It Could Be Worse (3rd Season)

Episode 13: Good Cookin'!

By Sulia Serafine

[A Protector of the Small fanfic set in an alternate universe; all credit goes to Tamora Pierce. I'm broke, so you can't sue me. Any other copyrighted things that don't belong to me in here in fact belong to other very businesslike people. Could you believe that? I guess that's why I'm broke.

E-mail me at silverwlng@aol.com okay? And you know the drill: titles or subjects of emails are fanfiction.net, s.serafine, or icbw.

IMPORTANT NOTE: I'm still accepting people into the mailing list. That means you'll be told when the next episode is posted, as well as other tidbits of information about the series whenever I put them online. ALSO: Every now and then, as a pledge, I'll send everyone bonus material, such as drawings of ICBW characters and little random facts about ICBW.

Rating of this episode: PG13 This is simply a reprieve from the dark and gloomy story line that has thus progressed this season. And now, for the main attraction… THE RIDERS' OWN!

~~

As Keladry sat with her friends, her brothers, and their crew at dinner, she thought back to Inness' innocent wish to simply return home. No one except Cleon could bring himself to chatter as if they were in a normal setting. This being the case, Keladry focused on her private thoughts of Tusaine and Tortall.

Though she had not lived in Tusaine too long, she felt bonded with the city. It was a thriving metropolis full of interesting people. Ah, yes. The people. Keladry recalled her neighbors from the floor above—the Riders' Own. Led by Marshal Raoul Malorie, a man almost as famous as Keladry's role model, Alanna Olau Trebond. The Riders had met Keladry and her friends with nothing short of the most wonderful hospitality that she had ever seen. She felt as if she were one of them, even though she did not work with them.

She hoped, wherever they were, that they fared well.

~~

Domitan Masbolle put his feet up on the edge of the desk and pushed off, sending him gliding across the floor in his office chair. He came to a gradual stop in front of a Bazhir by the name of Qasim ibn Zirhud, who was currently leaning against the doorframe and sipping herbal tea.

"Guess who's coming to visit," Dom sang tauntingly. A smile was spread wide across his face.

The dark skinned mechanic glanced at the computer terminal that Dom was usually situated in front of. He sighed. "I can't imagine. Why don't you tell me?"

With another Cheshire Cat grin, he turned around, pushed off the wall, and went gliding back to his computer. He cleared his throat dramatically, putting one hand flat on his chest while holding the other out to Qasim in an official manner. "Raoul, dear old friend! As per tradition before every election year, Thayet and I will be traveling around the country to view the state of the major cities and to promote good spirits in the future.

"Tusaine is our first stop—partly because I do wonder what you're up to there. Despite your free roam of the entire country, you love to stay there. Perhaps I will finally see why. And besides, Alanna heard about it and has insisted on accompanying us so that she could come and tease you. She's bringing George and two of her older children. Myles is coming as well, for some reason I choose not to fathom. (Where Myles is involved, it is often wise to keep one's eyes averted until the smoke clears, as you well know.)

"Councilwoman of Tusaine, Daine Sarrasri, has informed me that the usual representatives of the city are not available to receive our party this weekend. She suggested that you and Chief Flyndon might want to. That being said, I look forward to seeing my old chum again and send Buri and Flyn my deepest regards. Jonathan Conté."

Dom turned around and nodded to Qasim. "The President's coming to town! This ought to be amusing."

"Amusing?" Qasim echoed.

"Didn't you just hear him? Raoul is the one who has to set up their welcome reception!"

It sounded more bizarre than amusing. It was common knowledge that Raoul hated the fake pomp and circumstance that came with politics and the government in general. The Bazhir frowned slightly. "What are you doing reading the Marshal's mail anyway?"

"Raoul hates computers. He always has me check his mail. And never has it been more rewarding than today!" Dom rubbed his hands together mischievously. He stood up and began slipping on his jacket. "I'm going to give His Stubbornness the good news."

Qasim winced inwardly. "This isn't going to be pretty."

~~

Raoul stared long and hard at the Rider before him. He glanced at Flyndon, who was seated behind his desk trying to remain indifferent. Then he looked again at Dom, as if the man had grown an extra head. Finally, he propped his chin up on his hand and gave his younger comrade a genuinely pensive look.

"I had no idea that today was April Fools."

"It's not," Flyndon corrected. He gestured to Dom. "He's telling the truth, Raoul."

"Telling the truth?" Raoul replied. He scowled. "That's not the truth! That's a sick, twisted, devious plot crafted by Jon to make me feel guilty and humiliated for never giving the country a nice and pretty picture of the Mithran Marshals!" He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "Nope! Not doing it. Sorry, Flyn! You're on your own here. There's no way I'm going to plan a welcome reception."

"Welcome receptions often come with a welcome banquet in the evening," Dom inserted, beaming despite his boss' foul mood. He had never seen Raoul this angry before, but instead of being afraid, he felt quite pleased. It was not everyday that one saw a reputable man of the nation's high-ranking law enforcement lose his composure. It was exciting in the way that leaping over hot coals was exciting—and incredibly foolish.

Chief Flyndon Whiteford drummed his fingertips against each other, creating a steeple shape with his hands. He rolled matters over in his head, finally coming to stop on a seemingly suitable solution. "Raoul. Perhaps you would consider dividing the work? I'll take care of the welcoming reception. You take care of the dinner."

There was a brief moment of silence before both Dom and Raoul began cracking up in bouts of laughter. The Marshal pounded his heavy fist on the top of Flyn's desk as if he couldn't stop laughing. After a long few moments, the silliness subsided. Raoul peered intently at Flyndon.

"What makes you think that I'd agree to that arrangement? I'd rather do the welcoming reception than a stupid banquet."

"It wouldn't have to be a big banquet. A small dinner—only for us, chosen Council representatives, and the traveling party," Flyndon coaxed in a placating voice.

Raoul glared at him. "No way."

Flyndon returned the steely gaze. "I'm not doing this by myself. You either agree or…" He paused and thought for a moment. "Best two out of three."

Dom blinked. He looked back and forth between the two older men. "What? Best two out of three?"

The Rider watched in amazement as Flyndon and Raoul began rolling up the sleeves on their right arms, flexing their fingers as they did so. They cleared a space on Flyn's desk so as to give them room. Dom gasped when he realized what they were going to do. Arm wrestle! Raoul versus Flyn? No way! This is… this is legendary! he thought. He looked on, wide-eyed with wonder.

"Ready?" Flyn asked, a devilish smirk gracing his features as he put his right elbow down on the desk.

Raoul did the same. He was grinning toothily.  "Any time, Flyn. Bring it."

"Okay! Rock, paper, scissors—shoot!"

Both men flung their fists forward, each choosing to form a different shape with their fingers. As they repeated the process two more times, Dom stood at the doorway, thoroughly disappointed. When the two men were done, Flyndon emerged victorious, rolling down his sleeve and appearing very cocky.

"Well! I guess I better start on that reception, huh?"

Raoul growled low in his throat. "You were lucky."

Dom looked distastefully at them both. "That was the wimpiest thing I have ever seen."

"Oh yeah? Why don't you come roll up your sleeve and say it! Come on!" Flyndon challenged. "Right here, sonny!"

The next five minutes, Dom recalled later, turned out to be far more interesting than he had first anticipated.

After Dom had left, Raoul called Buri into the office for her opinion. She detested fancy ceremonies and dinners just as much as he did, though she had more tolerance for it. She also had a good level head on his shoulders, which in Flyndon's opinion, made her more useful than Raoul when it came to practical matters.

The head of Tusaine's criminal intelligence sat primly in Flyndon's other guest chair. She put off an aura that was calm and collected, but her two male companions knew better. She was just as dangerous as them, if not more because of her untold history. The difference between Buri and them was that she could disguise it. Raoul was much more brazen about things. She often accused him of having no idea what subtlety meant.

"So. Buri, what do you think? I'll order from some fast food restaurants, hang a couple of paper banners saying "Welcome Jon and Thayet" yadda yadda, and call it a night. Yes?" Raoul asked. He could honestly care less.

Buri rolled her eyes upward toward the ceiling as if asking for the divine patience to answer the question without being too cynical. "It's not hard to see why Jon doesn't expect much of you."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that perhaps you might want to put some effort into this."

Flyndon nodded. "You know, that's a good idea. Why don't you make it a real elegant dinner? Jon will never be able to make fun of you about formalities ever again."

Raoul stood up and walked behind Flyndon's desk. His mind soaked in the implications that this created. He faced them with a grim look of determination. "Not bad… not bad at all. All right! That's it then!" He leaned over the desk, dialing a number into Flyndon's COMscreen. After a few seconds, Lerant Eldorne's sleepy face appeared. "Lerant!"

The young man began blinking, waking up at the sound of his employer's voice. "Raoul?"

Lerant had always been overqualified in many areas. Raoul had thought it such a shame that his talents had been overlooked by the DJPF simply because of a family disgrace. In reality, the young man had an extremely good eye for financial matters. That fact alone made him Raoul's new best friend. "Lerant! I need you to call every fancy restaurant in town and every banquet hall. Find one for this Saturday and book it. The President's coming to dinner."

It was true. But it was also blunt. And this was the fact that made Lerant suddenly sick in the stomach. He fought his agitation. "Yes, sir. Of course." He paused nervously. "Raoul, what's my budget for this… project?"

The Marshal shrugged as if it had been obvious. "Why, my salary of course."

"Ha!" Lerant suddenly burst. He slapped a hand over his mouth and cringed. "Oh, I mean. Of course, sir."

"Are you implying that my money isn't enough?" Raoul countered suspiciously.

The Rider chewed his lower lip gently. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to form an answer that wouldn't earn him trouble. "Well, sir. In many cases, it would certainly be enough. But considering that this is a Presidential dinner that we're talking about—are you sure you don't want to order burgers or pizza? I mean, I thought you hated J-"

"This dinner must be the best in all history of Tusaine!" Raoul insisted vehemently, putting his hands down on the desk. He lowered his face closer to the COMscreen. "Do you understand?"

Lerant was completely frozen, his eyes wide as if he were a deer caught in headlights. A few seconds passed before he snapped out of it, thoroughly terrified. "Yes! Yes, sir! On this budget… this last minute… this magnitude of sophistication…" He seemed to be almost whimpering. "I'll do what I can."

"Good," Raoul grinned smugly, standing up straight again. He disconnected the transmission on the COMscreen and rotated the screen to where it had originally been facing.

The day went peacefully after that. However, when Raoul returned to the DJPF apartment complex to check on Lerant's progress, he was greeted at the elevator by three of his other Riders. Yukimi noh Daimoru, his demolition expert, leaned casually against the wall beside the elevator. Prosper Tameran flashed Raoul a pleasant smile, though he was more known for being shy rather than openly cheery.

It was Fianola, the youngest Rider, who ended up speaking first. That day, she was wearing a wig of blonde hair that was shaped like a helmet with the ends curled up. She was prone to try on different disguises during the week, which served her job as Raoul's amateur actress and spy. "Raoul! Hey, boss man! Why aren't you having dinner with Flyn or Buri? Don't you guys always go out to eat?"

Raoul frowned. "I came to see Lerant about booking a banquet hall. I'll have dinner with him."

"Well, you're out of luck! He just stepped out with Dom and Qasim for dinner," Yuki announced.

"That's odd. Both our vans are parked right over there."

"They took a taxi!" Fianola cried. She and Yuki looked to each other and started giggling loudly. "It's the funniest thing. Qasim said he had to change the oil on the van that was here, but I was out in the other van. I came back after they had already left."

"Yup. It's the truth," Yuki confirmed.

The Marshal rested a hand on Prosper's shoulder. Prosper had been Raoul's first member of the Riders' Own ever since about five years ago. The younger man had always been extremely loyal because of it. That moment was a perfect opportunity to test it. "Prosper?"

The usually quiet, reserved Rider lifted his eyebrows up in mild apprehension. He gulped. "S-sir?"

"You would never lie to me, right?" Raoul asked, staring straight into Prosper's eyes.

Prosper's expression resembled Lerant's wide-eyed look from before. He shook his head vigorously. "Never, sir."

Yuki and Fianola exchanged nervous looks.

"Where is Lerant?"

Prosper lowered his head. He sighed deeply and pointed upward with his left hand. "He's in his apartment, hiding from you."

"Prosper!" Yuki and Fianola yelled.

Raoul pressed the elevator button with the upward pointing arrow. "Thank you, Prosper. And by the way, take off the wig, Fia. You look like you belong in an oldies' kitchen cleaner commercial."

Fianola pouted and removed the wig from her head. Raoul put his hands between the ladies and parted them so that he could step into the elevator. As the doors were closing, the three Riders turned around. For a moment, they thought they saw a devilish gleam in his eyes. They shuddered.

Raoul stepped out onto the fourth floor less than a minute later. He whistled idly as he walked. Coming to a stop in front of his intended destination, he pressed the intercom button and spoke, "Lerant, open up. I know you're in there."

A few seconds passed. Raoul tried again. "Lerant! Now!"

With what seemed to be the largest reluctance in the entire world, the door opened slowly. Lerant stood sheepishly to the side, his dirty blond bangs flopping in front of his eyes. He didn't speak, but waited for Raoul to enter the apartment. The two men went to the couch and sat.

"So! How go the arrangements?"

Lerant rubbed his hands together. "Well…"

"Well, what?"

"You picked a bad weekend, Raoul."

The Marshal frowned. "How bad?"

"There's a gourmet cooking convention in Maren that every respectable chef in the nation is attending. They left only their assistants behind. The restaurants and banquet halls are completely booked for weddings and wedding anniversaries—not to mention the birthday of the local hover car tycoon. And, uh, with the budget you gave me… It's… it's definitely bad." He smiled weakly and looked like he was ready to sprint to the door at any moment.

 Raoul groaned loudly. "So there's nothing? Absolutely nothing?"

Lerant picked up a manila folder from the floor. He tapped it with his index finger. "Well, there are a few options."

"What are they?"

"The Shriners. They're willing to lend you their place just for the night."

"Who are they?"

"Ever seen a fez?"

"Sounds like a rodent."

"No, it's a red cone shaped hat with the top cut off and a tassel hanging."

"Ah." He paused. "Those guys?"

The Rider flipped through the plastic sheets he had printed the night before. He pulled one out. "Of all the assistant cooks in Tusaine, I have found three willing to work." He glanced fearfully at Raoul. "You'll owe me some extra money, but you can give me a raise later."

Raoul glared at him. "Where did all my money go?"

"Renting the Shriner's place and paying for the food and decorations itself." Lerant shrugged. "You're lucky that the rest of us are working for free."

"What do you mean the rest of us?" the older man glared suspiciously.

Lerant gestured to himself. "Your Riders shall be your new assistant cooks and waiters. We're all you can afford, Raoul. Face it. Being Marshal may be a nice adventurous job, but it doesn't pay well enough to have extravagant banquets any time you want." He sighed. "And there's one more thing."

"I'm afraid to ask."

The young man got up and began pacing in front of him. He eventually stopped and stared at Raoul. "We have to work on your table manners."

"My what?"

Lerant jogged to the door and opened it. He let out a deep breath. "And since no one in this building knows table manners, there is only one person we can turn to. Stay here."

~~

Lalasa lifted the pot cover and took a whiff of the soup she had been preparing for dinner. She had only recently started cooking, but she put a great deal of effort into it. And she was getting better with every meal. Roald told her so. He even helped out sometimes, though he knew nothing of cooking either. Their creations were barely edible more often than not.

She dipped a serving spoon into the soup and took a small sip. It tasted close to what she had been aiming for. "Roald! Come here. I want you to try something."

Her husband put down his newspaper in the living room and got up from his favorite armchair. He had taken about two steps when the doorbell rang. "Hold on a second, 'Lasa. Someone's at the door."

He trudged to the door. It was a rather stately trudge. No matter how hard Roald tried to act like a normal person, the years of lessons for proper behavior had never slipped from his subconscious mind. With head held high and back perfectly straight, he pressed the button that would slide open the door.

"Hello?"

Immediately, a metallic ring encircled his wrist. Roald gawked. Handcuffs?

He looked up. Seaver Tasride smiled back at him, as did an iguana poised on his shoulder—or at least, Roald thought it smiled back at him. The other two people with him were Fianola, wearing a long dark green wig and a ridiculous outfit, and Lerant who saluted to him.

"Hello, Roald. How are you?"

Roald backed away. He couldn't move far. The handcuffs prevented him from retreating any more than a foot. "What's going on? What are you guys doing?"

"We need your help. This is to make sure you don't escape," Lerant explained happily.

Lalasa came out of the kitchen, still carefully holding her serving spoon of soup. She frowned when she saw who was at the door and what they had done to her precious husband. "Hey! What are you doing to him? Let him go!"

Seaver tugged Roald out into the hallway, clamping down the other part of the handcuff on his own wrist. Lerant entered the apartment and bowed his head to the Carthaki woman. He attempted to appear apologetic. "Sorry, Mrs. Jasson. We have to borrow your husband. We'll return him soon, promise!"

She gaped at him. "What's so important that you have to handcuff Roald?"

"It's a matter of national importance," Lerant answered. It was partly true. Jonathan Conté was a nationally important man. The Rider bowed again. "Thanks for your cooperation!"

Lalasa scowled. "I didn't give you my cooperation—"

Lerant darted forward and sipped from the spoon that Lalasa still held high in the air. "Hmm. Not too bad. You'll have to give me the recipe so I can try to cook it myself. Anyway, thanks again!"

He ran back out the door with his accomplices. Lalasa shrieked and dropped her spoon. "Wait!"

"This is kidnapping, you know!" Roald yelled indignantly from the hall.

"Of course it's not!" Fianola replied, exasperated. They continued running down the hall. "If we were kidnapping you, we'd have black ski masks or something."

"Your wig is good enough," Lerant commented offhandedly.

~~

Roald forced himself to take a deep calming breath. He folded his hands in his lap and looked across the small round table. Then the Vice President's son stood up, crossed around the table, and gestured to the place setting in front of Raoul. "Once more. The plates from the first course have been cleared." He picked up a fork. "This is your salad fork. It is has already been used. What do you reach for now?"

Raoul picked up a fork above his plate.

"No, no! That's the dessert fork."

"This is insane. How can you tell these buggers apart?" Raoul complained. "It's impossible!"

Roald resisted the urge to scream. "If it were impossible, I wouldn't have been able to learn it when I was seven."

It was now close to midnight. After the Riders had—more or less—taken Roald from his home against his will, he sat down with Raoul in Lerant's apartment, learning dinner etiquette. Thanks to a lifetime of lessons from his own mother as well as the instructors at boarding school, Roald had obtained enough knowledge on etiquette to be the paragon of all polite and proper dinner guests.

But that didn't mean he could teach someone who did not wish to learn.

"Moving on. Here's your dinner fork," he pointed to a fork closest to his plate on the left. "There is your dinner knife on the other side. Not to be confused with the butter knife."

"Where's the butter knife?"

"Placed in a horizontal fashion across the small bread plate, which will be above your forks."

Raoul shook his head. "It has to be horizontal?"

"I'll kill anyone who places it at any different angle," Roald replied through clenched teeth, having been driven to the ends of his ropes with the Marshal's incessant questions. He made himself take another deep breath before pinching the bridge of his nose. He would need an entire bottle of aspirin to help him along the next few days.

He continued to instruct his unlikely student to look the busboys in the eye when they cleared his plate away, reciting "thank you" and so on. When Raoul used his cloth napkin to wipe his mouth, Roald quickly slapped his hand.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You do not wipe. You dab. Dab, dab, dab!" Here a slightly crazed look in his eyes made Raoul shy away from him. Roald took another deep breath. "Dab. Lightly. At the corner of your mouth." He took the napkin from him and laid it down across the Marshal's lap. "And don't use your lap napkin if you can help it."

"What about blowing my nose?"

Roald shuddered. "Excuse yourself to the other members of your table and go to the rest room. Do not say 'bathroom'. You may even say the washroom. Yes!" Roald nodded. "Say washroom."

"Your stupid rules are killing me, you know that?"

They moved painstakingly through the parts of the main course. Roald's infinite patience was being put to the test. He fought the urge to grab fistfuls of his hair and scream. Now he knew what his instructors had gone through when he was a little boy first learning the rules of formal dining. It was an awful process, he decided. It would be a great scientist who invented the automatic "etiquette brainwashing" machine. Of all scientific endeavors, he believed that he would support that one the most.

"Now, on to dessert. You may order a glass of wine or champagne at this point."

"What about beer?"

Roald blinked. "What about it?"

"Isn't beer an option?"

"Is crashing in a flaming plane while screaming bloody murder an option?" Roald retorted, one eye twitching.

The Marshal did his best to clench his fists in his lap rather than put his hands around Roald's neck to strangle him. He could handle learning the different sizes and locations of silverware. He could remember rules about 'please' and 'thank you'. He could and would not accept the fact that beer was not allowed.

It was a long night for them, Lalasa would note when she woke up the next morning alone in bed.

~~

Saturday night came sooner than everyone thought it would. The rush to obtain all the food and decorations they needed as well as the formal protocol that went with it was utterly exhausting. Flyndon had taken care of security, having several of his Second Class officers circling the perimeter of the building as well as the roof. Roald had become the main consultant for anything that could be thought of. He showed the Riders how the Shriner's hall would be decorated. He even wrote out what dishes were to be expected of the second-rate cooks that Lerant had hired, including an allowance for Daine, who was a vegetarian.

Lerant continued to add together expenses, sweating bullets the entire time. He had gone on a bargain hunt among the local decorative and home furnishing stores for pristine white tablecloths, dishes, etc. When ordering the ingredients that the cooks had listed, he went to the open market. At first, the grocers had been stingy with their haggling, but Lerant refused to give in.

He ended up constructing a false story about how his terminally ill twin sister wished to marry her longtime fiancé before she died. The medical bills were so much that he couldn't even afford to pay the normal price for the reception's food. Breaking into false tears in front of the forty-something grocer holding grape leaves, Lerant was sure he had never felt lower in his whole entire life. Fianola congratulated him when he got home. She wished she had been the one to show off her acting skills, but felt very proud that her comrade had learned something from her after all.

Roald had also made a list of notes on uniform and formal dress, giving it to his wife. Lalasa had been taking lessons in the business of tailoring. She loved studying fashion and tailoring in her spare time at work. She was in charge of adjusting the Riders' baggy formal clothing so that it fit. She was also in charge of preparing Raoul, as per Roald's orders. Flyndon and Buri were nothing to worry about. But the Marshal was a train wreck when it came to getting dressed properly.

"Raoul, your cufflinks."

"Yes?"

"Where are they?"

"How should I know?"

A sigh. "What about your leather dress shoes?"

"What, I can't wear my work boots?"

"You're going to a formal dinner, not a hoedown."

"I prefer the hoedown."

"I'm sure you would…"

Inside the kitchen, the three cooks who had been hired had already completed the first course appetizers. They were rather high strung and snapped at each other like crabs with sharp claws. Since they were also not as experienced as Roald would have liked them to be, they had also brought many laminated notes and recipes taken from their cooking superiors. These recipes littered the kitchen in no specific order.

Those Riders employed in the kitchen were asked to do anything that the main cooks asked them to do. Yuki was made to prepare the salads. She felt very natural with the chopping knife, so much so that everyone else shied away from her cutting board. Lerant polished dishes that the food would be served on while trying to read random recipes littered on the counter. And Fianola insisted on preparing the crème brulee for dessert. Where she learned, no one knew (after all, she had supposedly been raised by a father who knew nothing but performing stunts in the movies).

Seaver had also been assigned to kitchen detail, but since the beginning of the evening, no one had seen nor heard from him. They did not look for him too long. Like Lerant, he would be nearly useless until later in the evening.

Dom, Qasim, and Prosper prepared the tables in the main dining room. Roald had made more notes for them that they carried with themselves everywhere. It took hours for them to get every single place setting right, calculating space for additional plates and glasses. Even decorative centerpieces had been arranged with the utmost precision.

One long table was set up near the far wall of the room. At that table, the Contés, Raoul, Roald, and Flyndon would be seated. Two other tables of slightly shorter length were placed perpendicular to the ends of the head table. All the chairs were placed on the outside of this rectangular horseshoe. At the left, Daine, Numair, Myles, and Buri would be seated. The other table would then have Alanna, George, and two of their children.

"I can't stand wearing this starched, stiff piece of crap!" Dom explained, fingering his shirt. He had just finished placing glasses of cold water on the tables. He tucked Roald's notes into his pocket and visibly fidgeted.

"We have to help Raoul, so just deal with it," Qasim replied, much calmer than his friend. He went to the back of the dining hall and turned on a stereo that was hidden behind a potted plant. He switched it to light, classical music, which gave the dining room a more convincing prestigious atmosphere.

Roald entered from the entry hall. He glanced at his watch worriedly. "Are you done?"

"We're done," Prosper replied.

"What about the kitchen?"

Dom looked behind him at the swinging kitchen doors. "The appetizers are almost done."

"Good, good."

"Seaver is missing, though."

Roald's shoulders slumped. "Bad, bad."

The Rider shrugged. "Don't worry about it. He'll turn up. You did a great job, Roald."

They could hear chatter in the hall from where Roald had come. The Vice President's son froze for a few seconds, as if he had radar in his mind and was silently tracking the movements of the speakers. He then made motions with his hands for the Riders-turned-waiters to stand still beside the door.

As they lined up, Roald quickly went down the row, dusting off lapels and smoothing out wrinkles. He looked like he might have a heart attack at any moment. It was quite easy to see how Roald could have run away from home, since such manners and perfection obviously made him incredibly neurotic.

Raoul entered sulkily, followed by Buri, Flyndon, and Myles. All the men wore the same design of tuxedo while Buri wore a simple black gown with a golden hem that appeared as if it had come straight from the boutique. Myles Olau was an older man, who was a little thick at the waist. He had a friendly expression, though a dark shine in his eyes hinted at something more devious.

The Marshal fidgeted just as much as Roald had, although for a different reason. Lalasa had been sure to have Raoul shave, put on cologne, and comb back his hair. The result was something very uncomfortable. He detested it with all his heart. It took all his will power to keep from ripping off his bow tie or to strangle someone with his cummerbund.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Roald greeted.

"Ah, Roald. Good to see you again," Myles replied, shaking the young man's hand. "I heard from your father that you married recently. Congratulations."

Roald smiled congenially. "Thank you. I haven't heard from my parents in a while because of election preparations, so I didn't know if they would have time to tell all their friends."

Myles nodded, smirking. "And I'm sure you've been just as busy working on a Roald Jr. to notice."

The other would have blushed bright pink if he hadn't been trained to stop from doing so. "A bit too late for that."

"Oh! You have one on the way already? You're a fast operator, Roald. Fast, indeed!"

Roald pretended to ignore the muffled snickers coming from behind him. He motioned for Qasim to show Myles and Buri to their table while Raoul and Flyndon continued to wait by the door. They wouldn't sit until their other tablemates had arrived—the Presidential couple.

The remainder of the guests arrived quickly following that. Daine and Numair entered, having linked arms. Raoul performed the polite greeting that Roald had made him practice, bringing a mocking grin to Flyndon's face. Roald got a taste of his own medicine, however, when he was forced to politely endure another round of comments about his wife's pregnancy.

"It feels lonely without you two living with me anymore," Daine confessed. "But I imagine it was necessary for you two to get a place of your own before I would have been driven insane by incessant nighttime noises."

Numair chuckled at his date's words while Roald again struggled to maintain his noble pallor. Another round of sniggering went on behind his back, but he refused to turn and give them the benefit of seeing him so uncomfortable. Qasim returned to guide the two newest arrivals to the same table.

Next came the Swoop/Trebond family. George and Alanna entered, not as regal as those before them. They were talking to the two teenagers behind them, scolding them for brooding so openly in a public place when the children knew better. Alanna looked resplendent in a shimmering violet gown that fell in ripples around her. The bulge of her midsection made it clear to all that she was pregnant again, despite the mob of children she already had. Instead of living up to that charming maternal image, she took one look at Raoul and burst into uncontainable laughter.

"Look at what they've done to you!" she cried, putting a hand over her mouth and looking up at her former comrade. "Oh, you poor thing! You look like a secret agent from a second rate action movie! Haha!"

George shook his head. "Raoul, have heart. Just think to yourself," he glanced at his wife, "it could have been a lot worse."

Alanna elbowed her husband in the side. She turned to Flyn and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. "And you look just as imposing as ever. How have things at the station been? The local DJPF?"

"Very quiet. My most active First Class officers have gone across sea temporarily and I'm enjoying my vacation from them."

"Mmhmm," she nodded. "You become more like Wyldon with each passing year. If I ever see you pick up a golf club, I'll die of embarrassment for you."

Roald shook hands with George P. Swoop, who also congratulated him on his future child. It seemed that Roald's parents had been talking to everyone in Tortall, even the two married advisors. George, however, had the tact to not embarrass Roald any more than he already had been. He probably wouldn't. The bickering of his two children, Alianne and Thom, also distracted his attention.

"Dad! Alianne hit me!" Thom whined.

"You're such a baby!" the older Alianne complained. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at her little brother with intense loathing. "Daddy, don't believe him! He's lying."

George sighed. "I don't care who's lying. You're both to behave or else no malls and videogames."

Both teens immediately shut up after that, though they continued to exchange vengeful looks. Dom stepped forward, sorry that he would be assigned to the family's table for the duration of the evening. He always thought it would be nice to meet Alanna and George. After all, their reputations were formidable. But seeing them as frustrated parents and normal jokesters lessened the idol-status that had befallen them.

The two lesser tables had been fully seated. Finally, after a few more moments, Jonathan and Thayet Conté made their grand entrance. They were surrounded by a contingent of guards, all dressed in black and all wearing sunglasses despite the fact that it was evening. Roald had been very accustomed to this sort of atmosphere. He had tagged along on enough important events with his parents so that the presence of such bodyguards did nothing to faze him.

He greeted Jonathan with a firm handshake and daintily received a kiss on the forehead from Thayet, who had always treated him as a child of her own, though he was fully grown. The only bad feeling between them was that Thayet had agreed with Roald's mother. She, too, had thought it was a bad decision for Roald to abandon his prestigious college for a very simple life.

Thayet brushed an ebony lock of hair from her face and greeted her other hosts. "Raoul, Flyndon. It's so nice to see you again."

"Looking as beautiful as ever," Flyndon replied, kissing the back of her hand.

"Jon," Raoul nodded grimly, shaking the President's hand.

Jonathan smiled. "Raoul. You've got such a fine set up here. I'm impressed, good friend. I really am."

"You'd better be, you pompous…" Raoul muttered when Jon's backed had turned. Roald shot him a scandalized look that made the Marshal mouth an apology before following Prosper, their waiter for the night, to the table. The guards took their posts at random corners of the room, some choosing to remain outside with the other Second Class DJPF officers patrolling there.

The other guests arose from their seats as Jonathan and Thayet approached. Alanna and George, caring very little about manners, called out their salutations loudly. Their children remained ill tempered and quiet, not so much as curtsying or bowing to the national figures they saw on a regular basis. Roald made a brief introduction, letting Raoul be the one to welcome all and have them sit while the salads and appetizers were served.

The three waiters returned to the kitchen. As soon as the door had swung shut behind them, they all let out deep breaths. Their postures slackened as well, showing how poised they had forced themselves to be.

"Yo! You got our first course ready, or what?" Dom called, arching his back and stretching.

"Shut your loud mouth," Yuki scolded, handing him a platter with four salads on it. She turned to prepare platters of appetizers that were to be carried out immediately after the salads.

Dom examined the salad bowls. "Where's the dressing?"

"I have it!" one of the cooks cried, coming forward with a plate. On it were three bowls of dressing with a dipping spoon.

Another cook stepped away from the stove, picking up another plate of dressing bowls. "No! I have it! They'll eat my dressing!"

The first cook gasped. He glared at the second one. "No! They'll have my dressing!

Yuki grabbed the second plate and put a bowl on the platter. She took another bowl from the first cook and also placed it on the platter. "There! One of each! Sheesh, you two are such wusses!"

Lerant hissed from further away when a drop of boiling water landed on his arm. "Hey! Get back to your cooking! It's bubbling up over here!"

Dom, having gathered his platter, ducked out the door, glad to be out of the steaming kitchen. Qasim and Prosper likewise placed salad bowls on their platters, taking one of each kind of dressing just to keep peace in the kitchen. The one cook who hadn't argued about dressing proudly continued chopping her vegetables while the other two scrambled to correct anything that had gone awry in their absence.

As Prosper served the head table, he glanced at Roald who seemed to be silently mouthing something to him when no one was looking. The Rider frowned imperceptibly and edged closer toward Roald at the end of the table to hear what had to be done.

"The bread rolls! And a pitcher of water ready and waiting! Always be waiting with a pitcher of water, and for the sake of the gods, don't spill!" Roald whispered.

It was an effort to bow quickly and not run but walk back to the kitchen. As soon as he was past the swinging doors again, he grabbed two small baskets and laid large cloth napkins in the bottom of them. Lerant noticed and frowned.

"What are those for?"

"Bread! Do we have bread?"

Lerant cursed. "It's still in the oven! No, wait." He ran to the oven and opened it slightly, pulling back when a wave of heat washed over him. "They look done." He turned off the oven. "Where are the oven mitts?"

Prosper saw one lying on the counter and picked it up. "Here!" He threw it across the kitchen, only succeeding in smacking Yuki in the back of the head. She turned and glared at him. "Sorry! I meant to throw it to him!"

She picked it up and threw it hard at Lerant, who held up his arms in defense. He winced when the glove struck him, but he put it on quickly and took the pan of bread rolls out of the oven. In the meantime, Dom and Qasim came back. Taking their cue from Prosper, they also retrieved small baskets to put rolls in.

"Oh, wait!" Prosper said. He let Lerant fill up the baskets while he turned toward the faucet. "We need pitchers of cold water." He went to the refrigerator. His eyes scanned the contents of the fridge, becoming crestfallen when he realized that there was no more chilled water. "Hey, Yuki. Run me some tap water into the pitchers."

One of the cooks turned around, thoroughly insulted. "Are you telling me you're going to serve tap water to the President?"

Dom frowned. "Why can't we?"

"What's the difference? No one is going to know," Prosper added.

Yuki snorted. "You idiots. Roald will know. For some reason or another, the man we always thought of as the nice, shy friend of Kel's has been revealed to be a paranoid-formal-dinner-freak! He'll know the difference."

The Riders contemplated these words for several silent seconds. Then there was a collective murmur of agreement. After finishing up the last basket of bread rolls, Lerant took off his apron and walked toward the door leading to the alley. "If anyone wants me, I'll be at the convenience store across the street buying bottled water."

The three waiters, armed only with breadbaskets and hope, prepared to exit the kitchen once again. They met at the door. Each man gave the other a nervous look. All of a sudden, this simple act of helping of their boss impress his old friend was becoming more chaotic with each passing second. They could only pray that the rest of the night would go well.

Emerging from the kitchen one after another in an orderly manner, they approached their tables with disarming smiles and cheery demeanors. As Prosper laid the breadbaskets down at the head table, he was once again beckoned by Roald to inch closer to the end of the table.

"Where are the pitchers of water?" he whispered.

Prosper cringed. "Lerant's across the street, buying bottled water."

Roald frowned and cocked his head slightly. "Why didn't you just run the tap?"

Meanwhile, the mighty Raoul Malorie was having a not so mighty time conversing with Jonathan. The topics of their discussion had ranged from the weather, to their other old friends such as Gareth Naxen, and Tusaine in general. Raoul had to admit that he was bored to tears. If being impressive meant being one of those men that he had always secretly despised, then he was sure that he would never attend one of these banquets ever again. More importantly, he would never put on an itchy tuxedo again—unless, of course, it was for his own funeral.

He glanced to the right where Jonathan was sitting and thought morbidly to himself, Doesn't sound like a bad idea.

Flyndon cleared his throat from beside him. Raoul leaned back slightly as his friend began picking up the slack, removing any need for Raoul to talk any longer. He smiled widely to Flyndon, communicating his eternal gratitude. He would live to see another day after all. Preferably another day in rugged pants and an old shirt.

Dom and Prosper retreated to the kitchen, leaving Qasim out at the tables in case anyone would need his service. While they were in the kitchen, they were pleased to see the rest of the appetizers ready to be served. The three cooks were steadily working on the main course. And Fianola remained seated beside the refrigerator reading a magazine, waiting for her crème brulee to chill properly before adding any toppings.

"Run the tap water in the pitchers," Prosper told Yuki. "Roald says the tap water is fine. No one will know the difference. And let me have the other appetizers. We might as well bring those out while we're at it. Gods know that the Trebond kids aren't eating the salad."

"Lerant is going to be pretty mad," she warned. She took a glass pitcher and began filling it up under the faucet.

"Well, we need pitchers ready right now. There's no helping it."

She handed the two waiters the pitchers of water. Just as she did, Lerant burst through the door, panting hard. He had obviously run the entire way. He held in his arms plastic bags filled with six-packs of water bottles. He took one look at the pitchers that Dom and Prosper held, then cursed loudly.

"I hate you all," he growled and threw the bags down onto the counter.

The waiters gave them his apologies as they went back out the door again. The lavish dinner continued. The guests were all pleased with the food. Most of them were happy with their table companions. Myles and Buri had no trouble at all conducting a deep discussion on Federal matters that only they would know about. Daine and Numair, as always, acted as if they were in a world on their own though they knew they weren't supposed to do so in public lest rumors arise. Roald was having a wonderfully pleasant conversation with Thayet about funny things Roald's mother did when she and Thayet went to school together.

Only Raoul felt he suffered. Well, Alianne and Thom believed they suffered, too. But seeing as they were not adult yet, no one paid too much mind to them. And this made them all the more brooding and dark spirited. They picked at their salads idly, spearing cucumber slices and tossing them at each other. Dom sighed and rolled his eyes as he watched their antics. He closed one eye as a cucumber struck it and slid down his cheek.

"Alianne!" Alanna reprimanded

"It was Thom! I swear!"

"I don't care who it was! Both of you apologize to the poor waiter right now!"

Dom sighed again as he listened to the muttered apologies. Poor waiter. Yes. Poor me. He glanced at the teens again and discovered that they were still arming themselves with green projectiles despite their mother's admonition. Yes. Poor, poor me.

Back in the kitchen, one of the cooks was waiting for his duck to cook while stirring the homemade sauce that was to go with it. He smiled happily to himself, thanking his good fortune that he would now have the distinguished honor of saying that he had once cooked for the President of Mithros. Now his normal boss, the head chef at a downtown restaurant, would be sorry that he had left him behind.

These cheering thoughts lingered on his mind as he looked up from the stove and came eye to eye with a long green snake hanging from the cupboards.

"Aaahhh!" He screamed. "Snake! Snake!" Overwhelmed with fear, he jumped backwards and fainted. His body slumped to the floor while the other cooks looked in his direction, saw the long limbless reptile, and also shrieked. Before anyone else could react, the two conscious cooks dropped what they were doing and ran out the door into the alley, screeching wildly into the night.

Seaver appeared at a third alternate door that led to the entry hall. He looked around the kitchen at the stunned faces of his fellow Riders. He finally spotted the snake and trotted over, calmly removing it from the cupboard and laying it across his shoulders.

"Hey, girl. I've been looking all over for you!"

"Seaver!" Yuki yelled. "What were you thinking, bringing that thing here?"

He shrugged. "I just got her. She's not used to the tank, so I wanted to bring her with me so she could get used to me. She's not poisonous or anything."

She glared at him. "Whatever, whatever." She let out a deep shaky breath and beckoned to Lerant. "Wake up our last cook here. I don't think we'll be able to track down the other two."

Lerant picked up a bottle of water. At least he could put the water he had ran to buy to good use. He unscrewed it and poured the contents over the fainted cook lying on the floor. Immediately, the man sputtered, spitting out water and sitting up. He began breathing frantically, crying about a horrible monster that leapt out at him.

"Dude, calm down. It was just a pet snake," Lerant said.

The cook got to his feet. His face was red as a tomato, a sign of his outrage. "I have never been so humiliated in my entire life! I am done! I quit!" He took off his apron, threw it on the floor, and marched toward the door. "And I expect my payment within three days or else I'll sue!"

The door slammed shut behind him.

Fianola sighed. She got up from her chair, opened the refrigerator, and took out a tray of her crème brulee as if nothing had happened. She proceeded to get out the toppings for the desserts and arranged them carefully on the small serving plates. Seaver, appearing quite remorseful, offered to help Yuki and Lerant tend to whatever things had been left to cook on the stove.

Things had lapsed into a tense silence. The three new stand-in cooks attempted to follow the laminated recipes as best they could, though they knew it wouldn't be quite the same. They worked steadily for ten more minutes before Yuki sniffed the air.

"Does anyone smell smoke?"

Fianola, without looking up, replied, "The duck is burning."

"The duck!" the three others cried simultaneously. They all grabbed the handle to the oven and flung it open. A fire burst from the tiny square door. They jumped back in surprise.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!"

Lerant began fanning away the smoke as he turned the temperature dial off. Seaver grabbed some oven mitts and pulled the rack out with the flaming duck on top of it.

"Quick!" Yuki coughed from the smoke. "Fire extinguisher!"

The entire kitchen was filling up with smoke. Lerant ran to open the alley door and turned on as many portable fans as he could find. Meanwhile, Seaver had located the fire extinguisher. He ran back to the oven and sprayed the burning bird. White colored fog clouded around the oven for a few moments, to add to the dark smoke that had already filled up the room. The only sound that could be heard was coughing.

After a few more moments the smoke cleared. Lerant was still carrying a portable fan to their side of the kitchen so as to keep it going out the swinging kitchen doors.

Yuki and Seaver put on oven mitts and transported the white foam covered duck to the large industrial trashcan. They stared down at the abandoned food. Then they looked to each other with feelings of utter hopelessness.

"We lost the duck," she mumbled.

"Yes. We lost the duck," Seaver echoed.

"The poor duck," they said together.

Fianola, ever attentive to her crème brulee, shrugged. "The dessert is okay."

Suddenly, the kitchen doors swung open to reveal Dom, running in with a panic-stricken look on his face. "Hey! I heard yelling. What's h— yaagghh!"

They watched, frozen in shock, as Dom slipped in the puddle of water Lerant had used to wake the cook up and went flying into the air… only to land on the floor with a very painful thud. Having struck his head on the floor, Dom was immediately knocked unconscious. Lerant shuffled over slowly and bent down to examine him.

"He's out cold." Lerant sighed.

Yuki looked back and forth from the ruined duck to the Rider on the floor. She and Seaver exchanged completely dejected looks.

"We lost Dom."

"Yes. We lost Dom."

"Poor Dom," they cried.

There was general hopelessness for quite some time before Qasim entered the kitchen to check up on his fellow waiter. When he saw Dom lying on the floor with his eyes closed and the other Riders standing about, still unmoving with utter despair, he cursed in his native language for an entire minute.

Seeing as he was the only collected one in the entire group, he pointed to the stove. "Lerant, Yuki, get back on the main course. See if you can salvage what's left. Seaver, come here. Help me move Dom. Fia—"

"I'm working on my dessert!" she exclaimed. "Don't interrupt me!"

Seaver and Qasim dragged Dom carefully over to a chair. After propping him up in it, Seaver exhaled deeply. "Okay. There's only one thing to do."

"What?"

"Take his clothes off."

Seaver blinked. "I hate to tell you this, Qasim, but no one here shares your—"

"Not that, you perverted snake charmer! We need a third waiter, and he's obviously not going to come to anytime soon." He touched Dom's hair. "Would you look on the lump on that head?" He began undoing the bowtie and the shirt buttons. "You have to put on his clothes and help me serve out there! We'll figure out what to do with him later."

With less than gentle movements, they managed to undress Dom and have Seaver change into them right there in the kitchen. The clothing was a little baggy on Seaver, since Dom was the largest Rider among them all. They left Dom in the chair by the alley door, just to keep him in the fresh breeze rather than the still smoky air by the oven.

Seaver draped his pet snake over Fianola's shoulders. She didn't seem to notice, but continued to work contently on her desserts.

The two men reluctantly ventured back out into the main dining room, platters tucked under their arms. As they re-entered again, it became obvious to everyone who saw that Dom had been replaced. Qasim pointed out the table, which Dom had attended to.

"Finding everything all right?" Seaver politely asked George, who was seated on the end of the table near Raoul.

George nodded. He leaned back as Seaver began collecting empty dishes. "Say, what happened to the other waiter? Dom, I think his name was."

"Yes," Raoul asked, overhearing. There was a glimmer of malice in his deep, piercing eyes. "Where is good ol' Dom, anyway?"

Seaver gulped. He turned slightly and bowed his head to the Marshal. "He had to step out for a moment. But I'm glad to fill in for him, sir. I hope you all have enjoyed the meal thus far."

"Oh, we're enjoying it immensely," Alianne intoned from the other end of the table, winking at Seaver. All of a sudden, she had lost all reason to be sulky. Fluttering her lashes at the Rider, she hoped to make a good impression on what she considered to be a very handsome young man.

He blushed bright pink, quickly taking the other salad plates and stacking them on his serving platter. George and Alanna glared at him as he passed by them, though Thom appeared very amused by his sister's hormones. As he neared Alianne, he darted out his hand to take her plates before she could reach out and grab his hand.

"What's your name?" she asked sweetly.

"S-seaver," he replied quietly.

"That's a nice name. I'm Alianne."

"N-nice to m-meet you."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Uh…" Before she could speak again, he bowed quickly to the members of the table and made a beeline for the kitchen again.

Alianne snapped her fingers under the table. "Darn."

As Prosper and Qasim joined him again in the kitchen, Seaver was sitting on the kitchen counter, appearing very disturbed. Prosper stood in front of him and stared him straight in the eye. He folded his arms over his chest and gave him a knowing look.

"Did the daughter of the two most important advisors to the President just put the moves on you?"

"Pity me," Seaver groaned and covered his face with his hands.

In a fit of frustration, Lerant threw down his oven mitt and pointed at the stove. "We can not salvage this. It's over. It's all over."

Prosper frowned. "It can't be! We haven't even served the main course!"

Yuki shook her head. "No, there's very few left that doesn't have fire extinguisher foam all over it."

"What will we serve? We can't just skip straight to dessert!"

"You're right," Fianola said, again without looking up from her desserts. "You can't. I'm not done."

Qasim nodded. He rubbed his chin. A plan was forming in his mind. Yes, a great plan. The only hope they had left. He walked over to Yuki and Lerant, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "There is only one solution."

"What is it?" Yuki asked.

He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. "You must go to the all-night buffet down the block, pile your plates with Bourbon chicken, and sneak out the back doors." He nodded. "We are Riders. We are resourceful. I… I have faith in you."

Lerant blinked. He cursed under his breath as he went to the coat rack to get his jacket again. Yuki reluctantly did the same, though she was far more bewildered by the solution than her swearing friend. Lerant stomped out into the alley, muttering, "I knew he should have just asked for pizza and burgers! I knew it!"

Prosper led his fellow waiter back out into "the lion's den" as he now came to call it. Every time he reentered, Roald glared at him as if he knew exactly what was going on the kitchen. And Raoul appeared as if he wanted to be thrown to the lions. Prosper wouldn't mind following him if it meant getting out of this welcoming dinner.

When Prosper was within range, Raoul whispered, "What's taking so long?"

"Surely, we can't rush genius, can we?"

"What genius?" Raoul muttered.

Prosper leaned in close. "The genius that comes with a buffet line."

The color drained from Raoul's face. He looked up at him with an incredulous expression. Prosper smiled and began addressing everyone at the table. "Please forgive the wait. The main course will soon be here."

It was another twenty minutes before Lerant and Yuki returned, panting, with armfuls of plastic bags and plastic take out containers. The buffet down the street had been closed for repairs, but the sports bar next door was open and had plenty of chicken to sell. They began chopping up vegetables and sprinkling seasoning over the chicken to disguise it as best they could. They even managed to save enough scallops and carrots to compliment the rather simple roasted chicken.

"Wine. Now would be a good time to bring out the wine, too," Yuki added.

"What about the kids?"

She rummaged through the large refrigerator and found two cans full of soda. She tossed them to her accomplice, who proceeded to pour them into glasses. They scrambled to prepare the main course across the thirteen plates, trying to make each look as fancy as possible.

Fianola remained silent through it all, continuing her precious work on the fabulous crème brulee. Even the snake had started watching the process, darting out her tongue every now and then, as was her nature.

Seaver returned to the kitchen first, very distraught from the relentless attention from Alianne. George had started to glare at him rather evilly, reducing Seaver to a puddle of goo that simply wished to leak through the cracks in the floor and die. He slumped against the wall and groaned.

"Please tell me you have something to end my pain. Aspirin… a girl-shaped muzzle… a bullet…"

Yuki held out two plates of food. "Take it. Take it away and may I never see it again."

He put them on his serving platter as Qasim and Prosper entered. They put down their pitchers of water and gratefully took the plates. With each course of the meal passing, their night of torture would soon be at an end. They walked briskly through the swinging kitchen doors with grim faces back into the chaos that was a Presidential welcoming dinner.

As a sign of some sort of divine luck, the thirteen dinner guests enjoyed their chicken and vegetables very much. Even Daine, who left her chicken untouched, but enjoyed the seasoned flavor of the scallops and vegetables enough to cancel out that detail. She was more focused on her talk with Numair anyway. After all, it wasn't every day that Numair was in town (or, actually, it was… the Councilman's trips to Tusaine became so frequent those days, he had practically taken up residence in the same hotel suite).

After serving the two sodas to Thom and Alianne, Seaver was once again the first to escape back to the kitchen. While he had been setting down the glass and clearing away a bread plate that she was finally done with, Alianne had reached out with her bare foot and stroked the inside of his leg. He had jumped a little, his eyes wide with embarrassment as he muttered an apology for his skittishness and walked quickly to the swinging doors.

As soon as he was safe in his unlikely haven, he collapsed against a wall and whimpered. "I'm not going back out there! Wake Dom up! I'm not leaving this spot!"

Yuki, who was now lying across the cleared counter in attempt to get some sleep before she had to wash dishes, opened one eye. She studied her trembling friend and made a pitying clucking sound like a hen. "Aww… girl trouble?"

"Far beyond girl trouble!"

"It can't be that bad," Lerant yawned. He was lounging on top of one of the counters as well, munching on a leftover piece of chicken.

Seaver, his face still as flushed as when he first came back from serving duty, glowered at him. "Why don't you go out there and tell me how you like having little Lolita feel you up!"

Unfortunately, the main course could not last forever. Seaver reluctantly joined his fellow Riders out in the main dining room to collect the plates and refill any glasses. Prosper had almost grown accustomed to giving whispered status reports to Roald as he walked by. He had also given encouraging looks to his boss, who was more or less trying to fade into the background while Flyndon and Jonathan talked. Qasim was having no difficulties with his table at all. They all got along well and none of them wanted to hit on him.

The same couldn't be said for Seaver, who very reluctantly gathered up the plates and made note of which glasses to refill. He didn't care to look in George's direction. He was sure it wouldn't be good. Alanna wasn't being as cold anymore. She seemed to realize that Seaver was just as mild mannered as could be. Thom couldn't have cared less. He played with his napkin, folding it as if it were something to do origami with.

Alianne had drunk all of her soda, just to be sure of a refill. When Seaver returned from the kitchen to refill it, she leaned forward with her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her palms. "What's your favorite color?"

Seaver shrugged, backing away again as soon as he filled the glass up. "Blue, I guess."

"That's so cool! I was thinking of dying my hair blue," she told him with a delightful sigh.

Thom grinned. "Mom! Mom! Alianne says she's going to dye her hair blue!"

Alanna snorted. "Out of the question."

"But Mom!" Alianne protested.

Seaver took it as his chance to slip away unnoticed and un-groped. The other two waiters followed him. As soon as they entered the kitchen again, they were greeted with an unexpected sight.

Fianola had finished her wonderful desserts, putting so much time and effort that no one had ever expected it of her. She proceeded to waltz about the kitchen with Seaver's snake in her arms, as if in her own fantasy world. Yuki and Lerant were peacefully asleep on top of the counters. They deserved the sleep, so the waiters took up the dessert plates with as little noise as possible and departed again without a sound.

They served each table quietly, feeling cheered by the fact that the night was almost over. Hopefully Raoul would come to his senses next time around so that they would not have to relive that evening. They wouldn't even wish it upon their own enemies. Well, maybe some.

Jonathan peered down at his tiny bowl of crème brulee and noted the sliced strawberries placed with such exactness around it, also accompanied by chunks of chocolate covered with dots of whip cream. What most fascinated him was the perfect smiley face drawn with chocolate syrup on the crème brulee itself.

"How cheerful!" he remarked to Raoul. "Who's your chef? This looks positively scrumptious."

Raoul blinked and stared at the dessert. He couldn't remember who had been assigned to make dessert, perhaps Lerant's hired cooks. He chuckled lightly and replied, "We aim to please, Jon."

Jonathan took his fork and decided to test it for himself. He smiled instantly and swallowed. "It's just as delicious as it looks. I'd say that this was the best part of the meal."

"You say that about every meal," Thayet remarked from his other side.

"Only because it's true," Jonathan admitted.

They lapsed into a new conversation about wonderful desserts they had eaten over the course of their lives, including the sundaes that they had managed to sneak into their boarding schools. That was, after all, where they had met each other. A strange, profound luck had brought them, including Alanna and Gareth Naxen, all together in the same boarding school. And though it had been hellish from the work alone, they had always found solace in each other's company.

At the very end, Jonathan announced his gratitude for such a fine welcome and even finer cuisine. They departed single file out into the entry hall, chattering amongst them. Thayet began telling Roald her and Jon's plans for the following day, in case he wanted to join them.  Roald politely told her that he would consider it, though he had no intention of leaving bed the next day.

He would be too busy recovering from stress.

As they exited, Prosper, Qasim, and Seaver bid them goodnight at the door. Seaver's eyes widened and his entire body froze the instant he felt someone give him a slap on the butt. He dared not look to see who it was, for the telltale sign of girlish giggling already made it clear who exactly it had been. He muttered something to himself and continued to say farewell to the rest of the dinner guests.

"Poor, poor Seaver," Qasim whispered.

"Yes, poor indeed," Prosper agreed.

Seaver glared at them.

Jonathan took Raoul aside as soon as they had stepped out into the brisk night air. Jonathan's contingent of bodyguards had tightened around them now, though they had banished themselves to the shadows of the main dining room during most of the dinner.  He smiled at his old schoolmate and sighed.

"I know you didn't enjoy that one bit, Raoul. And I'm very thankful for your effort," Jonathan said.

Raoul raised one eyebrow suspiciously. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

"No! No, I mean it," he assured him. He leaned closer and whispered, "I'm especially grateful that you snuck food out from the local sports bar into the dinner. I swear, I'm getting so tired of these new inventions that the chefs keep trying on me—just because I'm the President and I'm supposed to have something unique. I think I'll revisit the sports bar again before I leave. I was there for lunch, you see."

"So, you… you knew?"

Jonathan winked. "Of course. I have a penchant for such things. But don't tell Thayet. She'll kill me."

Raoul grinned. "Jon, old boy. You got my solemn word on that."

"Oh! And make your dessert chef send me the recipe. That was simply superb."

"Yes, sir!"

The two men shook hands. A small black car pulled up. Jonathan and Thayet were rushed inside without another word. A motorcade of black cars with shaded windows formed, parading down the street in a very official fashion. Raoul watched, rubbing his chin. He still couldn't believe what had just happened moments before.

Everyone else left with less notoriety. Roald, Raoul, Flyndon, and Buri stayed. They had promised to change out of their fancy clothes and help with the clean up since the entire dinner had been so short of staff. When the passed through the main dining room and into the kitchen for the first time, they were taken aback by the chaotic mess that greeted them.

Lerant and Yuki were still peacefully sleeping on top of the counters, but Fianola had ceased her dancing with the snake and was enjoying one of her own creations with a spoon in hand and a bowl of strawberries at her side.

"What happened back here?" Raoul demanded of Prosper, who seemed to be one of the few who still had most of his sanity intact.

"It's a long story…" Prosper cringed.

Flyndon laughed. "Well whatever you did, it worked!"

Roald nodded. "In a very strange way, yes, it worked. How could that have worked?" He seemed perplexed at the sheer craziness of it all. "Peculiar… So peculiar…"

"Congratulations to you all, especially you, Raoul. I'm really proud that you proved you could be well mannered in front of Jon," Buri told her friend.

"Me, too. Oh, after all these years, me too." He stopped when he caught a glimpse of something strange over Qasim's head. Raoul walked past their tiny group and peered at the area near the alley door. He turned back to the conscious Riders behind him and frowned. "What the devil is Dom doing clad only in his boxers and socks?"

Seaver picked up one of Lerant's water bottles, screwed off the cap, and splashed it in Dom's face. The tall Rider awoke with a start, sputtering and spitting as he sat up. He immediately shivered and looked down at himself. Slowly, he met the eyes of his audience and blushed.

"A bit drafty in here, isn't it?"

~~

Author's notes: Whee! Yay, a fun episode for once! And now, ladies and gentlemen… the time has come for more serious things. I hope you enjoyed this last bit of comedy, because we're about to get into the heavy climax-building part of the season. And whether that's a good or bad thing is up to you to decide!

So, tell me what you think of the episode. Review or email, I'll be glad to have either!

-Sulia