Kingfisher(81)

Val turned his phone around, showed him an image. It was of a huge cauldron, polished so that it seemed to shine from within by its own brilliant, mystical source. Every inch of it held pictograms, ancient writings, birds, fish, animals both legendary and extinct. Light filled the cauldron, spilled out and around it in a swirling pattern that curled through the air as it flowed upward. It was fashioned, Pierce guessed, out of solid gold, and looked big enough to steam the three of them together.

“That should do it,” Val said with satisfaction.

“Should,” Leith agreed, smiling.

“What’s the name of this place again?”

Pierce pushed the Stillwater’s menu under his nose. “But what is it?”

“In life? About as big as my fist. It lives in a Severluna museum. I added a few things to it.” He worked silently a moment, then put the phone down and leaned over the table, his head very close to his brother’s. “I’m certain that’s what our lunch is made in. Don’t you think so? I just sent the image to Niles Camden and Prince Ingram. They’re still in town. I saw them last night in a brew-pub. We got into a philosophical argument. Or was it metaphysical? I can’t remember who won.”

Pierce, gazing at the golden, shining pot, swallowed dryly, his eyes prickling with wonder. “You’re diabolical.”

“Thank you. We can only hope they take the bait.”

Sage came over to them, carrying a tray. She set down three glasses of water, three small plates, and a slightly larger plate holding three layered ovals of jewel-like colors, and three little cones made of what looked like frozen gold foam, out of which black pearls or fish eggs spilled over frozen waves of white. “Something special to waken your appetites,” she said. “Enjoy.”

She left them staring warily, bemusedly, at their lunch. “Now what?” Val breathed. “We forgot to think about this part.”

“Use your uniforms,” Leith murmured. “Surely you don’t have an arsenal in every opening.” He guided a cone toward his mouth, dropped it adroitly down the sheath in his sleeve.

“Magic,” Val said wryly, and disappeared a cone somewhere under the table.

Pierce picked up one of the oval bites. It teased him with its half-recognizable layers. Fresh raw tuna, it suggested. Candied lemon peel. The thinnest slice of rose-golden peach. Roasted purple beet. A mouthful of mysteries. A chord for the palate. Carrie made it, he thought. How could it harm?

“Don’t,” Leith said very softly, “even think about it. You warned us, last night. Remember why.”

There was a shriek from the kitchen; it sounded like a machine being tortured. A human shout followed it, then a muffled thump. Something shot out from between the bank vault’s closed curtains, skimmed a tabletop or two, then flattened itself against a far wall above the heads of two transfixed diners. A formless clot of translucent purple slid very slowly, inch by inch, down the wall, leaving an oddly glistening trail of green.

The two diners leaped up, overturning their chairs. The vault curtains whipped open, and Pierce finally saw Todd Stillwater’s face.

It seemed, for a blink, oddly layered, like his bites. The self-deprecating face of an inhumanly comely god fallen to earth was stretched, at the temples and eyelids, over a bulky, twisted, sunken-eyed tree burl, which had been hastily pulled over something else entirely, with pallid skin glistening like decaying mushroom and clinging tautly to a white frame of bone, through which yet another face drifted like a dream or a memory of a wild, ancient, darkly haunting beauty.

In the next blink, the layers collapsed under the perfect, disingenuous human face, reassuring in its concern for the dismayed crowd of common mortals.

“I am so, so sorry.” Even his voice was perfect: resonant, sweet, expressive. “We’re having a little trouble with the kitchen equipment. Please. Don’t feel you have to leave. We’ve gotten the trouble under control. And I’m more than happy, in apology for your inconvenience and distress, to cook lunch for all of you for free today. If you—”

There was another explosion. Stillwater whirled; the frozen diners waited. But nothing flew out this time. The thing creeping down the far wall detached itself with an audible squelch and fell on the floor.

Someone laughed. Then everyone was laughing, bent over their plates, wiping their eyes, sliding out of their chairs. Stillwater, mingling apology and relief in his smile, took his apron off and tossed it over the mass. Sage appeared between the curtains. Her own face had lost its cool serenity. Pierce saw the anxiety, the wariness in it, as she hurried across the room toward her husband.

Pierce rose, turning against her wake, and stepped quickly through the curtains.

The vault, a wine cellar now, opened at the back to the expanse of kitchen beyond. It looked peculiar at first glance. It lacked essentials, Pierce realized. Like pots and pans. Grills. An oven. Mostly it held a large table covered with machines, one of which Carrie seemed to be trying grimly to stab to death with a pair of tongs.

She jumped when she saw Pierce. “What are you doing back here?” she hissed.

“Can I help with that? I’ve seen machines like these in Severluna.”

“No, you haven’t. There are none, anywhere, like these. They turn perfect food into air. Air into art. You didn’t eat anything, did you?”

“No. What are you doing?”