Page 11 of A Forgery of Fate

“Were they yours?” I pressed. “Did you hire those thieves to follow me?”

He swept the end of his beard over his shoulder. “We’re here to celebrate. Must we talk about such unpleasantries?”

“That waiter was there. Yourassociate.”

Gaari’s cheek twitched. It was the barest flinch, almost imperceptible, but I knew to look out for it. “His name’s Tangyor,” he mumbled. He pointed a spoon at me. “It’s to my detriment that I forget how observant you are.”

“The truth, Gaari. Now.”

“I do hire ruffians on occasion.” Gaari crossed his legs. “The more traffic a piece gins up, the higher price it fetches. Sometimes, that traffic needs a bit of a push.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Ignorance makes your playacting more sincere.” He shrugged. “Just something I’ve noticed.”

If I hadn’t finished my tea already, I would have thrown it at him. “I could wring your neck if it weren’t so thick. Don’t go behind my back again.”

“Now, now, Saigas.” Gaari wiped the corner of his mouth. “I got you an extra thousand jens, didn’t I?”

I resented the gasp that escaped me. “An extra thousand?”

He gave a smug nod. “Told you the shrimps were fat today.”

I didn’t want to be so easily won over, but what a boon! An extra thousand would put me weeks closer to my goal. It was a struggle keeping my voice even. “At least tell me who won the auction.”

“The less you know, the better. You’re the talent, I’m everything else.”

“Third rule,” I muttered, still hating it. I sank back into my chair, inwardly grousing at my employer. Three years working with Gaari, and I knew close to nothing about him. Didn’t know how he’d lost his eye or how old he was. I didn’t even know if Gaari was his real name.

I doubted it was. A man like him, who valued the act as much as the art, would obviously shroud himself in a few layers of mystery. I respected that. What bothered me were the little chips in his facade I caught from time to time, the fault of my own perceptiveness. Maybe the beard and the white hair were questionable—but once, early in our acquaintance, I’d observed that the skin on his neck was smooth, unlike his face. At times his eye, too, seemed bright, almost youthful. Cunning.

“I don’t know why I trust you,” I said aloud, both for myself and him to hear.

“Because you’ll never get a table at Luk’s without me,” replied Gaari cheerily. “Now that I’ve introduced you to this place, you know that every other noodle shop is second-rate.”

I wiped my freshly rinsed spoon with a cloth. Only Gaari would fish out a compliment when none had been given. It was true, though. The man did have good taste in noodles.

“I swear, this place must be run by kitchen demons.” He inclined his chin at how busy it was downstairs. “Speaking of which, our lunch is here.”

As soon as he said it, a potpourri of spices seduced my nostrils. Cinnamon and white cardamom, clove and star anise and mountain ginger. My nose was in heaven. A steaming bowl of freshly hand-rolled noodles landed in front of me, chunks of sinewy beef and spinach floating inside the brown-red broth.

I salivated. Of all the foods in the world, noodles made my belly happiest. Gaari and I had our differences—he favored landscapes over portraits, medicinal over black tea, and garlic over chilis—but there was one thing he and I agreedon, had practically staked our friendship on in fact. Noodles were king.

And the ones at Luk’s—divine.

So divine that I momentarily forgot my anger at Gaari. I dipped a wooden spoon into the noodles, scooping up a splendorous dollop of oil and inhaling the steam it let off. But first, before I could feast, I twisted open the small jar on the side of the table and shuttled a heap of chopped chili peppers into my soup. My bowl turned a dazzling red.

ThenI dug in.

With each bite, my tongue burned with glorious heat. I didn’t stop to drink, to speak to Gaari, or even to breathe. Good food was consumed in silence; any extra air would interfere with my taste buds. And so I stooped over my bowl, beads of sweat sliding down the precipice of my cheeks as I devoured my noodles.

Gaari observed my little ritual, looking amused.

“What?” I said.

“I’ve always wondered who taught you to eat with so much spice. It’s not a southernly thing to do.”

I sat up and patted the perspiration from my face. In my head, I answered silently.Baba.It was cold in Balar, he’d said, and the spice helped clear the nose and warm the belly. I used to hate it, used to cry at the slightest smear of pepper in my rice. But I developed a resistance over time. After five long winters of going hungry in the cold, I’d graduated to the hottest chili peppers I could find. And now I could eat themraw.

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