My Enemy Makes Excellent Bread

How it begins

The captured baker produced forty-seven perfect loaves that refused to become bread.

Samuel Vale picked one up. It weighed approximately as much as the brick it resembled.

Across the kitchen, Owen Hart folded his arms.

"I explained the difficulty."

"You said the oven was unhappy."

"People find that easier to hear than saying I am."

Samuel set down the loaf.

The capture had been described as an opportunity. The rival fortress had the last trained oven-worker in the valley; Samuel's quartermaster had decided opportunity deserved an escort and a locked gate.

In daylight, beside a man who had clearly explained why he would not cooperate, the arrangement looked considerably less strategic.

Samuel called for the gate key.

Owen watched him without moving.

"You're free to leave," Samuel said. "An escort only if you want one. Your tools go with you."

"And the oven?"

The old magical oven stood beneath a hood of blackened stone. It had served both sides before either fortress existed. Samuel had never asked whether possession and use were the same thing.

"I can't carry it outside," he said.

"Neither can I. That's why talking might have been a useful opening."

By afternoon, Owen was standing beyond the open gate with his bag and two independent witnesses from the village. Samuel had come without guards because the baker had requested it, not because he expected trust to arrive on command.

Between them sat a basket.

Inside lay one warm loaf, its crust split along the top like a small golden smile.

"For the conversation," Owen said.

Samuel broke it only after asking.

Steam rose between their hands. The smell made him aware of how long he'd been eating food without tasting anything except the work still waiting afterward.

"What are your terms?" he asked.

Owen leaned against the outer wall.

"First," he said, "stop calling it my enemy's oven."