YoTS January ~ 41!

CHAPTER 41

Grant fumbled along yet another hallway that looked almost exactly like all the rest. At least this one had a portrait of Lord January to use as a marker, and if his memory served, that meant he was near the cells. Straining his ears, he confirmed his position when Billy declared, “I win again! Another game, Joel? I haven’t taken next month’s pay off you yet!”

“Forget it. Let’s just do our rounds.” A reinforced chair scraped as the guards started to get up. Grant didn’t want to be questioned again. Once was more than enough, but a second time wandering the same stretch of hall would look suspicious. Grant recalled the Leaps talking about hidden passages during dinner, and that servants used them to zip between wings or floors in the castle keep.

He lifted back the painting looking for a switch or lever, but there was nothing. As footsteps approached, he headed in the other direction. Looking back, he tripped on a fold in the carpet. Tumbling to the ground, he tried to get up. In the outfit stuffed with linen, he felt like a turtle stuck on its back. He grabbed at a torch and used it to pull himself to his feet.

It clicked.

“Winter’s son, I broke it. Someone…”

A section of the wall slid open. He wordlessly darted inside and pushed the false wall closed. Standing in the darkness, he heard muffled voices pass by on the other side of the wall. All was quiet a moment later, and he almost slumped in relief. Grant started feeling his way along the walls in the darkness, more than once having to stifle a sneeze from the disturbed dust. It seemed this particular path was not used very often, or at all.

By the time he finally found signs of habitation, he had gone up three flights of stairs. This certainly wasn’t the way to the jail, but at this point there was no way to find his way back. The faint sound of muffled voices drew his attention, and he was extra-careful not to make a sound. If he could hear them, they could hear him.

At this point, Grant had to move sideways due to the bulk of the stuffed outfit - likely why this tunnel was unused. He considered taking it off, but if he got lost in here he’d likely never find it again. Then he’d really have a problem getting into the exhibition tournament in the morning.

Grant pressed his eye against a narrow gap, and spied a meaty fist bedecked in familiar jewelled rings. He lifted his gaze to find the familiar face of Randall, and gasped.

Randall’s eyes darted around. “What was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything, my Lord. It was probably just a rat.” The familiar voice made Grant feel sick, especially as the conversation continued.

“Thank you for this information, it is more important than you’ll ever know.” Randall took a drink from a crystal glass and smacked his lips before continuing. “Once I inform Lord January, you will be known as Sir Skinny!”

“It would be an honor, sir.” Skinny smiled as he too took a gulp of fine wine. “I knew there was something wrong with that brat. When he joked about being a Leap? It’s never done.”

Grant was nauseous. Skinny was here, sharing information with Randall. Try as he might, he couldn’t understand how either of these men had come to be here. The last time he had seen Randall was back at the estate near New Dawn, and he had vanished during the fight with Sir Thirty First.

“I hate Leaps,” Skinny continued with a snarl. To think I trusted him, helped him, even! I don’t do this for the title, it's the right and just thing to do. Any honest Januarian would do the same.”

Grant’s head spun from the repercussions of what he was listening to. Skinny had betrayed him, and Randall now knew he was here.

“Quite right.” Randall murmured contentedly, sipping on his beverage.

“Those sympathisers,” spat Skinny, “were helping him intentionally, knowing what he was!”

“Don’t worry. They’ll be dealt with tomorrow, along with the Leap that was caught this evening.” Randall promised darkly, spitting flecks of red wine over his oversized bib. “What a feast it will be. Come, Skinny. Or should I call you, Sir Skinny now?”

Grant watched the laughing pair leave the room; his heart breaking at the thought of Skinny betraying not only him, but his friends. For what? A title and a seat at Lord January’s table. More than that, it bothered Grant that Randall was somehow here at Castle January.

Not knowing what to do, he found a wide spot in the passageway and resigned himself to an uncomfortable sleep on the dusty floor. The fluffy uniform offered a decent bed, and soon he sank into troubled dreams.

It felt like only a moment had passed when trumpeting wrenched him from the grasp of nightmares. The cacophony signalled that the exhibition tournament was about to begin, and the spectators to take their seats.

“I overslept! I’ll never get near the front now.” He squeezed along the dark passageway, savagely pushing on every panel until one finally clicked. He landed next to a passing chef.

“You better clean yourself up. If the Head Chef spots you looking like that,” the chef sneered as he pointed to Grant’s dust-coated uniform, “you’ll be punished severely. Especially today, of all days! What were you thinking, using the back passages?”

“Couldn’t get through the crowd.” Grant lied easily, wondering when it had become so easy. He cringed as he remembered trying to convince a group of Vassals that his blood-coated sword had been used to scoop jam. Luckily, the chef had already taken off, scurrying through the hallway. “Regent’s sword, I’m going to miss the event!”

Token in hand and disguised, panic still threatened to overwhelm him. Grant forced himself to take a moment and calm down. He watched a stream of servants, chefs and Nobility pass. They all appeared to be going in the same direction, so he went with the flow; following the crowd down a flight of stairs. Grant, along with the crowd, soon spilled out of the main entrance to the keep. People patiently lined up, waving tickets and wearing their finest clothes.

He did his best to dust off the uniform and wipe away the cobwebs. Bypassing the queue, Grant followed the other chefs and waiters. As a chef, he was waved through. Vassals of House Tuesday were arguing with the guards, “Come on, let us in. We’re House Tuesday! Can’t you see that?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Without your Vassal Weapon, we'll have to manually verify that each of you are who you say you are.”

“And how long will that take?” the Vassal sulked but stood to the side. “We’ll miss the exhibition tournament and more importantly, the feast!

“Rules are rules. If you are really House Tuesday Vassals, you should know that.” The guard glared at them, turning suspicious as he finished speaking.

“After Count Tuesday was murdered, we lost access to our power.” A second Vassal whined.

“That’s a real shame, but I still can’t let you in without being able to prove who you are. Any more of this, and you can spend the day cooling off in a cell!” The guard’s bellow drew attention, helping Grant merge with the line of chefs. Soon he could no longer make out what the Vassals were saying.

A shadow fell over Grant. “What are you standing there for? Get over to the kitchen and help with starters!”

Grant looked up and tried not to panic as he say the name boldly appear over the man speaking to him. Head. Chef. Gordon. The man himself loomed over him. “Your uniform…! If I didn’t need all hands on deck, boy, I’d have you flogged!”

“Yes, chef! Sorry, chef!” Grant scampered off in the direction of the kitchen. He wanted to take a seat close to the arena, but that plan had just gone out the window. The kitchen was a hive of activity as Chefs barked out orders in between plating dishes, frying, boiling, stewing, and roasting. The noise and heat within the suit was making his head spin. Grant felt like he would pass out at any minute.

He had to get out of there.

“What are you standing around for?” Snapped a chef through his mask. “Take these eggs and make equal quantities of scrambled, poached, and boiled eggs.” Grant stared down at the basket of eggs. He didn’t have time for this. “Are you deaf or just slow?”

“Sorry.” Sweat dripped down his forehead and nipped at his eyes. “It’s my first day.”

“First day or not, get to work or it will be your last day! Ovens are over there, and you can heat up water. Or is that too much for a chef on their first day?” The chef mocked him mercilessly. Grant went in the general direction the chef pointed, knocking into people and covering his uniform in tomato sauce.

Arriving at the range, Grant  dumped all of the eggs into a pot of water that was already at a roiling boil.  the chef that had mocked him rushed over with a banshee-esque screech. “What are you doing? You really are dense, aren’t you! I said to make different types of eggs. This lot is ruined!”

“I… I… I have to go.” Grant stormed past the chef, who stared at the young man incredulously.

“Hey, come back! You’ll never be able to keep a job if you run away!” The chef's tone was completely different from even a moment before.

Grant stopped. He knew the chef was right. Plus, if he left without a valid reason to be away from the kitchen, he’d be forced back here. “Sorry… it’s all a bit much for me. I was hired from Sir Thirty First’s estate after my lord was killed, and it’s my first time cooking in such a grand kitchen.”

“Oh… I heard about that.” The chef sighed and rubbed his sweaty neck. “Lorde January sure is kind, trying to ensure that his supporters don't go without. You must have been through a lot to get here in time for the feast, and if you are just not up to proper cooking right now, get over here and work as my sous chef.”

“I need forty pounds of these julienned for various stews and platters.” Grant watched as the chef expertly diced and cut vegetables to add to a dish, then stepped in and started expertly chopping the vegetables twice as fast as the chef had just demonstrated. Unsurprisingly, he was an expert at using bladed weapons to create perfect cuts at this point.

“Would you look at that! You have some skills after all.” The chef laughed as he watched Grant fly through the task. “That should take you at least an hour, I’ll have someone running them to me. Hopefully you will be ready for the day once you get your head on straight!”

Grant got light-headed as he chopped. The fat suit was unbearable, combining that with the heat of the kitchens… he felt like he would collapse at any moment. He could only hope that he would last long enough to get close to his target.