The Skies Discrowned by Tim Powers Page B

sat watching it drip onto the remains of his scrambled eggs; he was puffing at a pipe and wondering how the devil pipe smokers kept the things lit. Across the table George Tyler was slumped dejectedly in a chair, his blond hair sticking out at odd angles from his head.
    Orcrist walked in, carrying a plate of fried eggs and bacon and potatoes. “What’s this?” he asked, nodding at the growing puddle of rain water.
    “It’s raining on the surface,” said Frank. “I suppose we ought to put a pan under it.” He resumed puffing on the pipe.
    “Oh, your plate will do for now,” Orcrist said. “What are you trying to smoke?”
    Frank waved at a pack of tobacco lying on the table. Orcrist picked it up and stared at it. “ ‘Cherry Brandy Flavored.’ Frank, you can’t smoke
that
.” He tossed it down. “Let me get you some
real
tobacco.”
    “And what’s
real
tobacco?” asked Tyler irritably. It had been he who’d recommended the Cherry Brandy blend to Frank.
    “Something with a lot of latakia in it,” Orcrist said. “This fruit syrup stuff is no good for smoking; it’s only fit for impressing ignorant girls.”
    Tyler shrugged, as if to say that that was reason enough to smoke it right there.
    “Anyway, I have better things to talk about than bad tobacco,” Orcrist went on. “Tomorrow night I’m giving a dinner for ten of the High Lords of the Subterranean Companions. I’m hiring three guys to help out in the kitchen; you and Pons will be in charge, Frank. We’re going to have Giant Tacos, Beans Jaime, and dark beer—I’ve got Pons out buying supplies now. I think you ought to be the beer steward, Frank; you simply stand by with a pitcher of it and refill any glasses that become less than half full.”
    “Doesn’t sound bad,” Frank said. “Will anyone I know be there?”
    “No, she won’t,” said Orcrist.
    The next afternoon Frank strolled into the kitchen, where Pons and the three new cooks were already at work. One of the new men was chopping bell peppers on a wooden board; another was stirring a pot of hot sauce; and the third was grating block after block of cheese. On a stool to one side sat Pons, criticizing their work and telling them what needed doing afterward.
    “It’s about time you got here,” Pons said. “Keep an eye on these dopes for a while.” He got up and strode out, shaking his head contemptuously.
    “Oh, man,” said one of the cooks. “Who
was
that guy?”
    “His name’s Pons,” said Frank. “I don’t like him either. Do you guys know how to do all this? Because I sure can’t tell you.”
    “Oh, hell yes,” said another. “We work in a restaurant together. We’ve been making this stuff since we were kids. And then old Bon-Bon comes in here and wants to tell me how to cut bell peppers.”
    “Well, cut them any way you want,” said Frank.
    The big oven was turned on, and the room heated up pretty quickly, especially when one of the cooks began frying the ground beef in two huge pans. Frank was only doing peripheral jobs, chopping onions and fetching tomatoes, but he soon found himself sweating like a longdistance runner.
    “Listen,” he said, “I’m ready for a beer. Who’ll join me?”
    They all assented, and Frank opened four bottles of Orcrist’s favorite light beer. He passed these around, and then was amazed at how much more smoothly the kitchen ran when the cooks had bottles of beer beside them. There’s some principle at work there, he thought.
    The door was kicked open and Pons entered.
    “You’re letting them
drink?
“ he gasped. He snatched all the bottles, which were empty now anyway, and flung them into a trash can. “Sam will hear about this,” he snarled at Frank. “You’ll be out of a job.”
    “I don’t think so,” Frank said.
    “Clear out, Bon-Bon,” said one of the cooks.
    “You’ve gone too far,” Pons whispered. “You can’t undermine me. Tomorrow you’ll be out on the
street”
    “Time will tell,” smiled