Chapter 4 The Price Of Salt

• The flour sack was nearly empty.
• I stood in the larder, staring at the sad little pile of gray powder at the bottom. Two days of hungry soldiers and crying bandits had eaten through what should have lasted a month. The wild scallions behind the inn were picked down to the roots. The turnips were gone. The cabbage was a memory.
• And the hen had stopped laying again.
• I pressed my fingers to my temples. A headache bloomed behind my eyes. In Shanghai, I had a supply chain, a prep team, and a walk-in freezer full of everything I needed. Here, I had a dirt floor and a hen with an attitude problem.
• "Problem?" Kaelen stood in the doorway, leaning on his crutch.
• I pointed at the flour. Then at the empty shelves. Then at him.
• He grunted. "You cooked too well. Now they expect more." He scratched his beard. "The village market runs today. I'll take you. You can trade for supplies."
• I raised an eyebrow. Trade with what?
• He read the question on my face. "We've got coin now. More than we've had in months." He tossed a small leather pouch at me. It clinked. "Don't spend it all on fancy spices. Stick to flour, salt, oil. Maybe a sack of beans."
• I caught the pouch and weighed it in my palm. Not much. But it was something.
• The village was a miserable cluster of wooden buildings huddled against the mountain wind. The market was little more than a row of stalls in a muddy clearing. Merchants shouted over each other, selling dried fish, root vegetables, rough cloth, and suspicious-looking meat.
• Kaelen walked beside me, his crutch sinking into the frozen mud. People stared. They always stared. The one-legged knight and the mute girl. Quite the pair.
• We stopped at a stall piled with sacks of flour and jars of oil. The merchant, a thin man with missing teeth, eyed me like I might steal something.
• "New cook at the inn?" he asked Kaelen.
• "Maybe," Kaelen said.
• "I heard she cooks like a spirit." The merchant lowered his voice. "My cousin went there yesterday. Said the noodles made him weep. His dead wife used to make noodles like that. He hasn't cried in years."
• I looked away. The stories were spreading faster than I expected. It made my skin itch.
• Kaelen paid for flour and oil. I pointed at a small jar of dark liquid that smelled like fermented beans. The merchant wanted too much for it. I shook my head and walked away.
• He called after me. "Fine! Fine! Half price!"
• I paid half price.
• Next stall: salt. Coarse and gray and expensive. I bought as much as I could carry. Salt was life. Without salt, food meant nothing.
• We were loading our purchases onto a borrowed cart when a voice cut through the noise.
• "Well, well. The ghost chef herself."
• I turned.
• A man stood behind us. He was short and round, with a dirty apron and a sneer that looked permanently attached to his face. His hands were stained brown from years of cooking over an open fire. He smelled like burnt grease and cheaper ale.
• Bren. The fired cook.
• "I heard you took my job," he said. "Hope you're ready to fail."
• Kaelen stepped forward. "She's doing better than you ever did."
• Bren laughed. "Give her time. That kitchen is cursed. Everyone who cooks there ends up broken. You'll see." He turned to me. "I'm almost sorry for you. Almost." He walked away, still laughing.
• I watched him go. My grip tightened on the handle of my knife.
• Cursed, he said. I didn't believe in curses. But I did believe in enemies.
• Old Tobin found us at the last stall, buying a bundle of withered carrots. He was a small man with a white beard and bright eyes that missed nothing. He smelled of herbs and woodsmoke and something faintly medicinal.
• "So it's true," he said, looking me up and down. "The mute girl can cook. The whole village is talking about it."
• I shrugged.
• He leaned closer. "I run the herb shop at the edge of town. If you need anything for your kitchen—sage, thyme, wild garlic—I can help." He paused. "For a price, of course."
• I wrote in the dirt with my boot: What price?
• He read it and smiled. "A bowl of those noodles I've heard so much about. And maybe a story or two."
• Kaelen snorted. "You're cheap, old man."
• "I'm curious," Tobin said. "There's something different about this girl. Something I can't quite put my finger on." He studied me for a long moment. "Anyway, come by my shop tomorrow. I'll have a basket ready for you."
• He wandered off, muttering something about ghosts and spirits.
• I looked at Kaelen.
• "Tobin's harmless," he said. "Gossipy, but harmless. Used to be an army medic. Knows every plant in these mountains."
• That could be useful.
• We returned to the inn just as the sun began to set. The dining room was empty, but not for long. I could already see shapes moving on the road—soldiers from the garrison, a few travelers, maybe another bandit or two.
• Kaelen unloaded the cart. "Tomorrow, a knight is coming through. Sir Roderick Ashford. He's on his way north to kill the Frost Wyrm." He paused. "He'll need a good meal before he goes. Maybe his last."
• I met his eyes. His expression was blank, but something flickered there. Old pain. Old memory.
• I wrote on the wall: Then I'll make it count.
• He nodded slowly. "I know you will." He turned away and began stacking firewood.
• I went into the kitchen and started prepping for dinner. Flour, salt, oil, wild onions, the last of the cabbage. It wasn't much. But it would be enough.
• I thought about Sir Roderick. A man on a suicide mission. A man who believed he was already dead. What do you cook for someone like that?
• Something that reminds him he's alive.
• I smiled and reached for the chili oil.