“He must be blowing through the entire year’s ration budget.” Tamas resumed walking, feeling some urgency in his step. “Ondraus is going to shit a paving stone.”
Olem caught up. “On the contrary, sir. I asked a secretary. It seems he’s not even touched the main fund.”
“Then how is he paying for all that food?”
Olem shrugged.
One kitchen served the entirety of the House of Nobles. It was located just beneath the main floor so that windows high up one of the walls could provide light during the day, and was nearly as long as the House was wide. Along one side of the kitchen ran dozens of ovens with flues that disappeared into the ceiling and enough cooking space to prepare food for the thousands of secretaries and nobles that would normally have filled the building. The middle of the floor contained broad, low tables to prepare recipes and to ready ingredients, and the other side contained hutches and cupboards by the score with measuring instruments, spices, and other ingredients. Sausages, herbs, vegetables, and more hung from the ceiling.
Tamas patted his forehead with a handkerchief the moment he entered the room. The heat nearly sent him retreating out into the hall. He blinked a few times and held his ground, partially urged on by the myriad of smells: scents of cocoa and cinnamon and of breads and meats. His mouth began to water.
“Are you all right, sir?” Olem asked.
Tamas shot him a look.
The room bustled with dozens of assistants. They all wore a variation of the same uniform: a white apron over black pants, and some kind of hat upon their head. Some of them seemed to be able to afford to acquire better quality, while others looked to have scrounged their outfits from the street. Tamas did notice that no matter how frayed, all the clothing was clean. He noticed another thing: Every one of the assistants was a woman. They varied in age and beauty and all worked with utmost concentration. None seemed to notice Tamas’s presence.
The chef himself paced among his assistants. Tamas recognized him immediately as the man who’d appeared at his headquarters the day of the earthquake. As Tamas watched, Mihali stopped to say something to one of his assistants and then immediately moved on to the next, adding a dash of this spice to that dish and gently grabbing the arm of an assistant before too much flour could be added to a dough. He had set the women up in workstations, and he danced between them with the skill of a line commander, issuing orders and making changes to the recipes as he went, always seeming to have an eye on everything at once.
Mihali caught sight of Tamas and smiled. He headed toward the door, only to stop halfway there at a counter of meats and help a hefty-sized woman with her aim at the cleaver. He lopped off a dozen ribs of beef with the precision of a headsman and then nodded to the woman, handing back the cleaver. He whispered something reassuring and made his way over to Tamas.
“Good afternoon, Field Marshal,” Mihali said. “Been a busy couple of weeks since we met.”
Olem gave Tamas a curious look at this.
Mihali went on, “I’ll tell you, I’d work twice as fast if I wasn’t training a whole batch of new assistants.” He removed his hat and dragged a sleeve across his forehead, staining the cloth with sweat, before wiping his hands on his apron. A look of worry crossed his face. “Lunch will be a few minutes late, I’m afraid.”
Tamas glanced across the room. So much was going on that it was impossible to tell what was actually being prepared. He’d been ready to come down here asking questions. He wanted to get to the bottom of this “mad chef” business. Yet his words died on his tongue.
“I doubt anyone will complain,” Tamas managed. His stomach rumbled suddenly. “What’s for lunch?”
“Blackened salamander with curry and a light vegetable pie,” Mihali said. “We’re having wine-glazed beef back for dinner tonight, and I thought I’d serve a spiced wine with it. Main courses only. There will be plenty of other things to choose from.”
“To everyone in the House?”
“Of course.” Mihali’s eyes went wide, as if Tamas had suggested something idiotic. “Do you think a secretary deserves to eat any less well than a field marshal, or a soldier than an accountant?”