Wizard's First Rule

She was winded when she finally reached the kitchens, which were steamy and smoky and filled with noise. Helpers were scurrying around carrying heavy sacks, big pots, or hot trays, all trying not to bump into one another. People chopped things she couldn't see on the high tables and huge chopping blocks. Pans clanged, cooks yelled orders, helpers took pans and metal bowls off hooks overhead and put others back. There was a constant rapping of spoons mixing and whipping food, the sharp hiss of oil and garlic and butter and onions and spices in hot pans, and everyone seemed to be yelling at the same time. This chaotic place smelled so good it made her head spin.

She tugged on the sleeve of one of the two head cooks, trying to tell him she had a message from the Princess, but he was arguing with another cook and told her to go sit and wait until they were finished. She sat down nearby, on a little stool by the ovens, her back pressed against the hot brick. The kitchen smelled so good, and she was so hungry. But she knew she would get in trouble if she asked for food.

The head cooks were standing over a big crock, waving their arms around, yelling at each other. Suddenly, the crock fell to the floor with a big thunk, splitting in two, sending light brown liquid flooding all over. Rachel jumped up on the stool so it wouldn't get on her bare feet. The cooks stood still, their faces almost as white as their coats.

"What're we going to do now?" the short one asked. "We don't have any more of the ingredients Father Rahl sent." "Wait a minute," the tall one said, holding his hand to his forehead. "Let me think."

He put both hands to his face, squishing it together. Then he put both arms in the air.

"All right. All right. I've got an idea. Get me another crock, and just keep your mouth shut. Maybe we can keep our heads. Get me some other ingredients."

"What ingredients!" the short one yelled, red-faced.

The tall cook leaned over him. "Brown ingredients!"

Rachel watched while they ran around snatching up things, pouring in bottles of liquid, adding ingredients, stirring, tasting. At last they both smiled.

"All right, all right, it'll work. I think. Just let me do the talking," the tall one said.

Rachel stepped tiptoed across the wet floor and tugged on his sleeve again.

"You! You still here? What do you want?" he snapped.

"Princess Violet said not to make her roast dry again, or she would have the Queen make those men beat you." She looked down at the ground. "She made me say that."

He looked down at her a minute, then turned to the short cook, shaking his finger. "I told you! I told you! This time, slice hers from the center, and don't mix up the plates or we'll both end up losing our heads!" He looked back down at her. "And you didn't see any of this," he said, stirring his finger in the air over the crock.

"Cooking? You don't want me to tell anyone I saw you cooking? All right," she said, a little confused, and started tiptoeing across the wet floor again. "I won't tell anyone, I promise. I don't like to see people getting hurt by those men with the whips. I won't tell."

"Wait a minute," he called after her. "Rachel, isn't it?"

She turned and nodded.

"Come back here."

She didn't want to, but she tiptoed back anyway. He took out a big knife that scared her at first, then turned to a platter on the table behind him and cut off a big, juicy piece of meat. She had never seen such a piece of meat, without fat and gristle all over it, at least not up close. It was a piece of meat like the Queen and the Princess ate. He handed it down to her, put it right into her hand.

"Sorry I yelled at you, Rachel. You sit on that stool over there and eat this, and then let us be sure you're cleaned up, so no one will be the wiser. All right?"

She nodded and ran off to the stool with her prize, forgetting to tiptoe. It was the best, most delicious thing she had ever eaten. She tried to eat it slowly while she watched all the people running around, clanging pots and carrying things, but she couldn't. Juice ran down her arms and dripped off her elbows.

When she was finished, the short cook came and wiped her hands and arms and face with a towel, then he gave her a slice of lemon pie, placing it right in her hands the way the tall cook had done with the meat. He said he baked it himself and he wanted to know if it was good. She told him, quite truthfully, that it was just about the bestest thing she had ever had. He grinned.

This had been just about the best day she could ever remember. Two good things in the same day: the trouble doll, and now the food. She felt like a queen herself.