After he thumped on her entry for a third time with his wooden hand, Troll unlocked the door using the key Fox had given him and stepped into the apartment she had purchased on a quiet, dead-end lane off Coal Ember Street. She might be angry at an unexpected interruption, but it wasn’t like her to ignore a visitor at her front entrance. It concerned him.

“Fox? Are you here? My mother wants to see us.”

She had picked this apartment for its low ceilings and cozy rooms with corners and nooks and dark places, which appealed to her nature. The walls were thick stone, white plastered on the inside, which kept out the heat of summer and preserved the warmth from the fireplace when winter chilled the bones. The passages between rooms were low, rounded archways. The apartment felt more like a pleasant tunnel than a home in the city.

It remained sparsely furnished. Mother had kept them busy of late and left little time for leisure, like shopping and decorating. But Fox had placed such furniture as she had: an old stuffed chair, lumpy and lopsided, in front of the fireplace; a tall cabinet in the corner for her plates and cups and silverware; one large, empty book case; and a blue footstool. A single painting of herself and Troll adorned one wall, a portrait she’d had created by a local artist of some renown.

Being in one of the nicer neighborhoods of the city of Rookdrift, it came outfitted with a clever feature which allowed the apartment to draw cool air from the tunnels beneath the city and expel it through the chimney. Very convenient on days when smoke from the Great Factory choked the outside air and crept under window sills and doorways until one’s home was thick with its rank scent.

“Fox?” he called out again, louder this time. “Are you here or not?”

“Do not be in coming to this room!” she called from beyond the closed door which led to her kitchen.

Troll thought he sniffed the scent of smoke. “Why are you not answering your door?”

“I am busy. Always busy is Fox, you know this. I cannot be hearing all the hustle and the bustle from the other end of the house.”

Something banged sharply and Fox cursed. Another round of crashes followed, along with a string of more cursing. Curiosity wore Troll thin. At the last and ignoring her demand, he thrust open the heavy door to the kitchen and took in the sight.

Unlike the rest of her tidy home, Fox’s kitchen was a scene of great calamity. Flour dust covered most of the surfaces and smoke floated like mist through the air. Eggs had broken upon the floor, soaking up some of the flour and making a slurry. Upon the iron stove, a pot seemed to contain only flames, which rose towards the ceiling where black soot marred the plaster. The counters were covered with all manner of soiled bowls and lidded jars, one of which had fallen over and cracked, spilling dried tea.

In the midst of this flotsam stood little Fox, her red fur dusted with white flour, a soiled blue apron over her clothing, heavy red mitts upon her paws, and a pan held in front of her which contained what appeared to be a charred, smoking cake.

“I told you I am not to be disturbing!” she said. “The cake is not ready.”

Troll grabbed a lid with his good hand and dropped it over the burning pot on the stove, choking off the flames. “Cake? This is a disaster. You’re lucky you didn’t burn yourself out of your new apartment.”

Fox’s ears folded down and her shoulders slumped. “It is no matter. I have failed in any case and am unable to create the dazzling surprise for which I am slaving.”

“What dazzling surprise?”

She did not look at Troll but held up the pan. The top of the cake had collapsed, and it smelt badly burnt. “Surprise! Are you not dazzled by the tea cake I have for you made?”

She tossed the pan into a large wash bucket on the floor in the corner. “This is most ludicrous. I am not to be slicing and dicing in the kitchen like some menial cook, nor am I to be baking you a tea cake. I am Fox, and I am already a legend among thieves, am I not?”

Troll’s confusion was complete. “You were baking me a cake? A tea cake?”

She yanked the apron off and tossed it upon the remnants of the cake. “It was nothing, nothing I say. I was attempting a task for which I am not suited, this is all. I should remain Fox, the greatest of Rookdrift’s rogues, and nothing more.”

“But why a tea cake, Fox?” Troll persisted. “I’m quite fond of tea, and of cake in general, and very fond of tea cake in specific, but you’ve never baked one for me before.”

Fox mumbled something, dragging a boot toe across the floor and leaving a long streak on the floured floor boards.

“Louder please. I could not hear you.”

“Fine, fine! I am giving you the happy birthday. Yes? You like tea and I thought you might like a tea cake for such as this occasion. Difficult, but not so much as a soufflé.” She heaved one huge sigh and, at last, met his eyes. “Happiest of birthdays, my friend. I am sorriest my cake making skills do not match my skills as a thief. Worse still, for the gift I ordered from that swindling tinker, Archarigi, has not been finished. And, so, I am left with nothing to give you on this day of your birthing.”

“But it’s not my birthday, Fox.”

“You have said many times you do not know when your birthday is being, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So, I am making this your birthday. Or I had hoped to.” She walked over to a corner counter where a large book rested open on a wooden stand. “With no gift to give, I decided to make you a cake. I have tried to follow the wisdom of master Barozki, the most famous of all the chefs in the world.” She tapped a pointed nail against the open page. “Every step outlined here in his book, every detail down to the minutest of temperature changes. But, as you can see, I have no talent for this.” She slapped the cover closed and threw the book into the bin with the cake.

Troll swept Fox off her feet and hugged her, hard enough she began to wheeze. “Sorry,” he said, putting her gently down. “I am deeply pleased you tried. Mother never once baked me a cake, or seemed to care much about such personal trivialities. Oh, she made certain we observed all the unholy holidays, but did she provide gifts on Saints Day? Of course not.”

Fox brushed her clothing smooth, but the smile said his reaction had pleased her.

“I had such a gift for you arranged, if not for that cheat.”

“What sort of gift?”

“Tish tosh, you must not ask. It will be a surprise. Now, you are saying that your mother has another job for us, yes? What is it now? One would think we have done enough service for mother Yienchu and could be rid of this agreement upon which she has cursed us.”

“An agreement you chose to make when you didn’t need. I was the only one who owed her a debt until you stepped into it.”

Fox spluttered. “I am not seeing how you should have been forced to ten years of slavery for the chaos lords merely for the pleasure of having saved one tiny, insignificant life, and after you had already sacrificed a hand for her. Many have gotten far less for the taking of a life, yes? My silvery tongue talked her down to three years of regular jobs, with full pay and such trinkets as we might procure from the visitations. We are now liberators of rare and invaluable antiquities, not menial task doers. You may of course be thanking me.”

“Hm,” Troll said, and left it at that. “Yes, she has a new job for us. First, though, let’s tidy your kitchen up. You will never be able to focus on our tasks knowing your home is in such a state of dereliction.”

She gratefully accepted his help and they got to work. By the time she locked the door behind them, the kitchen sparkled. Every surface cleaned twice; the debris of the meal thrown outside into the waste trough for the automatons to carry away. Even the spot above her stove had been washed white once more. Troll snuck the book from the trash and gave it a wiping before sliding it onto her book stand. He had a feeling she might regret tossing it given the expense of such items. It could not have been cheap.

“Has your mother told you what is the nature of the work this day?” Fox asked as they strolled down Rookdrift’s cobbled streets. She had tidied herself up as well with a short bath, and wore clean clothing. Her black boots shone below her crisp, brown trews, and she had picked out a bright yellow vest with red and silver threading. Her daggers—the jade one she called Frog, and the ebony one she named Heart—were strapped to her belt.

“No. She sent one of her messenger toads and they don’t talk much. Not enough you can ask them a question. They get slime everywhere and leave a puddle of sludge when they dissolve.”

Fox shivered. “I am still not of the liking of your mother.”

“I don’t expect you to. I still do not like lord Fuibreish. Why do you continue to frequent the House of Chance? Knowing he intended to display your body like art work I thought might have ended any familiarity you felt with him.”

She sniffed. “I am not going there to be the familiar with him. I am going to be given the free drinks by the others who are jealous of my skills.”

“Our skills.”

She waved her paw through the air. “Me, us, it is all the same.”

“Perhaps to you it is, but I do not appreciate being an afterthought.”

“Come to the House of Chance then, and you will get the free drinks, too. You are always too much with the spending time alone. They would welcome you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a troll.”

“Yes, and a very clever one, too.”

They slunk through the east gate, moving among the people and steam automatons without the guards noticing, though the sun held high and bright in the summer sky. Neither Fox nor Troll felt it necessary to walk openly as the public did, whether or not a prize had been hung upon their capture, though none currently had. The day the guards observed them and checked them off in their count of comings and goings would be the day Fox and Troll hung up their lock picks and went to a quiet retirement.

Mother’s home in the swamp south of Rookdrift had moved again. Troll sought the way along muddy paths between limpid pools of algae covered water, where the toothsome ones lay in wait for incautious creatures. Only their great, round eyes, yellow and slitted, protruded above the green slime, unblinking as the two passed like bog wraiths. He followed the feel of mother’s magic, which burned deep inside his bones.

They reached a vast, circle of mud, inhabited by frogs and swamp rats. Here and there, bubbles rose out of the muck and burst to release foul stenches which lingered on the air. In the middle of this vile expanse stood the jumble of tree carcasses which constituted mother Yienchu’s home. Held together with mud plaster and decorated with dead animals and brickabrac she had found, from rusty swords to pieces of steam automatons. The only door was a black gash between rotting snags.

“I see your mother has picked a new and even more fetid location for her domicile,” Fox said as they approached the hovel. “I am not to be crossing such filthy ground.”

“Behave. Mother will only tolerate insults so far.”

“Bah. I see no worse she can be doing to Fox and Troll but make us dirty ourselves with the visiting of her residence.”

“You want I should carry you?”

Fox sniffed. “I am not luggage.”

“I once saw a portmanteau covered in fox fur.”

“You are not being funny.”

“I was not trying to be. It really was covered in fox fur.”

“WELCOME TROLL; WELCOME LITTLE FOX,” mother Yienchu said from within the blackness under the tree corpses.

“Hello mother,” Troll said. “We received your toad.”

“Greetings, mother Yienchu,” Fox said, bowing. She stood behind Troll and did not trouble herself to move up next to him.

“Your visage is fading, Troll.”

“What do you mean, mother?” Troll asked, worried. Had some curse been laid upon him, causing him to fade from the world like the colors of an oft washed garment?  Why had Fox not said anything to him?

“I am saying you are too thin. Have you been eating well?”

“Oh. I eat fine, mother.” Troll tried not to squirm in his sudden embarrassment. “You have a job for us?”

“I have been given to understand it is a mother’s prerogative to see to the well-being of those in their care, is it not?”

“Yes, mother,” Troll said. He was acutely aware of Fox’s muffled snickers behind him. “Thank you for your concern. I will be sure to eat more.”

“And healthier, too. More greens I am told is best. approach and enter.”

“Wait here,” Troll said to Fox.

“BOTH OF YOU,” mother Yienchu added.

Troll looked at Fox. Fox stared back at Troll, her eyes widening. It might have been the realization she’d soon be dirty again, or horror at the thought of entering the home of the mother of decay. He shrugged. “There’s a first time for every adventure. Do you want me to carry you like fox fur luggage so you keep clean?”

She waved her paw at mother Yienchu’s demesne. “You are still not the funny person. Go on, I will follow.”

Troll led. The mud was not nearly as deep as it appeared, though it would likely still rise over Fox’s well-polished boots. He dragged his feet to furrow a path for her. When he reached the opening, he plunged into it without pause.

Through the gap.

Into mother’s realm.

The dark void of the doorway had weight to it, the bog stench of a million swamps full of life bearing down upon his shoulders. It might have driven him to his knees if Troll had not been raised here. As such, he did not suffer the disorientation of passing through her entry. To him, this was the smell of home.

Fox threw up.

“Hold it together,” Troll murmured. He placed a hand on her elbow to steady her from wobbling. “I don’t think we’ll be here long.”

The space inside seemed far larger than without. There were no candles or gas lamps, no fires to warm the place. Both Troll and Fox could see well enough, though. Troll, because he’d soaked in mother Yienchu’s magic since he’d been a baby, cast into the swamp and abandoned, only to be found by her and brought here to be raised as her ward. Fox because that seemed to be part of her gifts, a natural trait she’d been born with.

The trees that, on the outside at least, had risen little more than a few feet higher than Troll’s head, now vaulted high above. They seemed thicker, too. Less crooked, swamp-soiled refuse than mighty oaks that had been roughly sawn and joined together, straps of rusty, rune-engraved iron binding each moldy trunk tight to the next.

Arrayed around the interior were rude tables covered in parchment and scrolls, bottles of ink and pens spilling over the work. To the right, against a distant mud-daubed wall, a larger metal table had been tucked beneath a shroud of rotting netting, the form upon it covered with a cloth stained darkly in spots. To the left were rows of cabinets and shelves, with jars of pickled heads, stuffed rats, and moldering books arrayed upon them, some with mushrooms sprouting from the bindings. Ahead and seemingly at the limits of their sight were three vast glass chambers, round in appearance, that provided the only dim light in this room, the liquid within glowing a sickly green. Everything smelled of mother; of decay and disease, rot and filth.

Fox gagged again, but held her bile by clamping a paw firmly over her mouth.

Mother Yienchu’s laugh echoed from the shadows, her mirth a burbling chortle. “I SEE LITTLE FOX FINDS MY SCENT WRETCHED. IF YOU’D LEFT HER FOR DEAD, SHE COULD HAVE SMELLED THE SAME AND WE’D BE JOINED IN DECAY AND CORRUPTION. ARE YOU SURE YOU WERE WISE IN SAVING HER LIFE?”

“Please mother,” Troll said, trying not to sigh, “she has a very sensitive nose.”

“Of course, my child. I have a task for the two of you. There is a man to whom I have pledged your assistance. I owed him a favor and will see this done.”

“Who is this man?” Fox asked. She held her left paw over her nose and kept her eyes tightly shut. “Why are we to be helping him?”

“He is Master Barozki, a man who perhaps you have heard of, little Fox, if you are as cultured as you lead others to believe. I had need of him for a task, but it seems he has crossed someone and is being punished.”

Fox let slide the small insult, and Troll thought he could hear the surprise in her voice, pitched high though it was from her pinching her nose. “Master Barozki the famous chef?”

“That is one and the same.”

“And what has befallen this, the most greatest of chefs?” Fox asked.

“He is held captive by a witch.”

“Witches,” said Fox. “I hate witches.”

“And sorcerers,” Troll added helpfully. “Likely steamomancers, too.”

“All of them,” Fox agreed.

“Where is this witch?” Troll asked.

“She is named Jarurmin.”

“That is an appellation, not a milieu,” said Fox.

“I will deliver you to her door, my child. Beyond that, I cannot go without violating eternal tenets, the twisted gifts of the endless who have covenants with witches we may not break. Take care. I cannot help you where you will be going. Hunger is a good sauce, but remember: too many cooks crowd the kitchen, though all are not cooks who carry long knives.”

Troll had questions he would have asked about those unmentioned tenets, and the endless, but the nothing of mother’s doorway pressed down on him again with its ageless stench of all fens, stealing his voice. Fox, poor thing, threw up again. He rested a hand lightly on her back in sympathy.

Fox inhaled deeply and coughed a few times. “So,” she said, after clearing her throat. “That was the home of your mother.”

“Only the smallest part of her entrance hall. I told you once nothing could be worse than mother’s home. Bowel emptying.”

“Stomach rather than bowels, I would say.”

“Fair.”

“What were all the many jars she had there?”

“Mixtures, reagents, potions, left over pieces of some poor creature’s flesh, pickled to keep it from decaying completely. It’s all research she does on death and corruption, all the better to understand it. I spent years helping her, measuring and decanting her reagents and preservatives in precise measurements.”

“Well, better you than me perhaps. But what is this place where we have been sent though we had not even the time to acquiesce to her request?”

They found themselves in a place unexpected. Walls of sheer rock rose on either side of them as they stood in a narrow defile rising through some great mountain range. Nothing grew here but lichen. Winds whistled through the pass and bit with chill teeth. Behind them, the path wound steeply down the mountain over dangerous looking scree before disappearing around an outcropping of dark granite. Ahead, the path rose to a crest, but they could see no sign of it falling to the other side. It almost appeared as though the world ended there, and beyond was nothing but bleak, gray mists.

To the right of the top of the pass, a tower grew from the rock like a fat mushroom, overlooking the narrow trail. No one could have passed without falling under its shadow. Higher up the steep rock walls were other towers and walkways and walls, carved from the stone or built out from its sheer face, and filled with many windows. Some of the windows were darkened, like the gap of a missing tooth framed by a wicked smile. Others were lit with the baleful red flicker of some fire or torch within. Dark or lit, none of them appeared cheerful or inviting.

“A bit foreboding,” Troll said.

“Hardly. I am thinking this witch person is trying too hard to be impressive.”

“Are you not impressed?”

Fox sniffed. “No. The tower of Aman Bejallon is impressive. The boneyard behind the Great Factory is most impressive. Even your mother’s domicile is impressive in its decaying way. This smacks of having little imagination and much hubris.”

“Oh, well, hubris. That belongs to us.”

“Indeed.” Fox tugged the bottom of her vest to straighten it. “Shall we find the front door, or were you perhaps considering climbing to the many windows?”

“When have we ever used a front door?”

They climbed.

Fox pointed to one window, lower than the others, and so they angled towards that. The cliff face, though steep, offered many finger holds, and as such presented them with little difficulty. Fox made faster work of it, she being the nimbler of the two, and soon lifted her head to peer over the bottom edge of the opening. Troll held still and waited until she signaled with a waggle of her boot it was safe and climbed over the lip. Only then did he follow the last few feet.

They were in a room of sorts, carved out of the rock. Moldy cloths were draped over hidden objects, and there was a general scent of dusty disuse. On the wall opposite the window was a door.

Fox carefully pulled up the corner of a cloth with her boot, bending to peer under. Her nose wrinkled. “A lovely old settee,” she said, lowering it again. “Such a waste being in a place such as this.”

“Must be a storage room,” Troll said. He walked on silent feet to the door and listened for a while, his head cocked. When he turned the large, tarnished handle, it held fast. “Locked.”

Fox withdrew the picks from one of her many pockets. “Not for long.”

She stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth while she worked. In a few seconds, the lock clicked and Fox waved at the door. “After you of course.”

“Of course,” Troll said with a grin. He opened the door and peered out. “Well.”

“Well? What well? Wells are a very deep subject.”

“Often wet, too.”

“Indeed.” Fox shouldered past him and peered out into the hallway. “Have I mentioned that I hate mazes?”

“You’ve said you hate math.”

“Add mazes to this list.”

“Done.”

The hallway in front of them had been carved from virgin stone. Almost immediately it split into three separate tunnels. The tunnel that ran straight ahead split again before reaching a corner and turned off to their right.

“Any guesses which way?” Troll asked.

“No guesses. We will use our cunning and skill.”

“It’s a maze. I’m not sure you can sneak past it, or fight it, or reason with it.”

“You can solve it.”

Troll scratched his head and frowned. “How do you solve a maze? It’s not an equation.”

“Not sums and figures. But a simple way of finding the end. Put your hand upon the wall to the right at the place where you are entering and always touch as you walk.”

“I don’t understand.”

Fox tapped her snout a few times, then snapped her fingers. “We are drawing the walls. Like that puzzle book you have been solving, yes? Draw a figure without lifting your stylus. We will, by touching one wall and following it, be drawing all the maze using a single line.”

That at least made some sense to Troll. “You want I should lead?”

“No, no, let me.” She placed her gloved right paw against the wall and began to walk. Troll trailed along, listening warily for any sound beyond the silent padding of their feet through empty halls, turn after turn.

Some halls led to dead ends, upon which Fox wheeled, hand pressed to the cold stone, and marched back past Troll to find the next turn. When they came to doors, they opened them to find more disused rooms of dust and decaying furniture. Some had windows; some blank stone walls. Some had wooden walls filled floor to ceiling with paintings. Some were lit by torches or fireplaces, and even gas lamps in a few. Some were dark as crypts.

Troll grew concerned. Fox seemed to know where she went, but ever more it felt to him as though they might be doubling around to their starting point. About when he had decided to stop her and discuss the plan, they rounded another bend and found themselves in a much larger tunnel than those they had been walking. It was wide enough for ten people to walk side by side. The stone above had been shaped in an arch, and the tunnelers had carved columns with pedestals along each wall as though they were made to hold up the roof.

At the end of this mighty hallway, double doors of rusty iron had been hung. Troll could see no hinges on this side, nor any lock or handle. What he could feel told him of the magic here, barring the way forward. He grabbed Fox by the shoulders as she reached towards the rusty portal.

“What?” she said, irritably. She hated when he interrupted her concentration, even if she knew he only did so when necessary. Or worried.

“Magic door,” he replied.

She lowered her gloved paw. “My apologies for the snapping.”

“No apology needed.”

“And still I have given one.”

“Then I accept it.”

“Good, good.” Fox stepped closer to the iron gate, examining it carefully. She withdrew her small jewelry loupe, unfolded the glass from its silver case, and peered as closely as she could without touching the metal. Troll held his breath for the several minutes this went on, until she leaned back with a sigh and put her tool away.

“I am finding no locks. I am not seeing how we may this door pass, or its witchery defeat.”

“Did you ask it to open?” a lilting voice said.

Troll turned with Fox and looked behind them. A few feet away stood a woman. She had thick, black hair shot with a few grays, and dark eyes in a tired face with its fair share of crow’s feet. Her black wool dress was coarse, and she wore an apron around her waist. Her feet were dirty and bare, and she held an old broom. To Troll, she looked like a maid who had been working too many hours and deserved a day’s break.

Fox caught on quicker. “You are the witch, Jesamun, yes?”

“Jarurmin,” Troll corrected.

“Jarurmin, of course. That is what I said.”

“Witch?” the woman said. Her smile was kind. “Now why would you think I am little more than a hedge dweller, dealing in hexes and potions?”

Troll’s heart skipped as he extended his senses. He ignored sight and hearing, taste and smell, even touch. None of them dispelled the mask. But his sixth sense, his ability to feel the roots of magic in the world around him, guided him now.

What Troll saw was the power behind the middle-aged woman who stood before them. Vast and shadowy, like a dark spider’s web spreading far beyond the walls of her mountain fastness. She sat in the middle of this net of connections, spiking surges of power flowing down the lines to feed her sleek, many-legged form.

“You’re a chaos lord,” Troll said.

“Very good, child of decay,” the woman said, her words echoed by a faint rasp of chitin rubbing upon chitin. “Jarurmin is but one name, and convenient at times. But if your mother knew who I was, she would name me Chenshema dhe.”

Mother had told him all about each chaos lord and their powers, so he recognized the name. “Mistress of memory.”

“Mother Yienchu taught you well.”

Fox stepped forward; arms crossed. “We are not here for the bantering. We wish to free a man who is in your possession, yes? Tell us how much the ransom is for master Barozki and we will pay your price and be upon our way.”

Jarurmin made tsking noises as she leaned over Fox. She reached out and gently took Fox’s chin, lifting her face so their eyes met. Troll bristled but held himself still. If it came to it, he would fight a chaos lord to save Fox’s life, though there be no hope of winning.

“Come sweet Fox. You know better than to be so hasty. You must see the game played through. Entering my home was the easiest of your tasks. But can you find your way to my pantry and win my challenge?”

Quicker than quick, Fox drew her two daggers and slashed at Chenshema dhe’s neck. Frog and Heart drew their respective green and abyssal lines across the space where she had stood, but all they cut was her laughter, echoing down the vast hall. A hall which now appeared significantly shorter than it had. A wall where none had previously been blocked them from returning the way they came.

“Feel better?” Troll asked.

“No. I would feel better had I not missed. It would have shortened this adventure tremendously.” She sheathed her blades. “I hate witches.”

“Not a witch.”

Fox shrugged. “Witch, chaos lord; it makes no difference.” She walked back to the wall which had appeared and ran a gloved paw over it. “One would almost think this has been here for ages and ages.”

“Maybe it has. Maybe the wall can only be seen from this side. Approach it from the other way and it ceases to be. It only exists in one direction.”

“Hmph,” Fox said. “I do not approve of such upside downside thaumaturgities.”

Troll approached the door again. Steeling himself, he reached out and pressed his fingers against the surface. “Will you open for us?”

“I begin with t,” said a soft, deep voice, like the purr of a cat. It seemed to Troll almost as though it came from beyond the door. “I end with t. I am full of t. What am I?”

“A riddle,” Troll said.

Fox pulled Troll away from the door and lowered her voice. “A riddle, yes, but one which I can solve.”

“Good. I hate riddles as much as you hate witches.”

“We are in agreement, for this is a witch’s riddle.”

“Chaos lord.”

“Pshh, I know, I know.”

“Do you have an answer?” the voice asked. “Time is growing short.”

“Why are we to be so hasty?” Fox asked, her eyes narrowing.

The voice did not answer. Instead, they heard a grinding noise behind them. The wall which had not been there before had begun moving towards them.

“The hall is getting shorter,” Troll said.

“Yes, yes, I can see.”

“Perhaps now is time to provide an answer?”

“Perhaps.”

The wall grew closer. Troll backed up almost to the door. Fox stared at the door and tapped her chin, mumbling to herself.

“Fox?”

“Yes?”

The grinding wall was little more than an arm’s length away. “This is pressing.”

“I know, I know.”

“I do not mean to be a whistling teapot, but we about to be crushed.”

The grinding stopped.

Fox barked a laugh and almost doubled over. “A teapot!”

“What?”

“What begins with T and ends with T and is full of T,” Fox said. “It must a teapot be. That is our final answer. A teapot.”

With a click as soft as a sigh, the door parted in the middle and swung open. “You may pass through,” the voice said.

Fox strolled through the opening and down the hall which continued beyond, whistling as she walked. “Easy, yes. Troll provided the answer.”

“Quite accidentally.”

“Even still, you are a very clever troll.”

“Thank you.”

Another door awaited, this one not much larger than Troll. He touched the cool, silver handle which broke its surface and turned it. The world exploded into sound and light as they looked in upon the scene of a vast kitchen. The room was low ceilinged, but seemingly endless, disappearing in the distance. It was speckled with fires and ovens and tables, and everywhere men and women bustled, some carrying trays laden with food, others rapidly dicing vegetables to toss into steaming pots. Knives flashed in the fire light, and meats sizzled.

Everyone paused, their motions frozen. All heads turned to look towards Fox and Troll. Each cook raised a knife or a cleaver or a skewer.

“Oh shit,” Troll said.

“All are not cooks who carry long knives.”

Troll looked down at little Fox and noticed the gleam in her eyes. “What?”

Her mouth fell open in her smile as she drew her daggers. “Your mother’s words to us. You remember.”

“You understood what she meant?”

Fox stepped into the room. “We shall see, shan’t we.”

The first cook, a plump man with a long moustache drooping almost to his chest, turned to face them. He held a large boning knife in his left hand and a fork for skewing game birds in his right. “The juices are flowing; the bird is a glowing!” A slab of meat, burned at the edges but pink in the middle, hung from the fork, juices dripping onto the floor.

“Birds do not glow,” Fox said. “That is cattle, not fowl.” She sidestepped a slash from his knife, parried the fork when it drove in towards her chest, and planted Frog deep in the man’s neck. A moment later, he turned to smoke and drifted away into a fading mist.

Fox strode forward. Another cook, this one with golden curls raining down around his pink, smooth face, stepped forward. He raised a cleaver, even as he thrust a pan filled with steaming apple tarts in front of his chest. “An apple a day keeps the automatons away.”

Fox took one of the tarts and bit into it. She chewed carefully and, at last, nodded. “Perfect crust and a very tart tart indeed. I have rarely had finer pastries.”

The cook smiled and turned back to his oven. “Another batch, made from scratch, there’s always time for another batch.”

“What is going on,” Troll murmured as they moved past him.

“Your mother’s riddle,” she hissed quietly. “Hunger is a good sauce, but all are not cooks who carry long knives. We are to determine who here is a real cook, and we must fight those who are the frauds, and so win our way to the other side.”

And so, in this manner, they worked their way across the enormous kitchen. Troll lost track of how many cooks they encountered. They came in all shapes and sizes, all sexes, some human, some monstrous. Sometimes they sampled food held on silver serving platters. Other times they had to fight, with dagger and fists and teeth. When Fox tired, Troll stepped in for her, though he relied on her judgement when tasting the food stuffs the cooks had created. He lacked detailed knowledge of the cuisine of foreign lands, which Fox had gained through her many long years of travels.

At last, when they had grown weary and sore, suffering from many cuts and bruises, and they had begun to think they would never be free of this endless kitchen, they reached a stone doorway, tall and wide and quite solid looking. Upon it rested a door knocker in the shape of a dragon’s head, as large as Troll’s own head, holding a brass ring between its teeth.

“I think you’ve earned the honors,” Troll said, waving at the dragon, whose eyes glowed green with emeralds reflecting the many fires they’d passed. He wondered what they’d be worth if he pried them out and sold them to the fence.

“We have both earned the honors. Come, join me.”

She wrapped her slender, gloved paw around the knocker. Troll placed his far larger, gray hand over hers. Together, they pulled back the brass ring and slapped it against the stone. It rang like the bells of the Temple of the Sea, which heralded the hours when the fishing fleet was upon the ocean and yet to return to Rookdrift’s harbor.

The dragon’s head opened its mouth, dropping the brass ring as it yawned. The metal circle fell to the floor and rolled away back into the enormous kitchen. Its emerald eyes blinked at the two of them.

“Welcome Fox. Welcome Troll. To enter the final room, you must get past me. And to get past me, you must give me something to chew on.”

Fox crossed her arm and sneered. “What are you to be chewing? Shall we retrieve your metal ring so you may chew upon that?”

“One of you needs give me a hand.”

Troll blinked. “What did you say?”

“A sacrifice. It creates a powerful memory. It will unlock the door before you. If you wish to enter, you will gift me one of your hands.”

“And if we say no?” Fox asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Then you will not be allowed to enter, no matter how long you beat upon my portal. Memory is a powerful thing. Even you cannot defeat it.”

“So,” Troll said, sighing, “either we turn away in defeat and leave the great chef as prisoner, or one of us must sacrifice one hand. Is that the correct equation?”

The dragon’s eyes flashed green and it smiled a wide, sly smile. “Precisely. Do you accept the terms?”

“We agree.”

“We do?” Fox said.

“Yes, we do. Take mine.” Troll shoved his hand between the grinning teeth of the door wyrm. It choked for a moment, gagging at the sudden intrusion, then its teeth snapped down with an audible click and it twisted away. With a sucking sound, it swallowed Troll’s hand.

Fox stared at Troll with wide eyes. “But that was—”

“—Yes, I sacrificed my hand for your culinary mentor,” Troll said hastily, glaring at her, willing her to silence for once in her life. He quickly wrapped a handkerchief around the stump, hoping the dragon failed to notice the lack of blood.

It had, indeed, not noticed. Mostly because it appeared puzzled. “That was . . . well . . . I’m not certain . . . I do not believe the hand was flesh.”

“You said you wanted a hand,” Troll said.

“The expectation was one made of flesh and blood,” the dragon’s head said. It turned its eyes up and its tongue ran over its teeth. “That was clearly a false hand made of very cleverly painted wood.”

“I have honored our end of the agreement,” Troll said.

“No, you have not,” the dragon’s head said.

“So, you plan to renege on our accord?”

“I am not reneging. I am demanding!”

“You are cheating.”

“No, you cheated!”

“Mother Yienchu,” Fox said. Troll laughed.

The dragon sighed and rolled its eyes. “You needn’t call the mother of corruption to adjudicate our disagreement. Fine, fine, you have won. You may enter.”

The door swung silently open. Cold air flowed out, sending a chill through Troll’s bones. His flesh rose in goosebumps. “Thank you.”

“I still declare you cheated,” the dragon’s head said with some petulance.

“And I say they are very clever thieves and outwitted you,” Chenshema dhe said, stepping into the doorway. “You are losing your skill. Perhaps I should replace you.”

The dragon said nothing. When Chenshema dhe retrieved the brass ring and replaced it between its ranks of sharp teeth, its face went stone still as it had been when they’d first reached the doorway.

She turned to Fox and Troll. “One last task and I will give your mother what she seeks. Do you accept my challenge?”

Fox placed a hand on Troll’s chest before he could reply. She, being clever, knew what to ask sooner than he, who would have simply said yes without knowing first. “What happens if we fail this challenge?”

She leaned over and kissed Fox on the top of her head. “Clever Fox. If you win, you will be free to go and take Barozki with you, my compliments to mother Yienchu of course. If you fail, Barozki remains here. You will also leave me every memory the two of you have, though I will not prevent you from departing if you so wish. I suspect you will not have even enough memory to wonder why you would want to.”

Troll, arriving at the destination of forethought, asked, “What is the challenge?”

Chenshema dhe shook her thick mane of hair. “You decide based on the outcomes I have presented. The challenge will be provided only if you acquiesce. If I gave it to you now, you could decline, go away, master what is needed to best the challenge, and return at a time of your leisure, much to my detriment. I will give you, let’s say . . .” She reached into the air and plucked a clock from some dimension neither Fox nor Troll could see. She wound it and placed it upon the bridge of the dragon knocker’s nose. “Two minutes to decide.”

Chenshema dhe disappeared. The clock ticked loudly in the silence after her departure.

Fox rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Are you certain she is not a witch or a steamomancer? They are always using the deadlines.”

Troll lowered himself to the ground, his back to the wall next to the door. He rubbed the sore spots on his arms and legs. “I’m sure. Another chaos lord with their usual over blown sense of cleverness.”

“What will we decide?’

Troll pondered the question. That Fox did not rush to say yes meant it deserved longer consideration. Though he did not see how they had any other option but agree. He touched the cloth covering over the stump where his false hand had been. “It would be a great deal to lose. More than a hand. Everything we are.”

“Every adventure we’ve shared.”

He nodded somberly. “Our entire friendship would be gone. There’s no telling if we would ever be friends again.”

She slumped down on the other side of the door. “That is why I am not being hasty. I will not shrink when the stakes are merely a finger here or there among friends. But losing all that is of meaning to me, by which I mean. . .” She paused. “Us.”

“A finger or two among friends,” Troll repeated, and he chuckled. “That’s a fine price to pay indeed. But you paid with your life once. Remember?”

“Hah. It’s true, I did. And you paid ten years of service to bring me back.”

“And you immediately started bartering with a lord of chaos to get it reduced.”

“Well, I am willing to gamble of course to help a friend.”

Troll smiled. “Want to make another bet?”

She nodded and her mouth fell open in a smile. “Always, my friend.”

“Good. What do you think the challenge will be?”

“I suspect some sort of puzzle that requires great physical feats of stamina and mental daring do. And you? What do you think it will be?”

“I am expecting a battle of sorts, against some great creature. Perhaps a giant automaton. Something we can sink our teeth and claws into until we rip its life from its husk.”

“Ah, like the one below the bone yard you destroyed.”

“Indeed.”

They rose as one, though both groaned at all the aches and pains.

The clock stopped, making a loud clang as all hands pointed to the number twelve. It dissolved into bluish smoke, and Chenshema dhe re-appeared. “You have decided?”

Fox brushed dirt off her lovely vest. “We have decided, lordess of the many memories. We have decided to ask: what is in this for us?”

Chenshema dhe shook her head. “The challenge of defeating my game of course. To be able to declare yourself as winners over a lord of chaos.”

“We have already defeated such as you. It becomes diminishing in returns, yes? There is no greater value to say we have defeated two chaos lords after having the one.”

“What Fox means,” Troll added, “is what do we get if we win? Mother Yienchu of course gets master Barozki, for whatever purpose she needs him. If you win, you get all of our memories, and I am certain you’ll find them valuable. But neither have you offered have offered us any prize should we succeed.”

The mistress of memory sighed and shrugged. “Well, what is it you want? Power? Glory? The praise of another chaos lord spread over many unseen dimensions?”

“You have a very nice settee in your storage room I would wish for my apartment,” Fox said. “Also, the dragon door knocker.”

“I’ll take a bag full of silver drachs,” Troll said. “One hundred will suffice.”

“You could purchase quite a home with that much,” Fox said.

“Well, you’re the one who settled for a door knocker and a couch.”

“But they are very nice.”

“Yes, but you could buy several of each with a single drach.”

“True, but they would not be this witch’s personal items.”

“Not a witch. And I suspect this place is not real in any case, so these are not her personal things.”

“Sorcerer then, who is conjuring the unreality?”

“Chaos lord.”

“Ah, well. As you say, I must agree. I have my mind changed and wish a bag of silver drachs, too, to go along with the settee and knocker.”

“Now you’re thinking.”

“Enough!” Chenshema dhe said, her soft, sweet voice tinged with rusty echoes. “There will be no more discussion.”

“You will pay us?” Troll asked.

“Yes, fine, one hundred silver drachs if you win.”

“For each?”

She heaved a great sigh. “Yes, for each.”

“And the settee and door knocker?” Fox asked.

“Yes, yes, fine!”

“Good,” said Fox. “We accept your challenge and will succeed with our keen intellect and the speed of our blades.”

“Finally,” Chenshema dhe said, clapping her hands together. The air around her fingers rang as though she had sounded a chime. “But you will need neither quick wit nor blade to win, sweet Fox.”

“Well?” asked Troll, growing impatient. “What is this challenge of yours?”

“Memory is a fine thing,” she said. The room darkened as smoke drifted around them. Troll felt the tug of magic, subtle, rich, like the scent of a honey sweetened tea before it had cooled. Something yanked his stomach, and much as he had felt when mother had sent them to Chenshema dhe’s mountain fasthold, he had the sense of being moved from one place to another, though his feet never so much as shuffled.

In a blink, the smoke cleared and they were . . . Troll looked around in confusion.

“Why are we in my kitchen?” Fox said, sounding affronted. “This is my most private of sanctuaries and few others are allowed.”

“We are not in your kitchen,” Chenshema dhe replied, “but as Troll so aptly noticed, I am the mistress of memory and can create any place anyone remembers. This is your memory of your kitchen. And it is here that you will face my final challenge.”

Troll had a sinking feeling. Fox simply snorted and waved her hand. “Go on, you may be with the explaining now.”

The cook book by master Barozki rested upon the book holder on the corner counter. The heavy, leather cover thumped open and the pages hissed as they rapidly turned, so quickly they blurred in Troll’s eyes.

Chenshema dhe slapped a finger down on a page and the room went silent.

Phoenix Egg and Tortoise Layer Soufflé

“Soufflé?” Troll asked.

“We are to be . . . baking?” Fox asked at the same moment. Her ears drooped and her shoulders slumped.

“You have one hour to make me this delight.”

“I have no things of a phoenix nor a tortoise in my kitchen,” Fox said.

“You could, if you wish, simply admit defeat. There is no shame.”

This would normally be the time Fox’s eyes would narrow, she’d glance at her opponent sideways, and she would begin to rapidly bargain, as she referred to it. Pulling the coal sack over their eyes was how Troll thought of it. Not this time, though. This time it almost sounded as though she were defeated before the challenge had even begun.

“Six hours,” Troll said hastily, stepping in front of Fox. “Six hours, you provide the ingredients, and we get two attempts to make your recipe.”

“I will give you two hours. That is as far as I can go in my generosity.”

“Be reasonable,” he said, spreading his hands wide as he’d seen Fox do numerous times. “We are thrust into this situation by two chaos lords who are at odds and we have to make do. Give us four hours and two attempts along with the ingredients.”

She tapped her finger on the cook book, tipping her head to look at Troll. “Two hours. The ingredients. One attempt. Nothing more. Take it, or admit you will fail now and I will take my prizes and deposit you back in her real apartment. Perhaps you will find your way to the front door eventually.”

Troll searched his memories, trying to find a solution. He wanted two tries at this. How did Fox do it? She could negotiate the coat off the back of a rich earl in the middle of a winter storm. She’d talked mother Yienchu down from ten years of servitude to three years. She was born with slyness and diplomacy, both in heavy measure.

A paw touched his elbow. Fox looked up at him, and her mouth had opened slightly in a half grin. Her eyes sparkled. “That is good enough. We accept the challenge.”

The clock reappeared, resting on one of the granite counters. “Wonderful. I shall return in two hours to see what you have produced for me.” She sank, her body expanding into smoke that drifted around their ankles and faded away, leaving a lingering scent of jasmine.

“Thank you, my friend,” Fox said.

“For what?”

“For the wheeling and the dealing in pursuant of a better agreement. I did not know it was a skill you had acquired.”

“I did well then?”

“Perfection. Why have you not shown such a silver tongue until now?”

“I picked it up from watching you for so long.”

“Ah, well, there is of course that.” When she turned to look at the recipe book, her ears drooped again. “But no matter, for I am unable to produce anything but flotsam from my kitchen. You have already seen this.”

“Yes. But this time, you will not have to cook alone.”

“I am not sure this will be improving our odds unless you have also gained culinary skills over the many years we have been adventuring. I only recall a prodigious appetite when we eat at the public houses, less so an aptitude for the preparation of the cuisines.”

He shrugged. “No, I don’t cook much. But we’ve got the recipe in front of us. The ingredients are here and you know where everything is in the kitchen. And I’ve spent a lot of time working with mother on her potions and dissections and know how to measure and add reagents in precise doses and orders. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“We lose all our memories and forget even that we are the greatest thieves the world has ever seen, let alone the best of all friends.”

“Fine, point to you. We can but try.”

Fox slapped her paws together. “Then we shall make such a trying of it they sing of our legend down through the ages even if we are to be the losers.” She stepped to a corner and took two aprons off a hook where they hung, handing one to Troll.

“They will sing of our great cooking battle?”

“Why not?” She took a large, silver spoon from the wall. “Have you not seen my spoon? It is glorious!” She shoved it dramatically into a pocket on the side of her apron.

Troll wrapped the apron string around his waist and tied it off. “Alright, let us begin.”

Troll read the recipe aloud three times as Fox waited patiently, one arm crossing her chest, the other tapping her snout. When he finished, he glanced at her. “What now?”

“I will get the ingredients from my ice box and the pantry. You will get the round pan with the flat bottom from the wall, two bowls from the upper cabinet, and light the oven for me if you are pleased.”

Soon, the counter was covered with a large assortment of items. A block of butter; a small bowl of sugar; a bottle of goat’s milk; flour; four large eggs, rainbow-speckled, that appeared as though they flickered with flames; a plate with plump, red berries; a vial filled with a viscous fluid; and various other seasons and garnishes.

“We must first separate the eggs,” Fox said. She held her hands over the eggs and stared at them as though she could not bring herself to do it.

“Separate how? One here, one there? Two by two?”

She shook her head. “No, we must crack them open and the yellowish part must be put aside from the clearish part.” Still, she hesitated.

Troll gently took her by the shoulders and moved her aside. “Why don’t you get the pan ready. The recipe says it has to be buttered and sugared. I’ll handle the eggs.”

“Of course,” she said. Some of the tension left her body.

Well, how hard can this be. Troll kept the thought to himself, though, not wanting Fox to worry. He’d decanted plenty of reagents for mother Yienchu. A careful pour of the liquid at the top of a glass jar after a mixture had been heated to separate the chemicals, ensuring not a drop of the purified material was lost.

He took one egg. It felt warm to the touch, though not hot. Not hot enough to cause the egg to rapidly develop into the bird who had birthed it from its own ashes. It would take far more heat than even Fox’s oven could generate to hatch a phoenix. He thumped it gently once on the counter and was rewarded with a clean crack through the center. He placed an egg separator over a bowl and carefully finished splitting the egg into it, which proved surprisingly difficult with only one hand. Once the clear fluids had dripped down, he dumped the yolk into a separate bowl.

“One down,” he said, more to himself than to Fox.

“Thank you,” she said, radiating relief. She dusted the pan and did not glance over, keeping her eyes on her own work.

At last, all four eggs were separated and Troll tossed the shells into the waste trough in the corner. “What’s next?”

Back and forth they went, each finding a task which best suited them. Troll often took the more demanding ones, which required careful measurements and timing. This included frothing the egg whites until they had bubbled enough, but not too much. For this he had only the words of master Barozki to judge what would be correct, based on the size of the bubbles formed and their number. This was another task Fox could not bear to watch, instead focusing on creating the berry flavored coating that would be poured over the top of the soufflé at the end, giving it the distinctive tortoise shell color of its name.

At last, the mixture was poured into the pan and Fox eased it into the oven. She lifted the door closed and glanced at the clock on the counter. “Only thirty minutes left.”

“It needs twenty to thirty minutes to cook,” Troll reminded her.

“Yes, I am knowing we are cutting close this task. If you please, though, follow the footnote of master Barozki.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure why it’s necessary, but alright.”

Troll walked around Fox’s house lighting all of her lamps and candles. He put wood into each fireplace and lit those as well. Last, he closed most of the vents from the tunnels, allowing only enough fresh air in to feed the fires. Then he returned to the kitchen.

The room, already hot from the stove, grew intolerable. Sweat poured down Troll’s face and soaked his shirt. Fox’s fur hung damply.

“Ten minutes to go,” Troll told her at last. “Time to check.” He took an enormous swig from a water jug, though even it had become warm in the overheated house.

“You look,” Fox said, holding her paws up in front of her as though fending off an attacker. “I cannot.”

“Let’s hope this works.”

Troll eased the door of the oven down a few inches and peered inside. “It’s rising,” he whispered. Then he released the door.

He realized his mistake immediately.

The door rose, picking up speed. Troll froze, unable to react, waiting for the thump, which would surely cause their careful work to collapse.

Fox moved like a blur, jamming her paw into the tiny gap left and slamming her other paw over her mouth to keep from screaming in pain.

Troll pulled the door open again a little so Fox could remove her paw. This time, he closed it very carefully so it would make no noise. “I am so sorry,” he whispered, taking her paw and looking it over. The fur had singed and she had red marks on three of her finger tips, but it did not look as though she had badly burned.

Fox heaved a great sigh and sat down in a chair at the small table in the corner. “It is alright. No harm done, for I am Fox and I am fastest.”

“Not long now,” he said.

“No, not long,” she agreed.

With three minutes left, Fox stood. “Take it out now, please. Very, very carefully.”

Troll opened the oven and reached in with thick cooking gloves on. He lifted and carefully withdrew the soufflé, which had a nice, golden texture on top where it had risen several inches beyond the pan. He placed it as softly as a whisper upon a wooden tray Fox had placed upon the counter to keep the pan from touching the cooler granite surface, though in this heat Troll felt the counters would likely be as hot.

“Let me turn down the temperature,” he said. “You finish preparing it.”

He doused all the flames and reopened the vents, letting cool, fresh air waft into her house. It would take far longer for the kitchen to cool off, but at least they could now leave that room and find one where they would not suffer over much.

When he walked into the kitchen, Fox sat sniffling at the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong?” he said, hurrying over to her.

She shook her head, unable to speak, and waved at the soufflé. Troll hastened to the counter, heart falling as he expected the worst.

There sat the phoenix egg and tortoise soufflé, now topped over with the berry coating and garnished with more sugar covered berries. The smell made his stomach rumble.

“It’s perfect,” Troll said softly, afraid his voice might cause it to collapse. “What’s the matter with you?”

“It is perfect,” Fox agreed. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose loudly. “It is the most perfect thing my kitchen has ever seen, only it is not my kitchen but only a memory of the same, so it is not real. When I return the really real, I will not have cooked such a confection. I will still be Fox, the cooking failure.”

Troll laughed quietly. “When we return, we’ll cook some more things together. Yes? You’ve shown now you can do it. We’ll go through every recipe in master Barozki’s book.”

“In my real kitchen, I have the book tossed away.”

“I cleaned it up and put it back on your shelf.”

“You did?”

“Of course. You were upset, but the book held no blame and I thought you might want it again in the future.”

She took his hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”

The clock rang.

Chenshema dhe reappeared.

“Well, what do you have for me?” She smiled sweetly at the two of them.

Fox rose, untying her apron and tossing it on the chair. She straightened her waist coat and stepped forward. Then she bowed formally, her right arm crossing her waist. “For the presenting of your appetite, we are delivering unto you a phoenix egg and tortoise soufflé of the most delicate perfection. You will be carried upon an experience you dare not dream.”

“You are the most gifted of liars, mistress Fox. I adore you for your tongue. I should have bartered for that instead of your memories, but perhaps they are one and the same.”

She turned to the counter and looked at the cooling soufflé. “It certainly looks tempting. I will need a spoon.”

Fox found an appropriate dessert spoon from her silverware and presented it. “With my compliments, mistress dhe.”

Chenshema dhe pushed the spoon through the crust and scooped out a bite of flaky cake. She lifted it to her lips. Her eyes closed. For a split second, Troll could see all of her. Not only the human figure before them, but the vast figure who lived upon an infinite spider web built of the memories of others. From her gasp, he thought Fox had seen her revealed, too. But it only lasted for the blink of an eye, and Chenshama dhe once again became a middle-aged woman who was savoring a complex but delicious dessert.

“All the many old saints and dark gods, that is good,” she said, her mouth half full of dessert. She swallowed. “Perfection. I would weep if I could shed tears.”

“We have won then? You will not be reneging upon our agreement?”

“I am the mistress of memory, not tricks. I would not have people remembering me as one who would be deceitful, unlike that monster, Fuibreish. I declare you have won.”

“And our winnings?” Fox asked.

“They will be sent to you,” Chenshema dhe replied. There came a pulling sensation, and in a blink of an eye they were whisked for a third time from the place where they were to a different place. This time, it appeared they had gone nowhere, though.

“Are we?” Troll asked.

Fox sniffed. “Yes, my real kitchen. Not a memory this time.”

A little man sat on one of the chairs at the table against the wall. He wore a thread-worn shirt which might once have been white, and dark trousers stiff with filth. An unkempt beard hung to his chest.  He looked pale, his eyes sunken, and his hand shook as he looked around, blinking like some great owl. “What is this place?”

“This,” Fox said, her eyes growing wide, “is my humble kitchen, master Barozki. I am most pleased to welcome you to it.”

The little man sniffed. “Is that . . . my phoenix egg and tortoise soufflé?”

Fox clapped her paws together and ran to the counter, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a grin. “Oh, it is, it is! She has brought it back from the realm of memories! And it rose and it has been tasted and it has been judged welcome.”

“Very tricky, yes, very tricky.” He stood and on wobbly legs walked to the counter. He snatched the spoon from Chenshema dhe and dug a bite from the soufflé. After he had chewed thoughtfully, he nodded. “Most wonderfully done, mistress . . . ah . . . you are?”

“I am Fox,” she said, bowing for him as she had for Chenshema dhe.

“Yes, you are,” he said, finally looking at her.

“Why did she capture you?” Troll asked.

“What?” His skin blanched under the dirt and he glanced around as if only now realizing he and Fox were not alone. “Oh. Oh her.”

Chenshema dhe smiled at him, though not unkindly. “Master Barozki came to me to find memories of recipes long forgotten, all for his next book. But when I asked him for his payment, he failed to deliver.”

Barozki flushed pale white in the gas light and looked down at the floor, his hands clasped tightly and shaking. “I needed more time. One hour was not long enough to complete the complexity of the soufflé.”

“Then you should have asked, as Fox and Troll did.”

“I could have asked?”

“Of course. I am not immune to polite requests.”

“Oh.”

“Why did mother send us to rescue you?” Troll asked.

The scent of the swamp filled the room. Fox gagged and quickly covered her nose.

“Because I wanted to surprise you, Troll. When Fox told me of her plan for your birthday, I thought I might engage the world’s greatest chef, only to learn Chenshema dhe already had retained him.”

“Detained him is more apt,” Troll said.

“One and the same.”

“You knew she was not a witch,” Fox said. She crossed her arms and glared at the empty spaces where mother Yienchu sat.

“I did of course. And she knew I would send you.”

“I have enjoyed our collaboration, mother Yienchu,” Chenshema dhe said. “It has been ages since we’ve worked together.”

Troll stared at Fox until she finally met his eyes. “You told mother you were planning a birthday celebration for me?”

Fox mumbled something, but nodded.

“She wanted ideas of how to make it special for you. After she left, I thought upon the topic, and decided it might be fun to have the two of you play a little game.”

“At the price of losing all our memories?” Troll said.

“Fun; not easy.”

Someone pounded on the door.

“Ah, and here is your real gift, little Fox. The package you asked for me to arrange has finally arrived.”

Fox cursed and ran out of the kitchen. Her voice echoed from the front entry, though Troll could not make out the words. At last she returned, her face flushed.

“That swindler Archarigi has finally delivered upon his promise.” She held up a cherry wood box with a silver ribbon tied around it. “Go on, please open it, my friend.”

Troll took the large box and pulled the ribbon free. Then he removed the lid. Inside, wrapped in red velvet cloth, rested a hand. A clockwork hand, brass and silver and beautiful, the surface cover with runes and engravings.

“I measured your stump when you were passed out drunk,” Fox said, her mouth open. “I thought you might like a nicer hand, one made by a steamomancer so it will respond to your very thoughts. Happiest of birthdays, my best of all friends.”

___

Copyright 2025 Jeff Reynolds