Prodigal Sons by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-60125-397-2
Publisher: Paizo Publishing, LLC
Published: 2011-07-21T23:00:00+00:00

"Oaths or not, never trust a leucrotta."

This recipe is also known to be irresistible to Hanspur’s brides since, as old Laraen used to tease me, the sauce goes just as well with children as it does with fish. But this was the test: Which of the bevy of beauties lined up for the feast would reveal herself by taking the first taste?

Of course, green sauce is hard to resist even for those who aren’t moss-colored beldames. Two slightly drunk halfling twins ornamented with starred tiaras and gauze butterfly wings in imitation of Desna, who either did not know the custom or else were amazingly petite brides, went up and began serving themselves, pronouncing it delicious.

“Do you hear that?” said the fish. “I am delicious! Eat me! Eat me or sacrifice yourself to Hanspur!”

One of Desna’s barflies squealed and dropped her fork. It clattered across the deck. The other picked it up, then jabbed underneath the tablecloth.

Two half-elven children—likely older than me—ran out, laughing, and with that, the rest of the maidens descended on the banquet. And if Hanspur’s brides were among them, who could tell?

Other dainties were brought out as well: a roast swan stuffed with a goose, stuffed with a duck, and so on with a chicken, a pheasant, a partridge, a pigeon, a woodcock, and finally a gilded hazelnut known as “the foolish lich’s phylactery”; succulent cardoons (fancifully presented as the frittered heart of a sentient plant-beast); an effigy of marchpane tinted, gilded, and silvered to be the very image of The Rabbit Prince and his broken sword; and even a brace of peacocks basted with saffron butter. They reminded me of Laraen’s nursery story, how the peacock tricked the cockatrice out of his beautiful tail, and why it is thus unlucky to wear peacock feathers, for even a single eye from the stolen plumage can send the monsters into a frenzied rage.

Phargas loaded up a trencher, even having the temerity to break off the gilded hilt of the Rabbit Prince’s sword (the maidens having already made off with the tail and both ears), but as he’d paid for this largesse, I wasn’t going to begrudge him a bit of gold-dusted almond paste.

I myself was partial to peacock, so had snagged a wing as my right as Pathfinder. But with privilege come expectations, and I found myself face-to-face with one of the maidens. She had a lovely form and features so long as you overlooked the horned hennin headdress and long skirts commonly used to disguise the horns and the tail of a hellspawn. “So,” she said with the accent of the Chelish aristocracy—another damning clue, likely one of Cheliax’s devilborn bastards sent out on a grand tour in hopes that she’d find a less discerning or more financially strapped lordling and not come back—“you are a Pathfinder, yes?”

“Indeed.” I nodded. “You may call me Ollix, milady.”

“You may call me Belshabba.” Her brief smile revealed small fangs and confirmed my suspicions of infernal parentage. “I have a question, O Pathfinder: What do you call more than one of those?” She pointed to the roast swan.

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