Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“Fermented com’ja mare’s milk and grun blood,” he answered promptly. “Takes a little getting used to but if you drink it enough, you’ll start to crave the fucking stuff.”
“Ah. I’ll take your word on that.” I nodded and tried to smile, thinking to myself that it was possibly the worst thing I’d ever had in my mouth.
The Baron laughed.
“Yeah, I can see it doesn’t agree with you. Don’t drink any more of it if you don’t like it.”
“It has a unique flavor,” Sir remarked, taking a drink of his own sl’urm and licking his lips thoughtfully.
“Yes, it fucking does,” the Baron agreed amiably. “Ah—here comes the next course! This was one of the first hot courses the Naggian people ever had—it dates back centuries,” he added as the two servants came in again.
Once more they had a cart with them. Sitting on it was some kind of hotplate or induction cook-top and placed on that was a broad, shallow pot that was almost more of a tub. Water was already bubbling away in the tub—at least I thought it was water—it was clear at least.
Then I saw a third servant pushing in a second cart. This one had a tall hook mounted on it that had lots of wrinkled, pale blue ropes hanging from it. There was also a pitcher of the same dark maroon liquid that had been poured into my cup earlier along with the fermented mare’s milk.
Uh-oh, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know what was going on here, but the Baron proceeded to explain.
“This is grun blood sausage,” he told Sir. “You clean the animal’s intestines and then pour just a little of the creature’s blood into them.”
As he spoke, the servants were doing exactly that, pouring the dark maroon liquid into the end of one of the shriveled ropes, which I now realized must be intestines.
“It doesn’t take much,” Baron Vik’tor continued. “Because it expands when you boil it. Watch.”
As he spoke, the servants twisted off the end of the pale blue intestine rope and cut it off from the rest. Then he tied the ends together to make a loop and tossed it into the pot of boiling water where it immediately began to expand until it was positively enormous. And when I say “enormous,” I mean that it started out the thickness of a Vienna sausage and ended up bigger than my arm.
This steaming monstrosity was delivered whole onto a platter and placed in front of Sir, as the plate containing his half-eaten fish curls was whisked away by another servant. Sir stared down at the thing in front of him without comment.
I hoped my own poker face was as good as his, because I was served next with only a slightly smaller portion than my Master had gotten. I stared down at it as the steam rose from the clammy pale blue surface of its intestine casing. It smelled awful—like sweaty gym socks dipped in the urinal at a dirty truck stop restroom. Did I have to try this, too?
I would have liked the answer to that question to be “no” but when I looked up, I saw that everyone was watching me and Sir. Clearly we were under scrutiny here. I was going to have to at least try the weird blood sausage.
Grimly, I picked up the knife which the servant had placed by my new plate and sawed at the loop of bloated intestine on my plate. But the pale blue skin was slippery and squirted away from me.
Luckily, I still had my spork-sticks. I picked them up with my left hand and clamped the grun blood sausage firmly in place. Then I grabbed the knife in my right and stabbed into the bloated, pale blue loop.
Finally my knife tip pierced the slippery skin but as it did, a great gout of half-cooked blood, still in liquid form, jetted out. It sprayed right across the table and splattered all over the white linen tablecloth and the front of Dru’silla’s dark blue dress.
The Naggian woman shrieked and jumped up from the table, her long, white hands dancing in the air like frantic doves.
“Oh my God!” I gasped, putting a hand to my mouth reflexively. “I am so, so sorry! That was an accident—I swear it!”
Dru’silla turned blazing blue eyes on me.
“Just look what you’ve done to my gown, you…you dirty little space urchin!” she snarled as her husband grabbed a napkin and tried frantically to blot her dry.
“I said I’m sorry,” I told her, frowning. No one had ever called me a “dirty little space urchin” before and I didn’t much like it. “Look, Sir has a thing called a Matter Synthesizer in his ship,” I went on. “I’m sure he can make you a gown exactly like the one I ruined. If you’ll just—”