The laughing God's Gambit

CHAPTER 6: The kitchen.

Clang.

It wasn’t that loud, but it was sharp in the tight vent. He froze.

Down below, one cook looked up from chopping carrots, frowning at the ceiling. He listened. The dish machine kept clanging. He shrugged and went back to work.

Ferris waited. Then tapped again. And again. He wasn’t trying to break it quickly, but to weaken the rusty joint bit by bit.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. Lyria was staring at him intensely. Her hunger was a constant, painful ache.

On the seventh tap, the screw gave way with a soft crack. The corner of the grate drooped.

They both felt a surge of hope.

He moved to the next screw. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The second screw broke faster. The grate was now hanging by two corners.

Below, a cook moved the stew pot off the table and took it to the sink. The bread and cheese were out in the open, unguarded.

Tap. Tap CRACK.

The third screw snapped. The grate swung down, hanging by only one corner, leaving a small opening to squeeze through. It was a twelve-foot drop to the floor.

The noise was louder this time. One of the cooks looked up again, staring right at the dangling grate.

Hey! The vent's loose again! Cheap work,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron and walking toward a toolbox in the corner, turning his back to them.

This was their only shot.

Now, Lyria hissed.

She went first, sliding out of the vent feet-first, holding onto the edge, and dropping the last few feet. She landed quietly, moving into the shadows of the table.

The cook was digging in his toolbox.

Ferris followed, but he wasn’t as smooth. He scrambled out, hung for a second, and let go. He landed hard, jarring his legs.

The cook turned. Huh? Who's there?

Ferris rolled under the table, next to Lyria. They were squeezed together in the dark, surrounded by table legs. The smell of the bread was driving him crazy.

The cook’s boots stopped close by. He muttered, looking at the grate. Must’ve been the vibrations. Gotta get the boy to fix it tomorrow. He grabbed a hammer and a new screw, standing on a stool to fix the grate.

They were stuck. Under the table. With food right above them.

Lyria looked at him, her face showing torment a knight, hiding under a table for scraps. Ferris felt her shame.

The cook hammered above them. Bang. Bang. Bang. It covered any small sounds.

Ferris pointed to the bread, then to her, then pretended to grab something. You. Get it.

She shook her head, embarrassed. She pointed at him. You're better at stealing.

He rolled his eyes. With the cook right there, it was too dangerous. He pointed at her hand, then mimed the wrench. Then he pointed to a metal pot hanging on the wall.

She understood. She reluctantly nodded.

She gripped the wrench, took aim, not at the cook, but at the pot. She threw.

The wrench flew from under the table, a fast blur of metal. It hit the pot with a loud GONG!

What the hell?! the cook yelled, jumping off his stool.

While he was distracted, Ferris moved. He crawled out from under the table on the other side, stood up behind the cook, and grabbed.

Not just the bread, but the whole platter.

He silently pulled it off the table and ducked back under, just as the cook turned back, scratching his head at the pot.

Rats, the cook said, disgusted. Big, nasty rats.” He finished fixing the grate with one final bang. Enjoy the steam, you little bastards.

He walked away, complaining about pests.

Under the table, Ferris and Lyria stared at the food. The bread was rough but fresh. The cheese was hard and salty. It was a feast.

They didn’t talk. They tore into it like animals, eating as quietly as they could. Ferris stuffed a chunk of bread in his mouth, and the relief was overwhelming. He felt Lyria’s relief too, softening the sharp edges of her emotions.

They ate everything, hiding their sounds in the kitchen noise. For a few minutes, nothing else mattered. Just the simple pleasure of being full.

It was the calmest they’d been since they met.

But it didn’t last.

As Ferris licked the last bit of cheese from his thumb, he sensed a new feeling from Lyria. Not hunger or shame.

Alarm.

She was staring out from under the table, toward the entrance. He looked that way too.

A guy was standing in the doorway. He wasn’t a cook. He was wearing city watch clothes. He wasn’t holding a wanted poster. He was just looking around, carefully taking everything in.

He was looking for something out of place.

His eyes went past their table, over the empty platter, and then stopped. He looked down at the floor.

At a fresh footprint in a patch of flour spilled from the table. A footprint made by an armored boot.

The scout’s eyes narrowed. He reached for the whistle at his belt.

Lyria was already moving, pushing Ferris toward the back of the kitchen, toward a dark doorway that looked like an exit.

But the scout saw them. He brought the whistle to his lips.

They were out of time, out of luck, and their full stomachs might be the last good thing they ever knew.