"Rebecca, the town is packed," Lencar reasoned softly, pointing toward the window. "The merchants are flooding in from the outer villages for the festival tomorrow. The Rusty Spoon is going to be slammed from noon until midnight. Gorn and Barl can't handle that traffic alone. I'll take it easy, stick to the back prep station, and keep my mask on."
Rebecca bit her lip, clearly torn between her responsibility to the tavern and her worry for her friend.
"If I really start to feel terrible, I will come back here and rest," Lencar compromised, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I give you my word. But let me try to help out for a few hours. I don't want to leave you guys drowning in orders."
She let out a long, defeated sigh, her shoulders slumping. "You are incredibly stubborn, do you know that? Fine. But the second I see you swaying on your feet, I am personally dragging you back to this house. Understood?"
"Understood loud and clear," Lencar agreed, hiding a triumphant smile behind the linen cloth.
Breakfast was a subdued affair. Marco and Luca were unusually quiet, staring with wide, concerned eyes at the mask covering Lencar's face. Lencar made a point to eat slowly, pushing his eggs around his plate and feigning a lack of appetite, further cementing the illusion of a severe illness.
The morning air was brisk and damp as they walked to the tavern. The streets of Nairn were indeed overflowing. Carts laden with goods, traveling performers, and throngs of commoners were all moving through the town, using it as a staging ground before heading toward the Royal Capital for tomorrow's festivities.
When Lencar pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Rusty Spoon, the loud, boisterous noise of the morning crowd hit them like a wall. The tavern was already half-full.
Gorn was standing behind the bar, shouting orders at Barl while simultaneously pouring three mugs of ale. The massive man wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and looked up as the bell chimed.
His booming greeting died on his lips. Gorn's thick, bushy eyebrows crashed down over his eyes like a thundercloud. He slammed the pitcher of ale onto the counter with a heavy thud and marched directly out from behind the bar, ignoring a customer who was trying to flag him down.
"What in the name of the Wizard King is going on here?" Gorn demanded, his massive frame towering over them. He pointed a thick, accusatory finger directly at the white linen mask covering Lencar's face. "Why do you look like a walking corpse, and why is half your face wrapped up like a mummy?"
Rebecca stepped forward, wringing her hands nervously in her apron. "He's sick, Gorn-san. He hasn't stopped coughing since the sun came up, and he's completely clammy. I told him there was no need to come to work today, that we could handle it, but he just won't listen. Talk some sense into him."
Gorn's fierce scowl deepened. He planted his hands on his hips, his massive chest puffing out as he glared down at his head prep cook.
"Boy," Gorn growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that commanded absolute attention. "Do you take me for a type of person who would force my sick workers to stand over a hot stove?"
Lencar looked up at the towering tavern owner. He let his shoulders slump slightly, reaching up with a scarred hand to sheepishly scratch the back of his head. It was a perfectly calculated gesture of embarrassment and contrition.
"No, Gorn-san," Lencar replied, letting his voice rasp heavily through the mask. He forced another rattling cough, turning his head away politely. "I know you wouldn't. But... I looked out the window this morning. The town has been full of traffic since dawn. I know how bad the lunch rush is going to be with the festival crowds coming through."
Lencar looked back at Gorn, projecting an aura of earnest, hardworking guilt. "Although I feel pretty awful today, I just felt that I could still manage a shift. I figured I could work for a few hours, stay out of the way in the back pantry, and reduce the prep pressure for you and Barl. I didn't want to leave you drowning in tickets."
For a long, tense moment, Gorn just stared at him. The tavern owner's jaw was clenched tight, his massive fists resting on his hips.
Then, ever so slowly, the fierce, angry lines around Gorn's eyes began to soften. The man was a gruff, loud-mouthed brute, but he cared deeply for the people who bled in his kitchen. Seeing this young, incredibly hardworking man trying to push through a severe illness just to make sure the tavern didn't fall behind touched a very deep, paternal nerve in the older man's chest.
Gorn let out a heavy, incredibly loud sigh, rubbing his temples as if staving off a migraine.
"You are an absolute idiot, Lencar," Gorn muttered, though the venom was entirely gone from his voice. He reached out and lightly clapped a massive hand on Lencar's shoulder. "A loyal, hardworking idiot, but an idiot nonetheless."
Gorn stepped back, pointing a stern finger at the masked young man.
"Listen to me, and listen good. You do whatever you want for the next few hours," Gorn ordered strictly. "You stay in the back pantry. You don't serve plates, you don't talk to the customers, and you keep that mask tied tight. If you want to chop carrots to ease your guilty conscience, fine. But if I hear you coughing up a lung, or if I see you sway, faint, or look even a fraction of a shade paler than you do right now..."
Gorn leaned in close, his eyes deadly serious.
"...I will throw you over my shoulder like a sack of flour and carry you back to your bed myself. Am I understood?"
"Understood, boss," Lencar nodded, a genuine sense of warmth blooming in his chest. These people were good. They were honest, caring, and protective. It made his deception feel a bit slimy, but it also reinforced exactly why he was doing it. He was building a wall of fire between them and the darkness he courted.
The rest of the day was an exercise in rigorous physical acting.
The Rusty Spoon was indeed slammed. The roar of the dining room was deafening, the heat from the hearth oppressive. Lencar stayed secluded in the relatively cooler back pantry, surrounded by sacks of root vegetables and hanging slabs of cured meat.
Normally, Lencar would clear fifty pounds of potatoes in half an hour using his flawless, high-speed knife work. Today, he deliberately slowed his movements by sixty percent. He let his knife drop with a sluggish, heavy thud. He periodically stopped to lean against the wooden counter, resting his forehead on his hand as if fighting off a wave of dizzying nausea.
Every fifteen minutes, he would let loose a volley of harsh, wet coughs that echoed into the main kitchen.
Barl, who was running back and forth grabbing supplies, looked at Lencar with wide, terrified eyes every time he entered the pantry.
"Lencar, you look terrible," Barl whispered nervously, hefting a sack of flour onto his shoulder. "Do you want some water? I can ask Gorn to let you go home."