"Dimara Chol," the scarred woman barked, snapping the scroll taut. "By Imperial Decree, on charges of conspiracy against the throne and suspected high treason—you are remanded to custody." Dimara looked from the scarred brow to Tuzar, then down at the polished greaves. "Oh, this must be an awful hassle for you!" she blurted, hands wringing together. "I truly didn't intend any sedition, I assure you." Tuzar gave only a slight tic of his left brow. The scarred officer, however, stiffened at the polite greeting from an accused traitor. "A hassle?" the officer growled, stepping onto the flagstones. "You stand accused of plotting against the throne. That is a capital charge, beast-chef, not a spilled bowl of lentils." Dimara shifted her balance back, and her heel depressed a hairline brass peg flush with the tile. A hollow click echoed beneath the flagstones, followed by a metallic groan. Four circular trapdoors dropped straight down beneath the four soldiers. With startled curses, the squad plummeted into four subterranean cooling vats, landing with heavy, suction-thick squelches. Dimara gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, dear! Are you alright? I do hope that wasn’t too jarring! Was the fall cushioned enough?” Confectioner's meringue, whipped dense with spun date sugar and rose water, coated their crimson plate. The officer surfaced first, globs of pink foam dripping from her nose and helmet crest. "What in the Sun-Glaive is this foul paste?" she sputtered, blowing spun sugar off her lip. "Commander Oshan! Explain this treachery!" Tuzar stood motionless, his dark gaze shifting sidelong toward Dimara. Atop the high spice rack, Pipkip chittered and ran a rough tongue over a silver ladle swiped from the vat edge. A shrill screech pierced the steam, trailing off into a chorus of bellowing desert drakes beyond the reinforced iron grating of the menagerie. The masonry shook as heavy claws gouged stone, filling the room with the stench of scorched bile. "The Shard-Tails!" Dimara gasped. "Ilanis must have salted their morning mash with fire-peppers!" Two green-plated arachnids, each the bulk of a desert lion, shattered the menagerie's bent inner latch. Their flight-chitin whirred like grinding saws, and barbed tails whipped erratic arcs overhead, dripping black acid onto the floor. One surged straight toward the churning pink vats, heavy pincers clapping shut. Tuzar cleared the preparation table in one vault. He unhooked a curved, jade-hilted saber, driving the edge through two segmented walking legs on the beast's left side. The creature skidded sideways with a rasping hiss, tail thrashing as Tuzar turned the barbed strike away with the flat of his weapon. "Commander, wait!" Dimara seized a bronze cooling rack loaded with violet pastry buns. "Don't butcher them! Their digestive tracks are inflamed! They need sweet-rue!" Sprinting around the confectionery basins, she hurled a bun directly into the jaws of the second arachnid. The saffron-laced crumb broke across its mandibles; the creature stalled, worked its mouthparts frantically, and swallowed the dough in a single snap, its frantic tail lowering two inches. The wounded arachnid, however, whipped its barbed tail in a wild blind arc aimed right at Dimara's collarbone. Tuzar hit her shoulder with his ribs, throwing both of them behind a granite pillar. The barbed needle struck the flagstone where she had stood with a brittle crunch, hissing acid eating into the mortar. Tuzar pinned her flat against the column, bracing his forearm above her shoulder to take any falling masonry. He stared down into her face, chest heaving against her linen tunic. "That excessive softness," he muttered, voice gravel-rough in her ear, "will see you disemboweled before the week ends. Yet I would rather endure your endless pardons than another hour of your cousin's viper-tongue. Stay behind me." The brass box on the center island let out a loud metallic whistle, gears spinning in reverse until a thin roll of parchment ejected onto the cutting board. Tuzar snatched the paper with his left hand while keeping his saber angled outward. "'To sedate the menagerie crawlers: Dune-Rose vinegar and Whisper-Wing powder through a fine nozzle,'" Tuzar read off the parchment, his voice snapping back to flat command. "'P.S. Beg their pardon for the draft afterward.' Ridiculous, but practical." Dimara scrambled toward the pantry. "Dune-Rose is on shelf three! Whisper-Wing is in the blue jar by the kiln!" Tuzar dumped the blue powder into a crystal vial, added the pungent red vinegar, and jammed a brass atomizing pump into the neck. Dimara seized the bottle and pumped the bulb straight toward the hissing beasts, misting their eyes and segmented throats. "Pardon me, please forgive the stinging smell! You will both feel much better after a brief nap, I swear!" The rose vapor settled over the carapaces. The clicking mandibles stilled; their walking limbs buckled, and both plated crawlers slumped onto the flagstones with heavy thuds, their tails curling loose across the meringue-splattered floor. "By the sacred dynasty..." the squad leader spat, hauling her armored bulk out of the confection tank. Her greaves squelched in the pool. Dimara set the sprayer down, exhaling as she checked the beasts' steady breathing spiracles. As her sleeve slipped back, a searing needle of heat stabbed her wrist. A crimson brand glowed through her skin, pulsing beneath the surface into ticking numerals: 23:59:58.

Marshmallow Fluff and Manticore Stingers