Entrée

The kitchen was a hive of activity. Every part of the spacious facility was blooming with the luscious scents of exotic herbs and spices. Cooks and kitchen boys stood stirring in heavy copper kettles from which came mouth-watering aroma’s as their contents simmered away lustily over the cookfires. Marello swallowed a mouthful of saliva as he teetered past the cookpots, arms laden with fresh loafs of bread, baguettes and wheels of ripened cheese.

“Crumble the loafs into fine breadcrumbs and slice the cheese in even chunks,” said a deep voice from behind a blazing cookfire. Above it, a copper kettle glowed red with the heat. The chef stood stirring a broth of tomatoes, bell peppers and onions. Marello the kitchen boy licked his lips as his nostrils met with its rich scent. “And no stealing bites,” added master Delenthar warningly.

The Ceratan chef was an imposing man, standing about seven feet tall and sporting arms the size of young tree trunks. The strength in them was equally impressive as Marello, a skinny Rashari youngster, had had the misfortune to experience on more than one occasion. “No, sir, whatever you say, sir,” he muttered while rubbing a webbed hand past the side of his smooth fish-scaled head. He could still feel the hot, prickling pain where the fist of his master had connected with him just a moment before when he had caught him snitching a cherry from the fruit basket.

Marello had been a pickpocket living in the streets of Vira’Erana when the pirates had taken him aboard. For a while, the young orphan believed they took him in to become a pirate too, but when he asked the captain where his bunk was, the man had nearly burst with laughter. When the ship moored in the port of Orphan Island a few weeks later, Marello caught on; he had been taken to be sold to the Mother, the owner of the island and the slave camp on it. He had not expected to be able to feel more miserable than he’d had back home in Virenya.

Long days of toiling in the island’s mineral mines followed up the short nights in crowded sleeping quarters for nearly a year. He had tried to run off to throw himself off the cliffs a few times, but when he was fettered after the third attempt Marello resigned to his wretched fate. So it was, that when chef cook Delenthar requested him to serve as his new kitchen boy, Marello’s hopes lifted again. He would be transferred to the Dollhouse, the fort on the little island just east of the Orphan where the Mother lived a life of lavishness. The Rashari tiddler had goggled at the great blocks of veined marble that formed the imposing porch, the gilded statues and busts of Mother’s ancestors but most of all, at the mansion’s kitchens. Little palaces on their own, the Dollhouse’s cooking facilities counted many rooms and several cellars, each with their individual function. It had taken Marello weeks to learn the names of the ingredients and where to find them in the labyrinthine storages. Even now he sometimes struggled to remember on which shelf the pickled peppers are kept, or to tell the difference between coriander and parsley. Tasting them made this easier but this had turned out a risky, and rather painful strategy when caught. Marello had soon taken to studying the cookbooks and the herbarium by candle light in the small hours to brush up his knowledge instead.

While he stood crumbling the crisply baked breads, Marello suppressed the urge to taste a chunk or steal a bite from the aromatic cheese. He had expected to eat better while working in the kitchens than he had had when labouring in the mines, he admitted to himself. The slob they served from greasy kettles in the cantina was not even warm most of the time. The Dollhouse’s food storages however, were as big as the mines were deep and surely no one would miss anything if he took a little for himself. Unfortunately, chef Delenthar’s nose had developed to smell rats as well as any herb and spice in the book and he could always tell when Marello had snuck a sandwich under his shirt. Sighing, Marello dismissed the thought of easing one such appetising chunks of cheese into his apron’s pocket and placed four of them onto the waiting plate instead. Sprinkled with herbed breadcrumbs, the cheese was quickly coated and ready to be heated. The provolone cheese would then be grilled just to the point at which the breadcrumbs turn a golden hue. As this was a tricky dish, apprentice Marello was only allowed to watch the maestro work his magic on the open-fire grill rack. The cheese was to be warmed only to the edge of melting. Any longer and the coating would burst and the liquefied cheese would spill like lava from the depths. However, it had to be served before the dish could cool off and the cheese solidify, Marello knew. As soon as the chef had plucked the steaming chunks from the grill, the kitchen boy loaded them onto four plates and hurried for the door. He was about to shoulder it open when Delenthar’s booming voice came in like thunder.

“Murta! What do you think you’re doing, halfwit assistant!” In two, three great strides, he caught up with Marello and treated him to another of his famous knuckle sandwiches. The kitchen boy could only just keep the tray level and the dishes from spilling. “Serving, sir,” Marello answered shyly, “serving the entrée before it sets, sir.”

“In this careless fashion? Do you have any idea who you’re serving the entrée too? The Mother herself and visiting officials from the Convocation!” Chef Delenthar made an attempt to enforce his words with another well-aimed blow, but Marello ducked in time and managed to make it seem like a servile bow. “Forgive me, sir. I had no idea. I am from Virenya and have never heard of the Convocation or seen Mother in person.” Delenthar grunted, reached over Marello’s head and slowly pushed open the door. It opened onto the Dollhouse’s dining room, a bright lit hall the size of a ball room. Huge brass chandeliers hung from a richly painted ceiling, throwing soft light onto the endless rose wooden table beside which only a handful of people were seated. A stately female with distinct feline features sat at the head of the table. Marello momentarily mistook her for a Keiron before he saw that she was an Aiuran instead, a feline minority race hailing from the eastern woods of Valènor. Her catlike eyes sat like amber orbs in her brown-beige furred face. Long whiskers twitched ever so slightly as she threw a shrewd glance at her guests. She must be the Mother, Marello guessed.

“That man is captain Fairwind, a good friend of Mother Minesha,” whispered Delenthar while nodding at a roughened but charming Rashari clad in bright reds and golds, sitting to the Mother’s left. Marello recognised him. He was the pirate captain who had kidnapped him and brought him here, but he decided to keep that to himself and just nodded instead. “Opposite Fairwind is Aeberon Eleros, a representative of the Irean Court. Only here because the Irin big wigs want to stick their official noses in everybody’s cookpot. We could do with less of them.” The chef then motioned to the Keiron man left of minister Eleros. “That’s Corbin of the Mires, a Convocation big fish who oversees international business. For as far as you can speak of ‘international’, now that the Convocation pushes law after law to unite the whole of Ceon under one central rule. The question is whose rule, but that’s none of my business.” Delenthar closed the door again and straightened his back. “What is my business, is that an absolutely perfect dinner is served in an absolutely flawless fashion. You,” the chef pointed, “look like a slob of the street in that filthy apron, puguan. You take that off and wear this toque when you walk into that room, and don’t you ever forget it. Iu skapa?” Marello was helped out of his food stained apron and presented with a clean white chef’s toque. Delenthar regarded him with an air of disappointment. “At least it covers up that scaly scalp of yours, Virenian fishman. Off you go. And keep your mouth shut. You serve, nothing more!”

It was stifling inside the dining room. All three of the impressive hearths were alight and Marello could already feel the cloth of his shirt stick to his back as he trotted towards the table with extreme care. Balancing the tray in one hand, he picked the dishes with the other to place them before each of the diners. Marello did his best to avoid eye contact and only caught snippets of the conversation he tried not to listen in on.

“Of course, lady Minesha,” spoke the Irin ambassador, “these are mere rumours. I do not expect to find any evidence that could prove them true, nor does my colleague here. Is that not so, mister Mires?” The Keiron minister, who looked to be a chronic insomniac for the bags beneath his eyes, nodded severely. “Certainly, ma’am. This is a mere formality, of course.” Mother Minesha pulled her lips into a thin smile. “Of course, a mere formality,” she agreed. Her voice was deep and honey sweet, like a punch drank at the beach on a hot summer night. Marello shot a quick glance up as he gracefully placed a porcelain plate in front of her. The Mother’s unblinking amber eyes sat still and purposeful, like a predator eyeing its prey just before it strikes. They did not match her sultry voice at all.

“See, Minesha!” laughed the Rashari captain. “These fine gentlemen would rather spend their evening in a different company if it wasn’t for their dull duties. You’ll find that the Orphan certainly doesn’t house the country’s aristocracy, my good sirs, but to call them slaves is still an insult to most!” A modest snickering went through the group. “I personally guarantee that every inmate here is registered and the accounts are as spotless as this boy’s hat,” captain Fairwind grinned and slapped Marello on his back as he placed the man’s plate. “Isn’t that so, boy?” Marello felt the colour rise to his cheeks. You serve, nothing more! Chef Delenthar’s voice rang in his ears. What inmates is he talking about, thought Marello feverishly. What accounts? The kitchen boy already felt the fist of the maestro he was sure to meet if he made a fool out of himself in front of the Mother and the government officials. Then, behind them the door to the kitchens opened and a well-dressed, solemn-faced maid entered with a bottle of red wine, neatly wrapped in white silk. At the sight of her, captain Fairwind’s face lit up. “Ah!” he exclaimed happily. “A full-bodied vintage Red Viper. From Minesha’s own private collection, no less. Nothing like a glass of red to rub off the edge of a trying day.” The captain absently pushed Marello aside to let the maid pour him a healthy glass. In his mind, the apprentice thanked the girl for her timing and turning around, Marello made for the door as fast as was socially acceptable. He only dared to breathe again when the kitchen door fell close behind him.

Hors d’oeuvre

“Finally,” barked chef Delenthar. “What took you so long? Did you get lost? Never mind, get that apron back on and quick. Fetch me some curculin from the cellar. It’s in the very last shelves.” With his toque still on, Marello dashed for the stairs and grabbed a lantern from a hook next to the door. He had descended into the cavernous cellar countless times before, but the vast space and vault-like atmosphere struck him with awe every time. Strings of garlic and onions dangled from the rafters. Bags of grains, rice and potatoes stood piled up against soot blackened walls while colourful beetroots filled baskets in the shelves. Casks of salted beef and cod were stacked to the ceiling. Barrels of ale and wine lined the furthest wall, but no sign of shelves in the back. Then, his eyes met with a cabinet in the corner of the room. He held up the lantern. The glass in the door was murky, but the dried ingredients inside were in fine condition, the kitchen boy saw as he opened the door. Each of the numerous shelves inside were packed with strange roots, seeds and dried herbs. He let his eyes glide over them as he dug his memory for the facts he had read in the herbarium. Mandrake roots; contains large quantities of the alkaloid pseudaconitine, highly toxic. Ricinus seeds, or castor beans; extremely poisonous when ingested whole. Dried amanita bisporigera, or Angel of Death mushroom; looks very similar to the edible button mushrooms you find in every meadow, but causes death within hours. Marello grew more and more uncomfortable looking at the vast collection of what could only be poisonous ingredients. At the top shelf stood a tin can labelled ‘curculin’. He could not remember the book mentioning it, but Marello took no chances. He plucked the can between forefinger and thumb, keeping it at arms-length and hastened back to the kitchen.

“Place it here, and don’t touch anything.” Chef Delenthar barely looked up from his pot when Marello arrived with the tin can. He placed it carefully on the counter. Then he swallowed a little of his fear, so curiosity could give him a voice. “Sir?” he stammered. “Is curculin poisonous?”

Chef Delenthar looked up. “What makes you think that?”

Marello blushed and averted his gaze. “Well… It’s just that, it was in a cabinet with other poisonous ingredients, sir.”

“So you have studied the herbarium, then. Good. It’s important to be able to recognise and distinguish between every single herb and root in the book. The cook holds the power over life and death, after all, and with that power comes responsibility.” Delenthar lifted the pot from the fire. Then he grabbed a block of ice from a cooling basin and crushed it to bits over the cookpot with his bare hands. The ice dissolved immediately. “Have you also read that most of what you call poisonous ingredients can also be beneficial?” Delenthar inquired while stirring the now cooled soup, or gazpacho. Marello crumpled his brow as he searched his memory. “Well, I believe that the oil won from the castor beans can boost the immune system,” he said slowly, “but if you eat the beans just like that, they’re deadly.”

“That’s because the seed coat contains the potent toxin ricin,” explained Delenthar while he scooped the gazpacho into four bowls. “In nature, life and dead often occur close together. Uncomfortably so. As a cook, you have the power and responsibility to keep them apart. Get me that can, will you. It won’t bite.” Marello got the tin can from the counter and watched as the chef shook the powder out over the bowls. It was near colourless and disappeared quickly in the dish. The chef placed the bowls onto the tray and handed it to the kitchen boy. Marello hesitated. “Did- did you poison this, sir?” he blurted. A dark flash crossed the chef’s eyes momentarily.

“Curculin is not poisonous, boy.” Delenthar crossed his arms in front of him. “It’s a protein with taste-modifying activity. Curculin tastes sweet of its own and has the property that anything sour and bitter you eat after it will also taste sweet and more appetizing. You’ve got a lot to learn yet. Now, get going. We can’t let our guests wait.”

In the dining room, the atmosphere had notably lifted, Marello sensed when he walked up to the table. The company sat exchanging pleasantries and inside jokes as they finished the last bits of the entrée. The wine bottle in the centre of the table was empty.

“Ah, the boy with the spotless hat,” grinned captain Fairwind as Marello served him his bowl. “What did you bring us this time? Another treat for our taste buds, no doubt! Lady Minesha only serves the best, I dare say.” Corbin of the Mires raised a brow. “Striking you should mention that. Some of our sources inform us that the food served in the prison’s cantina is, how did they put it, hardly fit for pigs.” For a moment, the company was silent and the only sounds were the gentle thuds of the soup bowls Marello served. “Of course, these are mere rumours,” broke minister Eleros the silence. “If the inmates are served but half of this lovely supper you have been so kind as to prepare for us, they are well taken care of indeed. May I ask what you generally prepare for the prisoners, boy?” Aeberon Eleros asked as Marello placed his hors d’oeuvre snug between the silver cutlery. “Just some ingredients for their everyday meals, to get some idea.” All eyes were now fixed on the kitchen boy. “Uh, I- uhm…” Marello started, but chef cook Delenthar’s voice resounded in his head. Keep your mouth shut. You serve, nothing else!

“Our kitchens serve warm meals twice a day, with a third cold course consisting of fruits, nuts and seeds,” spoke Mother Minesha. She smiled politely. Marello saw her clawed hand curling around her spoon as if she wished to strangle it. Although Marello knew that third course to be a mixture of rotting leftovers and waste products from the Mother’s meals, something about the gesture stopped him from adding this to her words. He bowed deeply, but as he made his way to the kitchen, a voice called. “Hold up, young man!” It was captain Fairwind. For an instant Marello froze. He’s going to ask me what’s in the soup. He will want to know why the chef has used taste-altering powder in a perfectly normal gazpacho. But nothing about the pirate’s expression hinted at suspicion of any kind. “Be a good boy and bring us some more of your lovely wine,” the captain grinned and thrusted the empty bottle in Marello’s hands. Momentarily, Marello saw something sinister flashing in his eyes. “Our guests are true connoisseurs.”

Main Course

Back in the kitchen, there now drifted the scents of roasted deer and baked potatoes. Marello could hear his stomach growl over the simmering of the meat as he offloaded the serving tray.

“The guests request more wine, sir,” he announced. Chef Delenthar grinned behind his stove. “Then you serve more wine, kitchen boy.” He gestured to a dusty bottle in the wine rack. “Take the barrel-aged Nova Rosa. Its dry taste and woody aroma will ease the bitter flavour into a pleasantly mild mouth sensation while creating a perfectly sour stomach environment.” Marello cocked an eyebrow. He did not immediately see how a wonderfully juicy deer roast simmered in a broth of mustard seeds, juniper berries and bay leaves could taste bitter. Or how a sour stomach environment could be desirable in any sense. Yet, the chef sounded as if he intended the meal to be harsh of taste. Bitter tones must be an acquired taste, he thought and shook his head. Marello picked the bottle from the rack and, drawing a deep breath, pushed open the door to the dining hall. Inside, the discussions had turned direction and with it had the diners’ moods.

“However,” said Aeberon Eleros to no one in particular, “some basic information on the internal governing of your penitentiary institution is required.” The Irin minister looked thoughtful while he sloshed the last sip of Red Viper wine in his glass. “Perhaps we can get a tour through the prisons once dinner is done,” he suggested. “Purely to get a picture of the average prisoner and what their cells are like.” Minister Eleros held up his glass for Marello to refill. While he stood pouring, the kitchen boy felt the man’s eyes burning into the back of his head. “What about you, boy?” came the voice from overhead. “Were you a petty criminal, brought here to learn a skill and reintegrate into society?” Marello looked up, his eyes wide as saucers. A petty criminal? Does he not know we’re slaves, not lawbreakers? Slowly, his face began to take on the colour of the wine. “I-, I…. uh-”

“The boy is a mute,” Mother Minesha broke in. Her wine glass was untouched. “Poor devil gets bouts of anxiety whenever he is confronted with social interaction. My island turned out to be the perfect place for him to function, outside of society but part of a structured community nonetheless. As chef Delenthar’s kitchen boy, he does not need to speak and only has his kitchen duties to worry about.” Her intent gaze pierced right through him. Marello felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He nodded in agreement and, catching on to his dismissal, made for the kitchen door as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him.

“What’s with you?” inquired Delenthar when he saw Marello’s flushed face. “You had better not drank any of that wine yourself, jinga, or you won’t be sitting comfortably for some days, I promise.” The youngling shook his head vigorously. “No, sir. It’s nothing, truly.” The chef watched him for a moment, then shrugged. “The main course is nearly done. You start the preparations for the dessert in the meanwhile.” He pointed to a large bowl full of cherries. “You pit these cherries by pushing out the pit with the back of a knife. You catch the pits in a bowl. You don’t throw them out, but you give them to me. Skapa?” The kitchen boy nodded. “Good, then get to work.”

While Marello worked his way through the small mountain of cherries, he replayed the scene at the table before his mind’s eye. Why did Mother lie to these men about him? He certainly isn’t in his element in high-placed company, but to claim he is a mute was untruthful. However, he did feel the “petty criminal” title was appropriate enough. Looking back at his days in the streets, he had committed some despicable acts, worthy of punishment to some degree. But that was not the reason he was here. Orphan Island was not a prison, but a slave camp. Right? Captain Fairwind had sold him to be a slave in the mines, not to be punished for picking pockets and return to society a better person.

“What is taking you so long, boy! Get me those pits!” The chef’s thundering voice hurtled Marello back to the kitchen. He grabbed the near full bowl of pits and flew over to the counter where chef Delenthar stood arranging measured portions of meat onto four plates. The kitchen boy goggled. The main course was a work of art. Each plate was covered in a thin layer of greens, slices of tomato and cucumber garnished with fresh parsley. On top of that, the chef had carefully placed royal slices of roast deer meat, arranged in a half circle. The other half was reserved for the artistically cut potato wedges, all coated in an aromatic condiment richly dotted with mustard seeds. The scent coming off the plates was mouth-watering. Marello whiffed the aroma with great longing, while chef Delenthar set to grinding the cherry seeds in a mortar. For a moment, Marello played with the thought to spear a wedge to the fork laying beside the plate. He imagined the boiled potato would melt in his mouth while the zesty sauce would coat his tongue in a satin soft crème, leaving a pleasantly pungent aftertaste once swallowed. Already his hand hovered over the fork when Delenthar’s flat hand hit the back of his head. “Don’t even think about it, puguan,” he grunted darkly. The chef’s eyes were narrowed, showing only slits of the orbs that were red as the cookfires. Marello felt his insides twist and he hastily stepped aside to let Delenthar season the dishes. To his astonishment, the chef sprinkled a decent amount of the ground cherry pits over two of the plates.

“Sir, those cherry pits,” he squeaked, “aren’t they very bitter? Wouldn’t that ruin the perfect taste of the meal?” Delenthar scoffed. “Have you not listened to what I said? The curculin in the hors d’oeuvre acts as a taste-modifier. Sour and bitter consumed after that, are perceived as pleasantly sweet instead. These plates will treat our guests to a taste experience you can only dream of.” Delenthar lowered his head to be level with Marello’s. “You will serve these two seasoned plates to mister Eleros and mister Mires,” he spoke darkly. “And if I find out that you stole a bite of either plate, I will see to it that you never taste anything again. Do I make myself clear?” Marello would tumble over if he would bow any deeper. “Yes, sir. Completely, sir.”

When the boy walked into the dining hall, balancing two plates in each hand, his back bathed in sweat from a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth fires. He concentrated hard on serving the seasoned plates to the two ministers, the others to Mother and the jovial captain. Captain Fairwind entertained the guests by giving a colourful account of his last journey to Taran-Ceroth, waving his hands over his head and yowling loudly. Minister Eleros was so captivated, he barely registered Marello as he placed his plate before him. “Most remarkable, captain,” the Irin official commented. “I can only guess how tumultuous the fare through the Gorge must have been. You are lucky to be alive.” Captain Fairwind bawled. “I eat them pirates raw, sirs,” he gloated. “I spear them to my harpoon like I do this roast mutton to my fork.” With one demonstrative dash he applied his fork to the crispy meat.

“Deer, sir.” Marello corrected him.

“What did you say?”

“Deer. It’s roast deer, not mutton, sir.”

Captain Fairwind stared at him, his fork hovering in mid-air. All attendees had their eyes on the kitchen boy as if now was the first time they saw him. Then, the Rashari pirate exploded with a booming laughter. He slapped Marello on the back, taking all the wind out of him. “Aren’t you a marvellous case, boy! Your passion for good food must have allowed you to overcome your speech impediment, then!” Marello’s gut clenched tight. I was supposed to be a mute. The kitchen boy felt Mother glare daggers at his back. But now what? There was nothing he could say to limit the damage. Luckily, he did not have to, for minister Mires addressed him directly. “A most curious case indeed,” he said. “Why did you fool us into thinking you’re a mute, son? Or-” He turned to Mother Minesha. “-did you fool us, ma’am?” Despite the hearth fires, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Mother’s face betrayed no emotion. Her thin smile was as cold as the look in her eyes. “It certainly is unexpected,” she spoke in her honied voice, the words pouring over her lips like a viscous syrup. “A miracle we surely must raise our glass to.”

“We must indeed!” echoed captain Fairwind. “Here, boy,” he said, handing Marello the wine bottle. “Pour us all a healthy glass before you’re off to the kitchen for the dessert!” Straining to keep the bottle still in his trembling hands, Marello filled the guests’ glasses. Tilting his head just so, he caught the ministers throwing glances between him and the Mother in silent suspicion. At Mother Minesha, he dared not look and after a curt bow, the kitchen boy hurried for the door. Behind him, he heard the tinkling of glass as a toast was made to each their good health.

Dessert

In the Dollhouse’s grand kitchen, the hubbub had died down now that the evening approached its end. The staff allowed itself a breather with a fine wine on questionable authority. The apprentices and maids scurried up and down carrying dishes and dirty plates while the cooks stood sipping their reds, calling instructions here and there. Except chef Delenthar, who seemed emerged in his craft of arranging the fruit compote in the porcelain bowls full of colourful scoops of cream ice, this evening’s dessert. His love for his work and passion for perfection were well-known on Orphan Island, where he served for Mother Minesha, the mistress of the mines and slave camps on the island. Chef Delenthar did not notice Marello returning from the dining hall all in a state of alarm.

“Chef, sir,” he breathed, “there is a problem. I have- … I might have upset the company and I’m afraid the guests might leave the table. Perhaps we should skip the dessert and-”

But before Marello could finish, chef Delenthar turned and shot him a deadly look with ruby red eyes. The words died on the kitchen boy’s lips. His Ceratan master had proven a wise, talented man during the time Marello had worked under him. The chef took his occupation seriously and treated the ingredients with great respect. The kitchen was his temple where preparing meals was turned into a sacred art. As such, the imposing man would not hesitate to punish Marello if he would disgrace the art by substituting ingredients for convenience or mixing up the herbs and spices. At the sight of his master’s expression, Marello quickly gathered that there is another unthinkable way of dishonouring the artistry. “Never, ever, deny the guest to experience the meal in its full splendour by leaving out a carefully selected and prepared course,” chef Delenthar spoke in a deep, threatening voice. He took the bowl of pitted cherries that Marello had prepared earlier and arranged them atop the sculptures of sweet delight. When he had placed crisp leaves of mint to top it off, the chef handed the bowls to Marello. “You take these to the table,” Delenthar said decidedly. “You will not speak unless spoken to and above all, you will-”

“-not steal bites from anything,” Marello finished. The most important rule in Delenthar’s temple was to refrain from tasting and the chef had always been avid to keep the former pickpocket from snatching bites from any of the Dollhouse’s wealth of ingredients.

“Indeed you will not. Now, off with you. Palla, palla!”

Pushing the door open with his shoulder, the kitchen boy walked into the dining hall balancing four dishes, two in each hand. At the table, the atmosphere had become grim and the conversation one-sided as captain Fairwind rattled on about his adventures at sea. His audience however, did not seem attentive and the charismatic Rashari’s exuberance did nothing to crack the ice that had formed between the ministers and Mother Minesha, their host.

“You understand that we are sent by the Convocation,” minister Eleros addressed Minesha, “and are expected to present the authorities with a report on our investigation. An investigation you’ve kindly agreed to cooperate with, although I can’t shake the feeling that your assistance is, at best, selective.” From beneath long, exotic lashes, the Aiuran woman looked at her guests through soulless eyes. Marello had not seen her cold expression thaw even for a moment the whole evening. He tried to keep his head down as he quietly served the dessert.

“Of course, we understand you have a busy schedule and little time for a tour,” added minister Mires, “so we will settle for a scan through your undoubtedly immaculate administration. Records on the inmates confined here in the last, say, five years will suffice.” The official’s proposal, though seemingly to meet Mother’s unspoken conditions, was a sign of distrust in Mother Minesha’s business affairs. Marello had heard potential customers of swindling salesmen on the streets of Vira’Erana use similar tactics to politely inquire after the seller’s credibility. The salesmen were always quick to clear their stalls once questioned about their sales records. In Mother’s case, the records would prove the Orphan Island’s inhabitants to be slaves for labour in the mines rather than prisoners here to serve their time, if there were any records at all. The kitchen boy silently doubted the smooth, sleazy captain to keep any form of record on the loads he shipped in the hidden compartment in his ship’s aft.

When he had presented the assembly with their desserts, Marello bowed politely. When he turned to return to the kitchen, he was stopped once again. Minister Eleros motioned him to stand by his side.

“Young man,” he called, “would you come over here, please.” The apprentice felt his cheeks glow as he stood next to the Irin official. He had embarrassed himself last time he had spoken. On top of that, he had betrayed Mother Minesha’s ploy and was at least for a part responsible for the ministers’ suspicion towards the mistress of Orphan Island. What if minister Eleros asked him to explain who he was and what he was doing on this island? They knew he could speak, but if he did, Mother Minesha would surely see to it that he would have his own tongue diced, cooked and served in his morning mush. Marello stared hard at his feet, waiting.

“I want you to taste this dish.”

Marello looked up. Minister Eleros held his silver spoon before him and gestured the kitchen boy to take a scoop. Marello hesitated. Chef Delenthar’s voice echoed in his mind, bellowing no snatching bites! But this was a guest’s request. He would not steal a bite, he would only do as he was told. And the chef had told Marello to obey, at least as many times as he had been told to keep out of the cooking pot. He swallowed and looked around the table. Captain Fairwind’s cheeks had flushed with the wine he had drunk and sat idly poking a fork in his fruit compote. Minister Mires smiled encouragingly as Marello’s eyes crossed his, but Mother Minesha betrayed no emotion. It’s the maestro’s fist or Mother’s wrath, then. Slowly, Marello turned back to Aeberon Eleros and took the spoon. He carefully scooped up a portion of cream ice, topped with a diced strawberry, a cherry and a small leaf of mint. Then he closed his eyes and ate the spoonful all at once.

The taste was sensational.

The ice melted on his tongue like snow before the sun, releasing the vanilla flavour to combine with that of the strawberry and cherry in a culinary harmony. The little mint leaf came last and tickled his tongue with a fresh note, leaving it longing for another bite. The kitchen boy’s face, first so anxious and timid, had now lit up in delight and minister Eleros nodded approvingly.

“It would seem my suspicion was unfounded,” he declared to the Mother. “I ask your forgiveness for my distrust. Government officials do meet with mistreating such as poisoning and assassination plots in turbulent times like these, you must understand.” Mother Minesha curled her luscious lips into an alluring smile. “Of course, minister,” she spoke with a voice as sweet as sugar. “Bon appetite.”

The company partook in the last course of the meal with considerable appetite. Marello was captivated by the taste sensation. He was still licking his lips as he walked back toward the kitchen. He reached a hand for the door, pushed and froze-

A sudden coughing came in from behind.

Marello looked over his shoulder. Minister Mires’ breathing was fast and shallow. As he shot up, his chair tumbled backwards and he clutched the table with both hands. His face turned red, rapidly shading darker and darker. Next to him, minister Eleros sat arched over his plate, his eyes bulging as he gasped for breath. His face had turned the red of Mother Minesha’s lips. It was over in seconds. Marello stared at the scene, rooted to the spot, horrified. Minister Mires lay dead on the floor. Minister Eleros had collapsed face first into the remains of his dessert. Opposite him, captain Fairwind just finished his plate and slapped his hands on his belly in a demonstrative manner.

“That was delicious, Minesha,” he burped. “A feast if ever I had one.” Mother Minesha smiled. Her eyes found Marello and she gave him a nod.

“It was indeed. Pass on my compliments to the cook, boy.”

Finale

The kitchen turned and tipped before his eyes as Marello stumbled past its sinks and counters. He felt his stomach cartwheeling and his eyes stinging with tears of terror while he staggered his way towards chef Delenthar’s furnace. It took the cook several moments of shaking the boy by his shoulders before Marello came back to his senses.

“The guests,” he muttered. “The ministers. They- what happened? What happened to them? The guests ate the dessert and then they just… died**!” The kitchen boy’s eyes grew wild and gazed straight into Delenthar’s red orbs. Marello felt his tongue had gone bone dry. “Chef, sir! It was not me! The ingredients were fresh! I even tasted the dessert myself! How could this happen!” Before the boy could fly into another fit, chef Delenthar firmly grabbed him by the shoulders and sat Marello down onto the counter. The boy was now at eye level with his master and to his surprise, Delenthar seemed unmoved. He would even say relieved, now that some of the wrinkles in the chef’s forehead had smoothed out.

“The ingredients were fresh indeed, boy,” the chef nodded. “And harmless in and on themselves, too.” Marello simply looked at him. In the back of the kitchen, one or two boys on dish duty tucked away the last of the plates and cups before heading off to the servants’ quarters. The rest of the staff had already left.

“Then, what happened?” asked Marello again. His heart still raced in his chest. He felt a sour taste rise in his mouth as he thought of the strawberry and cherry-topped ice. “I ate of the dessert, too! I… I could be…!”

Chef Delenthar straightened himself, crossing his arms before his chest. “You are not dying, kid. Get a hold of yourself.” When the maestro saw Marello’s incredulous look, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Then he looked up, his eyes a fiery red. “When combining certain ingredients, chemical reactions inside the body can turn harmless foods into toxic timebombs. Chemical reactions that are untraceable and make the cause of death look natural, or at most, a tragic accident.” Marello could not believe his ears.

“I… I don’t understand, chef, sir. The ingredients of the various courses interacted with each other? And you knew this?”

“Every cook who is worth his salt knows his ingredients and their properties inside out,” the chef stated and the gaping kitchen boy received another of Delenthar’s jabs to the head. “As long as you cannot tell that curculin is a taste-modifier that makes the consumer perceive acidic and bitter tastes as sweet, you are an ignorant amateur. As long as you cannot tell that cherries contain a potential poison that is not activated unless there is the enzyme needed to turn it into cyanide, you are a dangerous, ignorant amateur.”

“But I ate cherries, too!” Marello returned, rubbing his swollen cheek.

“But you did not drink acidic wine or eat the ground cherry seeds mixed into the main course,” said Delenthar. “Wine makes the stomach acids particularly sour and so create the right environment for the enzymes which are contained in the ground seeds. The seeds taste rather unpleasant and if you want your guests to overlook that bitterness, you serve them ingredients with taste-modifying activity in the course prior to it. Anyone will happily eat cherry or apricot seeds if they taste as sweet as sugar. Even my jinga of a former kitchen boy could not resist the temptation.” Marello blushed. He had stolen bites from some of the delicious meals, or snatched a raspberry or mushroom here and there. Chef Delenthar had always punished him severely whenever he caught him, but Marello had thought it was because such exquisite ingredients were simply too good for a lowly kitchen boy. Suddenly, his swollen cheek did not hurt as much anymore. The cook holds the power over life and death.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Clean the dessert’s dishes and then off to bed with you!”

Marello jumped off the counter and dashed to the sink. While he stood rubbing the bowls clean of the night’s deadly meal, he silently went over all he could remember reading in the herbarium. He would read it and read it again until he memorized every ingredient and each of its properties and applications. But the most important lesson of all the former pickpocket had learned tonight, was to never steal a bite from another’s meal. You never know who prepared it.