Page 91 of Ale Storm

The priest stepped close to Ekton and whispered while pointing at Rylana. She was once again wearing the horn around her neck, and she lifted it over her head, ready to foist it on the king. If the dwarf gang wanted it, they would have to root through his underwear to find it.

“I’m the diner’s bookkeeper, sire. Rylana Avandar.” With the horn in her hands, she walked toward him. “I believe you came to see if this belongs to your family.”

“King Ekton came also to dine here on our fine food,” came Jildarin’s voice from the hallway. Though he wore his usual simple black trousers and white chef’s coat, the sleeves evenly rolled up to reveal his forearms, he always managed to look trim and a little imperious himself. Unlike with the elven queen, he must not have met the dwarven king before, because he introduced himself formally. “I am Jildarin-grozanarav of Clan Killcrusher, chef and owner of the Dragon Diner. I will be preparing and serving your meal tonight.”

“Are you sure you’re a dragon?” Ekton asked. “I’ve never been served by your kind.”

“Dwarves are more often meals for their kind,” one of the guards muttered.

Ignoring him, Jildarin pointed toward the booth. “I have taken on the duty of creating excellent food for lesser species so that they might come to better understand the intellectual, cultural, and artistic excellence and even superiority of dragons. You will sit there. As you examine the antique that my business partner found, I will bring the first course. You will enjoy it immensely.”

“Now he sounds like a dragon,” Ekton said to his priest.

“Yes, sire.”

Not appearing offended by Jildarin’s pomposity, Ekton, the priest, and a few dwarves dressed in everything from doublets and hose to chain-mail armor to a smith’s leather apron joined him at the booth. Others filled in most of the remaining tables, with a few guards standing on duty near their king. A female dwarf wearing spectacles entered the diner last, a book open in her arms, and she squeezed in at the end of the booth.

King Ekton hadn’t yet taken the horn from Rylana, but when his people had all sat down, he waved for her to bring it over.

“Diplomat Shebly said you found that in the woods?” Ekton pointed for Rylana to give it to the female dwarf with the book—it was open to a page with drawings of hunting horns on it. “This is my artifacts expert, Lady Wikla.”

“Near Toadstool Rock, yes. I should warn you that others have been looking for it.” Rylana summed up finding the horn and also her experience drinking alcohol from it and that it glowed when it detected a dangerous substance.

“I believe it is the Horn of Agomoral,” Wikla breathed, pushing her spectacles up into her pale brown hair so she could squint closely at the carvings. “And if what you say is true, then it agrees with the history I’ve dug up—history that was lost for centuries during the Reordering.”

The king nodded, so they’d apparently discussed this before.

Gniknik and Rolf brought out appetizer rockballs with a flaky coating that had been deep-fried to golden brown. Ramekins holding dipping sauces rested on the plates with the offerings.

Rylana’s mouth watered as she caught the warm and slightly spicy scents wafting up. Gniknik and Rolf set plates on the other tables first, Rolf, of course, mentioning goblin tips as Gniknik said that Chef Jildarin had decreed that the king and his party wouldn’t be charged for the meal.

“Oh, dipping sauces,” Ekton said. “I haven’t had food like this since my staff stopped allowing me to visit the street vendors.” He shot the priest a dirty look and sent one toward a senior-looking guard as well.

“Since the poisoning attempt, Sire,” the guard murmured as the priest nodded at him. “Do not forget it.”

“Now that the Horn of Agomoral is being returned to your family, Sire, you won’t need to worry about poisoning.” Wikla held up the artifact with cheer. “It’s traditionally for determining if a beverage is poisoned, but I suppose you could stuff a deep-fried meatball into it.”

“Those are rockballs,” Jildarin said, walking out with more plates that he personally set on the king’s table. “Our research suggests they are a favorite of yours, King Ekton.”

“Oh, they are.” Ekton rubbed his hands together and reached for his plate as Jildarin set it in front of him.

“We are serving three courses of rockballs, all cooked with different meats or seafoods and in a different regional style.” Jildarin eyed the female dwarf. “None will be stuffed into a dirty artifact pulled off the forest floor by a hound.”

“From what we’ve seen,” Rylana said, “if you hold the horn near a dangerous substance, the little mugs glow blue. Sometimes, there are even storm clouds above them.”

The priest took the king’s plate, even though Ekton had been about to dip one of the rockballs in a creamy white sauce. He pointed to Wikla with significance, and she waved the horn over the plate. None of the mugs in the carvings lit up.

“It warmed very slightly in my hand.” Wikla glanced toward her open book.

“I think that happens whenever it’s drawing upon its magic,” Rylana said. “If it senses a beverage or alcohol nearby, the horn warms up.”

“I have mixed different varieties of dwarven ale, those I tasted and deemed most palatable, into each course of rockballs,” Jildarin said, not commenting on the testing occurring at the table. “For the appetizer, an oatmeal stout mixed with my special seasoning blend is in the batter coating the ball.”

Ekton succeeded in getting one of the fried balls off his plate and into a creamy yellow dipping sauce. After he smelled it and smiled, he chomped into it.

“Ahhh. I’m in the dwarven heaven, the musical notes of smiths banging on metal serenading me.” Ekton rested a hand on his chest.

“You are, in fact, in the Dragon Diner,” Jildarin said. “We are considering installing a grotto. Perhaps dwarven music could also be added.” He looked at Rylana.