"Here you go, Alys. The crawler steak for you, and an order of grilled ammonite in makreth-nut sauce. Don't get a lot of call for that, I'll tell you, so I hope I did it right," Garn said as he set down the plates on the table. The owner of the Hunter's Guild bar made most of his money on the liquor trade, but he also took professional pride in the quality of the food he served.

"Probably not," Alys Brangwin said bluntly, "but it wouldn't be your fault. Hysk says it's hard for Parmanians to get things just right when our senses don't work the same."

"Still, if he can give me any tips as to how I can improve the dish, have him stop over and let me know."

"I'll tell him you asked," Alys said. "He'll appreciate it."

Garn wandered off to deal with his next customer and Alys leaned back to wait. In her younger days, after Galf's death, when she'd traveled with Hysk as partners, she'd been a lot more impatient. Now, an unspecified number of years older and hopefully wiser, she was content to lean back and wait in silence.

"So, it looks like you've been stood up, Alys, babe."

Yes, silence would have been blissful, she thought.

The speaker was Joss Howland, a fellow hunter who was a big hunk of beefcake impaired by an equally bovine brain. Dogged persistance was one of his best attributes, which Alys would have appreciated more if the subject of his persistence hadn't been his crush on her.

"Yes, I'm waiting for a friend, and no, I haven't been stood up. He's finishing up at the Guild offices."

"C'mon, Alys," Joss said, dropping into the chair opposite her. "You don't need to make excuses for this jerk. You know that if I had a date with you, I'd be right on time no matter what. Hey," he added as if the thought had just struck him, "I know! I'll fill in with you so you don't need to be stuck here eating alone."

"You don't listen too well, do you?" Alys observed. "On the one hand, I just told you that my friend is meeting me here, and I ordered first so we didn't have to wait another hour for the sauce to distill. On the other hand, a date with you is not an improvement on being alone."

"Aw, c'mon, Alys, you don't need to act like it doesn't bug you. Your friends don't care if you show a softer side."

"I'd be tempted by your concern if you had any clue what you were talking about and—hey, don't do that!"

Her warning came too late, though. Apparently so convinced by his own fantasy that he'd decided he was eating with her, Joss picked up Hysk's fork, impaled a strip of ammonite, then lifted it to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

A second later, his eyes bugged out. He pounded a fist against his chest, and a little mewling sound escaped from his open mouth.

"I did try to warn you," Alys noted unsympathetically.

Joss leapt from his seat and scrambled across the room to the bar where he waved his hand at his mouth. He was already turning red and sweating, so Garn poured him a glass of milk. While the big hunter was guzzling it down, a blue-furred, wide-bodied Native Motavian approached the table.

"Is that some strange Parmanian custom?" Hysk asked dryly, clicking his beak in a kind of laugh.

"I think stupidity is a more generalized complaint."

"True, that. Do you think he'll be all right?"

"Probably. But I really don't want to know what kind of heartburn you'd get from food spiced for the palate of a race that doesn't even have lips."

~X X X~

A/N: Hysk is the creation of Joel Fagin, for his story "Eight-Stroke Sword," and as I'd let him play around with my Alys mythology, he was nice enough to let me use Hysk in one of my own fics, "An Exquisite Dance."