the busy, massive kitchen to the cooking area where crispy-skinned birds were being turned on a spit over a tray of heat stones. “Do you think the chicken's safe?”
“It should be all right since no one expected you to come down here and select your own bird,” I said.
“Thank the Gods.” He grabbed a trencher. “I'm too hungry to roast a fucking chicken.” Then he waved to one of the kitchen workers who were gathered to one side, waiting for him to tell them what the fuck he wanted and why he was in their domain. “Can one of you put a chicken on my plate?”
I pressed my lips together to keep from snickering as a human man rushed over and pulled on some thick leather gloves to remove the spit, then used a serving fork to push a chicken onto the King's trencher. It was the look on the man's face that was truly hilarious—his wide eyes going from the chicken to the King as if he couldn't believe what was happening.
The King glanced at me. “You'd best make it two chickens.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The man pushed another chicken onto the trencher. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Uh?” The King looked around, then at me.
“Bread?” I asked. “I imagine anything not being prepared specifically for you is safe.”
“Safe?” one woman, a Shanba, asked. “Why wouldn't our food be safe?”
I looked at the King. “Did you not tell anyone?”
“No, Juri thought it would scare people.”
“Well, no shit,” I drawled. Then, to the Shanba woman, I said, “The King has just recovered from being poisoned. Someone most likely put it in his food.”
“What?!” the man beside the spit shrieked. “No, Sire. No one here would poison you.”
“I'm not accusing anyone,” the King said.
“You're too obvious,” I added. “It was probably someone who passed through the kitchen, not one of the kitchen staff. When did you get ill, Sire?”
“It's been five days.”
“Only five days?” I looked him over.
“Yes, it worked fast.” He grimaced down at himself.
“Does anyone remember someone loitering in the kitchen five days ago?” I asked the cooks and assistants. “Someone who doesn't belong here.”
The kitchen staff looked at each other, then at me. They shook their heads.
“It's usually busy in here,” the man with the chickens said as he put the spit back. “If someone came through, we wouldn't notice.”
“This person would have gotten near the food,” I specified.
The man shrugged. “When you're focused on getting your work done, it's hard to notice such things.”
“Is there any butter?” the King asked.
I looked over to see him holding a loaf of bread. “Really?”
“I have eaten little in five days.” He tossed the loaf on top of his chickens, pulled off a chicken leg, and bit into it. He groaned, then said, “Well done, everyone. This is amazing.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The chicken man beamed.
