Page 25 of Morel Dilemma

“Will you come talk about your legendary boarroot and tarragon sauce?” one asked, daring to touch his arm and try to draw him toward the rest of their group.

Feet planted, Jildarin looked at Rylana. Did he want permission to go off with them? Surely not, but maybe he was silently asking if she needed his help first. And if she was comfortable being left alone with Zilek, who was watching the gathering of admirers with a bemused expression.

Since the cellar was sparsely populated this early in the evening and Rylana didn’t see Aztor, she gave him a go-ahead gesture. Jildarin nodded and allowed the females to draw him away, questions about his recipes filling the air. It reminded Rylana of the impromptu meeting on the path in the elven enclave where numerous female elders had flocked to him. Would these people also put in orders for his soup? Or did they just want to chat with him because of his inherent appeal?

“It is not only female dragons who are drawn to him.” Zilek didn’t sound jealous or annoyed but perhaps a touch confused and maybe exasperated. “They cannot even know of his legendary fighting prowess during the war.” He looked at Rylana, as if she might be able to explain the situation.

“There’s nothing sexier than a man who can make a quality boarroot and tarragon sauce,” she said, though it was the coffee-rubbed bacon that prompted her to forget Jildarin’s pomposity and want to help him succeed in the world.

“That can’t be true.”

A male half-elf wearing a black-and-white uniform walked up and held out his hands. “I am the sommelier, Oskan. May I take your offerings?”

Zilek held out a bag, his bottle nestled inside among aromatic wood shavings. To Rylana, it looked like nesting material for a gerbil rather than something designed to insulate wine, but she kept the thought to herself.

“Excellent, Lord Dragon,” the sommelier said after peeking at the label.

Rylana offered the unadorned bottle that Zalani had plucked from the pantry. Oskan gasped and stepped back without touching it. She might have received a similar reaction if she’d handed him bagged droppings from one of the log-inspecting hounds.

“Why don’t you keep that?” Oskan turned away with Zilek’s bottle. Under his breath, he muttered, “In case there’s a years-long famine or siege of the city, and there’s nothing else to consume.”

“Ridiculous,” Zilek murmured.

“You found him pretentious too?” Rylana was surprised Zilek had noticed. Was the fish aware of the water it swam in?

“The notion that Tranquility could withstand a siege is what’s ridiculous. It has no walls.”

“The pillars can knock you handily on your ass.”

“They were insufficient in dealing with the troll-god curse.”

“That was outside the breadth of their magical programming, I believe. One did zap a dragon nicely.”

Perhaps Rylana shouldn’t have smiled approvingly as she said that. Zilek’s eyelids descended as he regarded her.

“One of my relatives?” he asked.

“I believe it was your aunt.”

“Puzzling that she wants you dead.”

“She started it.” Rylana refused to feel petulant after making the comment. It was true, after all.

Zilek snorted, so maybe he wasn’t that offended on his aunt’s behalf. He took the wine bottle from her and set it on a shelf. “It’s amazing that my brother can cook with such swill and win contests.”

“I think he uses it to deglaze his saucepans.”

“Does that mean he employs it as a solvent and cleans with it?”

“Not exactly.”

“You,” a woman of about forty said, glancing at Zilek but walking up to Rylana with a frown.

Her black hair was swept back and restrained by bejeweled elven garden tongs, her full lips were pinched together, and her cheeks were pink, either with rouge or the flush of irritation. She looked like she might throw a punch at any moment, though it was hard to imagine the clientele here settling affairs with fisticuffs.

“Me?” Rylana touched her chest before looking at Zilek.

Surely, the pompous dragon was more likely to deserve someone’s ire.