Free In the Skin of a Nunqua by R. J. Pouritt Page B

food left over from the feast.
    A bald man in charge of kitchen inventory wrote in a journal. Shanti placed two coins on top on the journal.
    “To toast the arrival of spring,” she said.
    He put the coins in his pocket and jerked his thumb in the direction of the wine cellar.
    Shanti descended the steps to a cool, tidy underground room filled with bottles stacked inside crates. After examining several boxes containing all types of costly liquor, she chose an inexpensive bottle of red wine and brought it up.
    A short, snaggle-toothed cook, his yellow hair slicked back with a heavy coating of grease, confronted her. “Who do you think you are?”
    “We missed dinner,” she said.
    “Then go to the . . . wherever the guards eat, and leave us alone. This food is for the royals and their guests.”
    “It would take us half the night to walk there.”
    “And?” Stains from food and sweat discolored his once-white shirt.
    “We’ve gotten food from the kitchen before. No one’s ever complained.” She looked for the bald man in charge of inventory, but he must have left. “Besides, I already paid for the wine.”
    “You didn’t pay me. One silver coin, and I’ll let you have it.”
    She inspected the bottle. “It’s not worth that much.”
    “Then put it back.”
    Why was he being difficult? She had bought wine from the castle’s stores before.
    One of the guards approached, laden with an armful of food. “Commander Shanti,” he said, “we’re ready to go.”
    She bypassed the cook and headed for the door.
    “Commander?” the cook said. “How many men did you have to pleasure to obtain the rank of commander?”
    She stopped a few steps away from the exit. The Daughters of Fortunate Birth, Rega Bayla, and even this filthy cook had insulted her, and all on the same day. She was sick of keeping quiet, taking the verbal abuse, and swallowing her pride.
    “Watch the door,” she told one of the guards, handing the bottle of wine to the other guard.
    The cook snickered. “Judging by your reaction, I’d say I’m right. I’ll give you all the food you want if you satisfy me. I’ll show you how to command.”
    Workers in the kitchen moved away as she walked toward the cook until they were an arm’s length apart. “I’m sorry,” Shanti said. “I didn’t quite hear you. Can you repeat that?”
    “He’s unarmed and not worth the trouble,” the guard holding the bottle of wine said. “We have enough food.”
    The lookout by the door whistled.
    “Commander Kyros?” She kept her gaze locked on the cook.
    “Yes,” the guard said.
    “You two, get out of here. Do not let Kyros see you, and do not drink my wine.”
    The royal guards made a hasty retreat out the back door.
    “You,” she said to the cook. “Pick your weapon.”
    His gaze alternated between the hilt of her sword, visible just above her shoulder, and the darts secured to the wristlet on her forearm.
    “We’re surrounded by knives. Pick one. You wanted to see why I was promoted to commander, didn’t you?”
    A deep voice behind her said, “That same question has come up in my mind—many times, actually.”
    She stepped back from the cook, who scurried away like a ferret that has seen a hawk.
    “Outside,” Commander Kyros ordered.
    Although he was a soldier, Kyros didn’t wear a uniform. His elevated rank and proximity to the king afforded him certain privileges at the castle. His fine breeches and coat accentuated his muscular frame. Dark skinned, with a strong jaw, he cut a respectable figure.
    They walked away from the kitchen and any prying ears. “I should have expected as much from you, Commander Shanti. Attacking an unarmed cook—it’s inexcusable. What do you have to say for yourself?”
    “I’m merely teaching him some manners, sir.”
    “What Commander Gy sees in you, I’ll never know. Always trying to prove yourself, trying to make everyone think you’re so dangerous. Go ahead, pull your sword on me. Shoot me